Averillara Targaryen 🥀

the b*stard child of criston cole & rhaenyra targaryen (just some fanfiction;))

[averillaratargaryen]

Masterlist

• Aegon Targaryen

“A Better Man.” complete

“Aegon the Exile.” unpublished

“The Ghost King.” unpublished

• Aemond Targaryen

“The Bitter Bond.” complete

“The Flame and The Hawk.” unpublished

“The Price of Fire.” ongoing

• Cregan Stark

“A Forbidden Wintership Court.” unpublished

“A Wolf’s Second Chance.” unpublished

• Cristion Cole

“The Hightowers Shadow.” complete.

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it is a short masterlist but if any of you guys have any requests or ideas, let me know! <3

[averillaratargaryen]

XLIV

Aemond’s Pov.

Sleep does not come easily to me, but when it does, it betrays me.

She is there again. Katerina.

Not whole at first. Just her eyes. Clear, luminous, impossibly familiar.

They hold no fear in them here, no confusion, only warmth.

Recognition.

As if she knows me, truly knows me, and has chosen not to turn away.

Her hair catches the light, pale gold, softer than I remember it ever being.

It moves when she laughs, and the sound of it. settles something deep in my chest.

A quiet I do not deserve. A peace I have not earned.

I feel calm.

Whole.

Alive in a way waking life never grants me.

“GOOOOD MORNING-!” a voice slurs, far too loud, far too real. The door slams open.

The dream shatters like glass.

I groan, dragging myself up from the wreckage of sleep, the remnants of her smile dissolving into darkness.

My head throbs as reality rushes in, too bright, too noisy, too crude.

Aegon stands in my doorway, swaying slightly, one hand braced against the frame as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hair is a mess, shirt half-buttoned, eyes glassy with drink and delight.

He grins at me like this is the best idea he’s ever had.

“S’seven in the mornin’,” he sings, words stretching together, “an’ I just wanted t’see my favourite brother.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and scrub a hand down my face.

Of course.

I reach for my watch on the bedside table, blinking until the numbers come into focus.

7:00 a.m.

I look back at him slowly. Flatly.

“You’ve only just come back?” I ask.

Aegon nods enthusiastically, as if this is something to be proud of. He laughs, too hard, too suddenly, and promptly loses his balance.

He pitches forward.

I’m on my feet before I realise I’ve moved.

I catch him by the arm, steadying his weight as he nearly collapses against me. He smells like alcohol and smoke and whatever reckless choices he’s made throughout the night.

“Easy,” I mutter through my teeth.

He chuckles again, boneless and useless, leaning far too heavily into me.

“Y’really should try livin’ a little, Aemond,” he says, eyes already drooping. “Makes the world… softer.”

I don’t respond.

I drag him across the room and drop him onto my bed.

He barely registers the movement, already half-asleep before his head hits the pillow.

Within seconds, he’s out cold, mouth slightly open, breathing slow and deep.

I stand there for a moment, staring down at him.

My room is quiet again, but it isn’t peaceful.

The dream is gone.

She is gone.

I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair as irritation settles in alongside something sharper.

The echo of that calm still lingers in my chest, taunting me with what I can never seem to hold onto for long.

Typical.

My brother, drunk and thoughtless as ever, has managed to ruin both my sleep and the one moment of peace I’d had in days.

Still, I shrug it off.

I would’ve had to wake eventually.

I glance once more at Aegon sprawled across my bed, then turn away, already feeling the weight of the day pressing down on me.

But even as I move, her eyes linger in my mind.

And no matter how awake I become, I cannot shake the feeling that she is not just a dream.

…

I sit with the engine idle, fingers loose around the steering wheel, watching the world move without me.

Morning light spills across the pavement in soft gold, catching on glass and metal and the passing shapes of students drifting by in small, noisy clusters.

Laughter carries on the air. Bags are slung over shoulders.

Someone spills coffee and curses under their breath. Life, unfolding in ordinary ways, yet I remain still, waiting.

I know the car before I properly see it.

My attention sharpens the moment it pulls in at the opposite end, familiar in a way that has nothing to do with make or colour.

My gaze follows it instinctively, heart stirring before my mind can catch up.

There.

She’s in the passenger seat.

Katerina.

Even from this distance, I see it, the way her lips pull into a small frown, thoughtful, burdened.

Her eyes track something ahead of her, lingering too long on the figures walking by.

Students.

Classmates.

People who do not see her as she truly is.

Something tightens in my chest.

Then Jacerys leans over.

I watch him speak, see the subtle shift in her posture as he says whatever it is he says.

His presence steadies her.

Grounds her.

The frown softens, just a fraction.

I find myself smiling.

Good. I’m glad someone is there for her.

The car comes to a stop.

For a moment, nothing happens, and then the door opens.

She steps out.

The sunlight catches her hair immediately, turning it molten gold, strands lifting and falling with the breeze.

It glistens as she moves, alive, untamed, framing her face in a way that feels almost unreal. My breath slows without my permission.

I rest my chin against the palm of my hand, elbow braced, utterly unashamed of watching.

She adjusts her bag, says something to her brother beside her, Luke, I remember, and then turns as her brother pulls away.

The car disappears from view, leaving her standing there, momentarily alone, before she spots her friend and begins to walk.

There is something about the way she moves.

Purposeful, yet uncertain. As if she is always bracing herself for the world, even when she shouldn’t have to.

I follow her with my eyes as she crosses the open space, sunlight and shadow sliding over her skin.

I do not look away until she is gone.

Until the crowd swallows her whole.

Only then do I straighten, my hand pressing instinctively to my chest as a dull ache settles there, deep and sudden, like the aftershock of something precious slipping just out of reach.

The ache blooms, deep, old, familiar. Not the pain of longing born in a single lifetime, but the slow, enduring pull of centuries spent apart.

The kind that never dulls, no matter how many lives pass between one meeting and the next.

I have always known her.

Across burning skies and fallen cities, through ages that rewrote themselves over and over, I have known the shape of her soul as surely as my own.

Even when the world forgot us, when she forgot, I did not. I never do.

This life was no different.

Only that she no longer remembered my name, nor my presence.

That is why I watch.

Why I follow the rhythm of her days, know the places she goes, the people she trusts, the moments when her guard slips.

Not to claim her, never that, but to keep her safe until the truth finds her, as it always does.

Only I know.

Only I remember.

And until the day she does too, this ache, this endless, faithful ache, is mine to bear alone.

Aemond moves through the building at an unhurried pace, his footsteps quiet against polished floors that gleam beneath cold morning light.

The corridor is hushed in that peculiar way only places of learning ever are, murmurs locked behind doors, the faint hum of electricity, the echo of lives passing by without ever truly touching.

It reminds him, faintly, of halls he once knew. Stone instead of steel. Torches instead of strip lights. The feeling, however, is the same, timeless, indifferent.

He enters the lecture hall without ceremony, shoulders relaxed, posture composed.

His presence draws little immediate attention, which suits him just fine. He prefers to observe before being observed.

As he passes between the rows, his gaze lifts briefly, and meets hers.

Beila.

She is mid-movement, turning in her seat, and when she notices him her lips curve into a polite, easy smile.

Friendly.

Open.

Exactly as he remembers.

Aemond answers with nothing more than a small nod of his head, acknowledgment without invitation, before continuing toward an empty seat near the back.

He knows she watches him for a moment longer.

They always do.

There is something about silence, about restraint, that unsettles people far more than noise ever could.

He gives nothing away, no careless charm, no warmth easily consumed, and that absence becomes its own presence.

Class begins, the low murmur of students fading as the professor starts to speak.

Beila’s attention drifts forward again, though Aemond still catches the subtle movements, the way her eyes flick back once, twice.

The quiet exchange of words between her and the man beside her.

Jacerys.

Aemond glances at him now, bright-eyed, attentive, earnest in a way that borders on effortless.

He watches Jacerys lean in, murmuring something that makes Beila huff a quiet laugh before she faces forward once more.

Aemond’s lips twitch.

How fitting How utterly inevitable.

The contrast between them is almost amusing, fire and light woven together, just as it always had been.

He lets out a silent chuckle at the sight, a breath of laughter that never quite reaches his eyes.

It fades quickly.

“You there.”

Aemond looks up.

The professor is staring directly at him now, one brow lifted in mild curiosity. “You must be one of our new students.”

Aemond inclines his head once. “Yes, sir. Aemond, sir.”

There is a pause, brief but notable, before the professor smiles and welcomes him to the class, offering a few words of introduction before moving on.

Aemond lowers his gaze again, fingers resting lightly against the edge of his textbook, expression unreadable.

As the lecture continues, he feels it again—that familiar prickle at the back of his neck.

He looks up just in time to catch Beila glancing over her shoulder, curiosity lingering in her eyes before she turns back to Jacerys, whispering something beneath her breath.

Aemond exhales through his nose, amused.

Some things, it seems, never change.

She is still Baela in all the ways that matter.

Warm, perceptive, endlessly drawn to what she does not yet understand.

Baela Targaryen. Daemon Targaryen’s daughter. His cousin.

A truth buried beneath centuries and rebirths, locked away behind faces that no longer remember their pasts.

And he cannot tell her.

He cannot tell any of them.

The words would sound like madness in this world. Delusion. A fractured mind clinging to stories long forgotten.

So he does what he has always done.

He smiles faintly to himself, eyes lowering back to the page, and lets history rest where it belongs, alive only in his memory.

…

I return to the place I already know by heart, settling back into the car as though I am simply another man waiting for another day to end.

My arm rests against the door, my posture loose, unremarkable. If anyone looks at me, they see nothing worth remembering.

Time stretches when I wait for her.

Students pass in fragments, laughter, footsteps, engines starting, doors slamming.

The sounds blur together, distant and unimportant. I am listening for something else. Feeling for it. That quiet pull I have known for far longer than this life.

Then it tightens.

I sense her before I see her.

My attention sharpens, my gaze lifting instinctively, and there she is. Katerina, walking beside Luke toward Jacerys’ car.

I straighten without meaning to, my eyes following her as though they have always belonged to her.

Something is wrong.

Her shoulders sit too low, weighed down by more than exhaustion.

Her steps lack their usual certainty, each one measured, careful, as though the day has carved itself into her bones.

When she looks up, even from this distance I see it, sadness dimming her eyes, dulling the light that should be there.

My chest tightens.

I watch her the way one watches something precious and fragile, something that has been broken before.

The way her hands curl faintly at her sides. The way her shoulders draw inward when she thinks no one is watching.

She speaks to Luke, her lips forming quiet words I cannot hear, and I see the effort it takes to keep her face composed.

She is tired.

Not just of today. Of living among people who do not see her.

Jaw tightening, I follow her every movement as she reaches the car.

Jacerys says something, which seems as tho it is meant to be light, and Luke responds with an exaggerated gesture that earns a small smile from her. It is brief. It does not reach her eyes.

I remember when it used to.

The engine starts. Doors shut. The car pulls away.

I do not look away.

I track it until it disappears from view, until the space it leaves behind feels hollow.

My hand curls into a fist against my thigh as the ache in my chest deepens, ancient, familiar, never dulled by time.

I want to reach for her.

To pull her into my arms.

To remind her that she has never walked alone.

Once, I did not have to stop myself.

Now, patience is the cost of loving her.

I exhale slowly, forcing my body to remain still, to remain unseen. My heart protests, beating hard against my ribs, longing for what it remembers too well.

Soon.

Not yet, but soon.

And so I wait, even when every part of me is screaming not to.

I stop at the store on the way back, not out of habit but necessity.

Aegon will be useless for the remainder of the evening, head pounding, mouth dry, temper foul.

Food will quiet him faster than words ever could. Bread. Fruit. Something salty. Something greasy.

The mundane acts of this life still amuse me, even after all this time.

I pay without thought, already planning how to get him fed and asleep before he can start another argument he will not remember tomorrow.

Then..

Her voice.

Bright. Clear. Warm.

“Thank you-! have a good evening.”

The sound of it cuts through me more sharply than any blade ever could.

I turn my head.

And there she is.

Katerina stands a few steps away, groceries set neatly on the counter, her posture lighter than it had been earlier.

Whatever weighed on her this morning has eased, even if only a little.

Her shoulders are relaxed. Her mouth curves into a small, genuine smile as she exchanges pleasantries with the cashier.

I let myself breathe again.

My gaze drifts, unashamed, reverent, to what she’s buying.

Apples. Pastry sheets. Cinnamon. Sugar. Butter. A soft warmth settles in my chest at the sight of it, absurd and tender all at once.

She’s eating well.

She’s being looked after.

I imagine her brothers in the kitchen with her. Noise, laughter, hands stealing bites they didn’t earn. The thought steadies something in me.

She is not alone.

So caught am I in these quiet observations that I don’t realise she’s finished paying until she’s already moving, until her presence slips past me, close enough that her fragrance brushes against my senses like a ghost of memory.

I close my eyes without meaning to.

God.

It is her. It has always been her.

When I open them again, she’s walking toward the exit, unaware of me, the world narrowing around her in the way it always does.

My eyes follow her instinctively, my body turning just as thunder rumbles overhead, low and warning.

I glance toward the glass doors.

The sky has darkened, clouds heavy and swollen. Rain is already starting to fall, hard and fast, streaking down the windows in silver sheets.

She stops just inside the doorway.

I watch her hesitate.

She looks up.

Then down at her bag.

Then back at the rain, pursing her lips together in frustration.

There is no umbrella. No jacket. Nothing but optimism and stubbornness.

She steps beneath the small overhang, waiting, as if the storm might reconsider if given enough time.

It does not.

I move without thinking.

I am behind her now, just inside the doorway, my presence a shadow at her back.

I keep my distance, watching as she exhales sharply, then does something so utterly, disastrously her that I almost laugh.

She lifts the grocery bag.

Puts it over her head.

I shake my head, a breath of amusement escaping me. Brave. Foolish. Unchanged.

She steels herself, feet shifting, and steps forward.

“No,” I murmur, already reaching for her.

My hand closes around her wrist and I pull her back just as the rain surges harder, twisting her gently until she’s facing me.

For a moment, everything stops.

The world hushes beneath the roar of rain.

Her eyes meet mine.

Up close, they are impossibly familiar, warm, searching, edged with confusion.

I see the flicker of surprise, the way her breath catches. I see the softness settle into her expression, unguarded and instinctive.

And gods help me, I unravel.

I open the umbrella with my free hand, the motion automatic, practised.

Rain drums against the fabric as it spreads above us, sheltering us both. Water beads in my hair, on my coat, sliding down the line of my jaw.

Still, neither of us looks away.

She sees a stranger.

I see centuries.

I see battlefields and moonlit halls. I see her laughing in candlelight, crying in my arms, standing before armies with fire in her veins. I see the life we lived, the death we shared, the promise that tore the world apart.

My chest aches with it.

Her hand is still in mine.

I feel the warmth of her skin, the faint tremor in her pulse, and it nearly undoes me.

Every instinct screams to pull her closer, to shield her from more than rain, to tell her everything.

But I cannot.

Not yet.

Slowly, I release her wrist. I guide the umbrella into her hand instead, curling her fingers around the handle as though teaching her how to hold a blade.

Her eyes flick down, then back up to my face.

Confusion. Curiosity. Something softer she doesn’t yet have a name for.

I break eye contact first.

It feels like tearing myself in two.

“Don’t,” I think. Or maybe I almost say it. I’m not sure.

I step past her, out into the rain, letting it soak me fully now. I move quickly, breath shallow, heart pounding like I’ve just escaped a war rather than a grocery store.

I reach my car and open the door, glancing back despite myself.

She’s still standing there.

Umbrella clutched in her hand. Groceries forgotten. Watching me with that same dazed, unsettled look, as though something in her has been stirred and she doesn’t yet know why.

For one terrible, beautiful second, I want to go back.

To take her face in my hands.

To kiss her like the world might end again tomorrow.

Instead, I force myself into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

The engine starts.

I pull away, rain blurring the world beyond the windshield, my heart racing far faster than the car ever could.

Even as I drive, I can still feel her gaze on me.

And I know, utterly, devastatingly, that this was only the beginning.

[averillaratargaryen]

XLIII

They breathed, low and hollow, the sound curling through the trees like a warning that had already come too late.

Black smoke drifted between the trunks, thick as tar, coiling around gnarled roots and clawing branches.

The ground beneath her feet was slick, wet, not with rain, but with blood that shone darkly where moonlight should have been.

She ran.

Her breath tore from her lungs, sharp and frantic, burning her throat as branches scraped at her arms and tangled in her hair.

Every step sent a jolt of pain up her legs, but she did not slow.

She could hear it behind her.

Not footsteps, but something worse.

A presence. Heavy. Endless. Hungry.

The trees blurred as she pushed harder, heart slamming against her ribs, each beat echoing too loudly in her ears.

The smoke thickened, swallowing the path, swallowing the sky.

Her hands came away red when she steadied herself against a trunk, fingers trembling as blood smeared across the bark like a mark she had left before.

Voices whispered her name.

Not one.

Many.

Many. Layered and distorted, some too old, others too close. They pressed in from all sides, crawling into her ears, down her spine, into her bones.

Run.

She stumbled.

The ground vanished beneath her feet, and she fell hard, the air leaving her lungs in a strangled gasp.

Blood pooled beneath her palms as she tried to push herself up, vision spinning, smoke pouring over her like a living thing.

A shadow loomed between the trees, tall, shapeless, stretching wider than it should.

Eyes burned within it, pale and knowing.

She screamed, and woke.

Katerina bolted upright in her bed, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as her hand flew to her chest.

Her heart was pounding violently, the force of it almost painful, as though it were trying to escape her ribcage. She dragged in breath after breath, shallow and uneven, her lungs struggling to remember they were safe.

The room was dark. Quiet. Modern.

Her sheets were twisted around her legs, damp with cold sweat.

She pushed them away abruptly, swinging her feet to the floor as she pressed her palm flat over her sternum, grounding herself in the steady, undeniable beat beneath her skin.

“Just a dream,” she whispered, though her voice shook.

She stood, pacing the length of the room, bare feet brushing against polished wood.

The city glowed faintly through the tall windows, distant traffic humming far below. No smoke. No blood. No whispers.

Still, she rubbed her arms as though the chill lingered, fingers curling briefly into fists before she forced them open again.

Her gaze caught on her reflection in the mirror — pale, wide-eyed, hair falling loose around her shoulders. For a moment, she did not recognise herself.

beep! beep! beep!

Katerina shrieked again, startled violently, spinning toward the nightstand as her alarm blared into the room.

Her heart leapt into her throat as she slapped at the device, fumbling in her haste before finally silencing it.

The sudden quiet rang louder than the sound had.

She stood there, breathing hard, one hand braced on the edge of the bed, the other still hovering over her heart.

Katerina padded down the stairs barefoot, one hand absently tying her hair back as the smell of cereal and milk met her halfway.

The kitchen was already occupied. Luke sat at the table in his hoodie, shoulders slouched, spoon hovering halfway between the bowl and his mouth.

His brows were drawn together in a very deliberate frown, as if the cornflakes had personally offended him.

“Morning,” Katerina said lightly.

Luke looked up at her, unimpressed. “You promised me a proper breakfast today.”

She stopped short, blinking. “I did?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Pancakes. Or eggs. Or… something warm.” He gestured down at the bowl. “This doesn’t count.”

Katerina sighed, rubbing her face. “I’m sorry. I slept in. I didn’t have time.”

Luke’s frown deepened, dramatic and long-suffering. “You always say that.”

Before she could respond, footsteps sounded from the hall.

Jace walked in, already fully dressed, backpack slung over one shoulder and an apple in his hand.

He took a loud bite, chewing as he leaned against the counter.

“Don’t expect too much from her,” he said around the mouthful. “She likes to take her time in the mornings, with her face. Always has.”

Katerina shot him a look. “Excuse me?”

Jace grinned, taking another bite. “Just stating facts.”

She crossed the room in two strides and plucked the apple straight out of his hand.

“Hey!” Jace protested. “That was mine!”

Katerina took a bite herself, unapologetic. “Mom did not send us here for me to baby you.”

Jace stared at the apple now in her possession, scandalised. “That doesn’t mean you get to steal my food.”

She swallowed and shrugged. “You’re taller. You’ll survive.”

Luke watched the exchange quietly, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth as he finished the last of his cereal.

He stood, carrying the bowl to the sink, rinsing it out with careful movements.

Katerina leaned against the counter, watching him.

“If you want a proper breakfast,” she said gently, “you need to learn how to make it yourself. You can’t always be dependent on me.”

Luke glanced at her, then back at the sink. He shrugged one shoulder. “I guess.”

It wasn’t defiance. Just acceptance. That made something twist softly in her chest.

Jace adjusted his bag strap. “I’ll start the car,” he said. “Don’t take forever.”

“Define forever,” Katerina replied.

He laughed and headed out, the door closing behind him with a familiar thud.

The kitchen settled into a quieter rhythm.

Luke finished washing up, dried his hands, then wandered toward the hallway to grab his shoes.

Katerina followed, finishing the last bite of the apple and setting the core into the bin.

Luke sat on the steps, pulling on his trainers, laces loose and uneven.

She hovered for a moment before reaching out and ruffling his hair, earning an annoyed sound from him.

“Hey,” he muttered, swatting half-heartedly at her hand.

She smiled. “You’ll miss it one day.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You will.”

He tied his shoes properly this time, stood, and slipped his arm through hers without thinking.

The gesture was easy. Familiar. Something they’d done for as long as either of them could remember.

They stepped outside together, the cool morning air brushing against their faces.

Jace was already in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers on the wheel, watching them through the windshield.

Katerina glanced down at Luke as they walked. “Tomorrow,” she said quietly, “I’ll make pancakes.”

Luke looked up at her, considering. “With chocolate chips?”

She groaned. “You drive a hard bargain.”

He smiled then, small but satisfied, and leaned a little closer into her side as they headed toward the car.

Just another morning, ordinary and warm, stitched together by routine and quiet affection.

…

Jace slowed the car as the familiar iron gates of Ravensreach College came into view, the old stone buildings rising behind them like something caught between history and modern life.

Students clustered along the pavements, backpacks slung over shoulders, laughter and chatter carrying through the crisp air.

He pulled into a space along the curb and cut the engine.

Katerina, seated in the passenger seat, let out a slow breath.

Her gaze had already drifted ahead, catching sight of a small group of students walking toward the main entrance.

She stiffened almost imperceptibly, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.

They hadn’t seen her. Not yet.

Jace noticed anyway. He always did.

He turned his head toward her, expression softening. “Hey,” he said gently. “Do what you do best and pay no mind to them.”

Katerina glanced at him, then back through the windshield. After a moment, she nodded. “I will.”

Luke unbuckled his seatbelt in the back, already halfway out of his seat. “See you later,” he said, pushing the door open.

“You too,” Jace replied, before looking back to Katerina. “Text me if you need anything.”

She gave him a small smile. “Drive safe.”

Jace waited until both of them were out of the car before pulling away, merging back into traffic and heading toward his own campus across the city.

Luke adjusted his bag as they walked toward the gates, eyes wide with that mixture of nerves and excitement that still clung to him.

It was only his first year of college, everything still new and overwhelming in the way it hadn’t been for her in a long time.

Katerina, on the other hand, moved with the quiet confidence of someone in her final year, familiar with the paths, the faces, the unspoken rhythms of the place.

They were halfway across the courtyard when a voice rang out behind them.

“Katerina!”

She turned, hair shifting over her shoulder, and spotted Eric jogging toward them, one hand lifted in greeting.

Luke glanced between the two of them and leaned closer.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, already stepping away toward his own cluster of classmates.

“Later,” she replied, watching him go before turning back as Eric reached her side, grinning like he always did.

…

Eric leaned back against the row of lockers, arms folded loosely across his chest as he watched Katerina spin the dial on hers.

“So let me get this straight…” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You believe in myths?”

The locker door slammed shut with a sharp clang.

Katerina grabbed her books, then slammed it shut harder than necessary before turning to him, unimpressed.

“No,” she said flatly, rolling her eyes. “I don’t.”

Eric laughed under his breath and fell into step beside her as they started down the corridor.

“That’s not what I said,” Katerina replied, her tone sharpening. “What I meant is I believe there’s darkness out there. More than what we see. More than what people want to believe.”

Eric glanced sideways at her, eyebrows lifting. “You can’t seriously believe that just because you’ve been having nightmares.”

Katerina stopped walking for half a second, then kept going. “You don’t understand.”

“Help me understand then,” he said lightly.

She exhaled, fingers tightening around the spine of her notebook.

“Nightmares don’t usually feel like that. You don’t live them. You don’t feel the heat, the blood, the fear like it’s happening all over again. I’m not watching things unfold, I’m inside them.”

Eric shook his head, amused but unconvinced. “Kat, you read way too much into your dreams.”

She shot him a look. “And you dismiss things too easily.”

He bumped her shoulder gently with his own. “I’m serious. You’re stressed, you’re in your final year, your brain’s working overtime. If you let it go, I guarantee it’ll fade. You’ll grow out of it.”

Katerina didn’t answer right away.

They reached the classroom doors, the low hum of chatter spilling out into the hall.

Students filtered in, choosing seats, setting bags down.

“Maybe,” she said finally, though her voice lacked conviction.

They slipped inside and took their usual seats near the middle, Eric leaning back in his chair while Katerina set her books neatly in front of her.

Their conversation tapered off as the professor entered, the room falling into quiet.

But as Katerina stared down at her notebook, her mind was far from calm.

Because some things, she knew, were not meant to be grown out of.

Jace shut the car door with a solid click and slung his bag over his shoulder, the familiar stretch of Harvard’s campus opening up before him.

Even in the early morning, the place buzzed—students crossing paths with coffee in hand, voices overlapping, the air sharp with autumn cool.

He glanced up instinctively, and smiled.

Beila was leaned casually against her car a few rows down, sunlight catching in her hair as she laughed at something on her phone.

When she noticed him, her face brightened. She lifted a hand and waved, pushing herself upright.

Jace lifted his own hand in response, shifting the cardboard drink carrier in his grip, the kind meant for four cups, though only two sat nestled inside.

He locked his car and started toward her just as she moved toward him, their paths naturally converging until they met halfway.

His free hand slid easily around her waist, drawing her in as he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

“Morning,” he murmured.

She smiled, already leaning into him, then tipped her head toward the drinks.

Her eyes flicked from the cup to his face, playful suspicion settling in.

“Is that my caramel macchiato?” she asked.

Jace’s mouth curved into something unmistakably smug. “With extra caramel drizzle,” he said smoothly, “just how you like it.”

Her grin widened instantly.

“Thank you,” she said, the words warm and drawn out as she reached up to take her cup from the tray.

With her other arm, she hooked it through his, fitting against him with practiced ease.

They fell into step together, coffee steaming between them as they headed toward the building, blending into the stream of students, comfortable, effortless, and entirely unaware of how fragile peace could be.

…

The lecture hall slowly filled, the low hum of conversation rising and falling as students found their seats.

Jace slid into his chair beside Beila and dropped his bag at his feet, unzipping it to pull out his laptop.

He set it on the desk, fingers moving out of habit as the screen flickered to life.

Beside him, Beila took her time.

She opened her tote and drew out a neat notebook and a pen, lining them up carefully before resting her elbows on the desk.

For a brief moment, her attention drifted.

A classmate passed their row, heading toward the back of the hall.

Ever friendly, she offered him a small smile.

“Hey,” she said quietly.

He gave a short nod in response, nothing more, and continued on, taking a seat at the back left corner of the room.

He settled there without a word, placing his bag down, posture straight, eyes already forward.

Jace noticed Beila’s gaze lingering.

He turned his head slightly toward her.

“What is it?” he asked under his breath, then followed her line of sight toward the back of the room.

Beila leaned in a little, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s weird, isn’t he?”

“Who?” Jace asked, though his eyes had already found the student she meant.

The one in the back left corner.

“Oh,” Jace added, after a beat. “Him.”

He shrugged lightly. “I’ve seen him around a couple of times. Pretty sure he’s from the same town as us.”

Beila turned back to him, brows knitting together. “That’s not what I meant,” she said softly.

“He’s just… very quiet. And his dress sense?” She tilted her head. “Quite old-fashioned, if you ask me.”

Jace glanced back again, taking in the outfit properly this time, a buttoned shirt beneath a closed jumper, neatly pressed trousers, everything muted and deliberate, like it belonged to another decade.

He let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured. Then, with a small nudge of his elbow against hers, he added, “Face forward. Focus.”

Beila smirked but turned back to her notebook just as the professor stepped into the room, the chatter dying down and the lecture beginning.

The professor set his notes down on the lectern and cleared his throat, the room settling almost instantly.

He began his introduction, voice measured and practiced, until his gaze snagged on the far side of the lecture hall.

His words stalled.

He peered over his glasses toward the back left corner, studying the student seated there with quiet intensity.

After a moment, he lifted his hand and pointed.

“You there,” he said, tone sharp but curious. “You’re one of our new students.”

A few heads turned.

Jace and Beila both looked back again.

The classmate rose smoothly from his seat, movements controlled, almost formal. He inclined his head slightly before speaking.

“Aemond, sir.”

The name seemed to ripple faintly through the room, drawing a few murmurs, but the professor only nodded, a pleased smile tugging at his mouth.

“Welcome to the course, Aemond,” he said warmly. “We’re glad to have you with us.”

Aemond gave another brief nod and sat back down, hands folding neatly on the desk in front of him, eyes forward once more.

Jace turned back to face the front, only to find Beila still half-twisted in her seat, eyes narrowed as she stared toward the back of the hall.

There was something about her expression now—less amused, more puzzled.

He leaned in and gently tugged at her sleeve. “Beila,” he murmured.

She blinked and finally turned back around, though her brows remained faintly drawn together, curiosity clearly gnawing at her.

Jace shook his head softly, lips quirking. Whatever had caught her attention, he decided, could wait.

…

The classroom was warmer than it had been earlier that morning, sunlight slanting in through the tall windows and stretching across the desks in long, pale bands.

Katerina sat beside Eric near the middle row, her notebook open, pen resting idly between her fingers.

She had chosen this course deliberately.

Ancient Histories and Pre-Modern Belief Systems, one of the few classes on campus that allowed her to explore old civilisations, forgotten cultures, and the myths that shaped them.

It was meant to be academic, grounded in research and theory, but for Katerina it felt uncomfortably familiar.

Too many of the texts echoed things she felt rather than simply read.

Stories of gods walking among mortals. Of bloodlines cursed or blessed. Of wars fought not just with steel, but with power unseen.

Eric leaned back in his chair, whispering, “You’re doing that thing again.”

She blinked. “What thing?”

“Staring into the void like it’s about to stare back.”

Katerina huffed quietly, but didn’t answer. Her gaze had already drifted back to the window.

Outside, the trees swayed gently in the breeze, their branches knocking softly against one another. 

For a fleeting second, the movement reminded her of smoke curling through woods, dark, choking, alive.

“Katerina.”

Her professor’s voice cut through the thought.

She startled, shoulders jerking as the room snapped back into focus.

“Yes?” she said, a little too quickly.

The professor lowered his papers, peering at her over the rims of his glasses. “Since you seem particularly deep in thought, perhaps you’d like to join us.”

A few students turned in their seats.

He gestured toward the board.

“As I mentioned earlier, your next project focuses on mythology, specifically, your interpretation of mythological history and its relevance. Personal perspective is encouraged.”

Katerina’s stomach dropped.

“And,” he added, glancing at his list, “you’ve already completed yours. Why don’t you come up and present?”

Eric shot her a look somewhere between sympathy and good luck.

Katerina swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

She stood, legs feeling oddly unsteady, and made her way to the front of the classroom.

The hum of quiet chatter faded as she reached the podium, setting her notebook down with careful hands.

For a brief moment, she hesitated,fingers tightening around the edge of the wood, before lifting her eyes to face the room.

Katerina drew in a slow breath, steadying herself before she spoke.

“My project,” she began, voice calm but measured, “looks at the deeper layers of history, specifically where recorded history ends and mythology begins.”

A few students shifted in their seats.

The room was quiet now, attentive in that way classrooms only ever were when someone else was at the front.

“We’re taught to treat myth as fiction,” she continued, fingers resting lightly on the podium.

“As stories created to explain what people once didn’t understand. Thunder became gods. Plagues became curses. War became prophecy.”

She glanced briefly at her notes, then back up.

“But the problem is that history itself is written by survivors. By victors. By people with something to gain. And when you start to study ancient civilisations closely, you begin to notice patterns. The same creatures. The same warnings. The same accounts repeated across cultures that never should have met.”

A murmur rippled faintly through the room.

Katerina pressed on, confidence growing as the words came. “My argument isn’t that mythology is fact in the way we define fact today. It’s that there is no definitive proof that it isn’t.”

Someone scoffed softly, but she didn’t look away.

“There is no true answer,” she said, “because there is no true evidence either way. And without certainty, you can’t dismiss something simply because it makes you uncomfortable or because it doesn’t fit into a modern framework.”

She paused, letting that sit.

“Those who don’t believe in the existence of mythical beings often speak with absolute confidence,” she went on.

“But belief and disbelief both require faith. You cannot say something does not exist unless you have seen everything. And none of us have.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to the window again, to the trees beyond it.

“History has erased things before,” she said more quietly. “People. Truths. Entire worlds. Just because something no longer walks openly among us doesn’t mean it never did.”

The silence stretched.

“Oh my god,” a voice drawled from the back of the room. “Of course you believe that, you freak.”

Laughter burst out, sharp and sudden.

Katerina froze.

The word echoed louder than the laughter itself, ringing in her ears as heads turned, smiles spread, and whispers followed.

Someone snorted. Someone else muttered, “Figures.”

Her professor opened his mouth, but the damage was already done.

Katerina stood there, hands clenched at her sides, the weight of every eye in the room pressing down on her as the serious tone of her presentation collapsed into ridicule.

…

The bell rang not long after, sharp and final, slicing through the last remnants of laughter.

Chairs scraped back, bags were slung over shoulders, and the room slowly emptied as students filed out, still chuckling amongst themselves.

Katerina waited until Eric was beside her before she moved.

As soon as they stepped into the corridor, she let out a long, exhausted sigh, shoulders dropping.

“That was… genuinely one of the worst lessons I’ve ever had,” she muttered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been laughed at like that before.”

Eric adjusted the strap of his bag, frowning.

“They were idiots,” he said plainly. “All of them.”

She gave a small huff of humourless laughter. “It’s just-! why even assign a project like that if people aren’t allowed to think outside the box?”

“Hey,” Eric said gently, nudging her arm as they walked. “Don’t let it get to you.”

She glanced over at him, sceptical.

“I mean it,” he continued.

“Yeah, I don’t believe in myths and legends. You know that. But what you said in there?” He shrugged. “You weren’t wrong.”

Katerina slowed slightly, surprised.

“You’re right that there’s no actual proof either way,” he went on.

“People act like disbelief makes them smarter, but half the time it’s just another kind of faith. They believe what they want to believe. Same as everyone else.”

Her expression softened as she listened.

“And honestly,” Eric added, “most of them weren’t laughing because your argument was bad. They were laughing because it made them uncomfortable. Big difference.”

Katerina smiled then, small, but real.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “That… actually helps.”

He flashed her a crooked grin. “Anytime. Someone’s gotta be the voice of reason around here.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. “I just hope the professor sees it the same way you do,” she said.

“That he looks past the noise and actually focuses on the argument. I really worked on that project.”

“I think he will,” Eric replied. “You didn’t sound crazy. You sounded thoughtful. And professors like that, even if students don’t.”

Katerina nodded, a little more at ease now. “Here’s hoping,” she said, tightening her grip on her bag. “A good grade would definitely make today hurt a lot less.”

They continued down the corridor together, the sting of the laughter still lingering, but softened now by the quiet reassurance of someone who had listened.

By the time the day finally ended, it felt like it had wrung her dry.

Katerina slid into the passenger seat of Jace’s car and shut the door with a tired thud, letting out a long sigh as she leaned her head back against the seat.

The late afternoon light filtered through the windshield, warm but doing nothing to lift the weight sitting on her chest.

Jace glanced over at her as he adjusted the rear-view mirror. “Long day?”

She nodded once. “You could say that.”

They sat there in silence for a moment, waiting.

A few students passed by, laughing, shoving one another playfully, the noise feeling distant, like it belonged to a different world entirely.

Then the back door opened, and Luke climbed in, dropping into his seat and pulling the door shut behind him.

Jace flicked his gaze between the two of them through the mirror.

Luke looked worn out, paint-smudged fingers tucked into his sleeves, hair slightly messier than usual.

Katerina, on the other hand, looked tired in a deeper way, like the kind of exhaustion that had nothing to do with sleep.

Jace didn’t comment. He simply put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.

A few minutes passed before Luke spoke up, leaning forward between the seats.

“Okay, so, today was actually kind of amazing.”

Katerina shifted slightly, turning her head just enough to listen.

“We had studio all afternoon,” Luke continued, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice.

“And my tutor finally let me start on a mixed-media piece instead of just sketches. I used charcoal and acrylic together, and..” He grinned. “It didn’t totally flop.”

Jace laughed. “Didn’t flop?” he echoed. “That’s high praise coming from you.”

“I mean, I might even be proud of it,” Luke said, shrugging, though his smile gave him away. “He said it had ‘movement.’ Whatever that means.”

“That’s huge,” Jace said warmly. “I told you. You’re good at this.”

Luke beamed at that, clearly pleased.

Jace glanced toward the passenger seat.

“What about you, Kat?” he asked gently. “How was your day?”

Katerina didn’t even look up. “Got called a freak in class.”

The word landed flat and heavy in the car.

Jace’s jaw tightened. “How many times have I said not to let those kids get to you?”

She shrugged, staring out the window. “I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on it.”

“They don’t get you,” Jace went on, tone firm but not unkind. “You think differently. You always have. That’s not a flaw.”

Katerina exhaled slowly.

“Your mind works in ways theirs don’t,” he continued. “And yeah, it’s unique. But that’s exactly what’s going to get you further than a room full of people who all think the same way.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Jace, please. I really don’t want to talk about it.”

He sighed, fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel, but he nodded. “Alright.”

The car fell quiet again, the hum of the engine filling the space between them as the road stretched ahead.

A minute later, Luke cleared his throat. “So… I have an idea.”

Jace glanced at him through the mirror. “I’m listening.”

“What if,” Luke said slowly, “we make mom’s homemade apple pie tonight?”

Katerina finally turned her head. “The one with the cinnamon glaze?”

Luke nodded. “That one.”

Jace chuckled. “What’s the occasion?”

Luke shrugged. “Why does there have to be one? We all love it. And… I think we deserve it.”

Katerina let out a quiet laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. “You just want to eat half of it yourself.”

“Untrue,” Luke protested. “I would generously limit myself to forty percent.”

Jace shook his head, smiling. “Fine. Pie it is.”

Katerina leaned back in her seat, a small smile tugging at her lips as Luke launched into a debate about who would be on apple-peeling duty.

For the first time all day, the weight on her chest felt lighter, if only by a fraction.

And for now, that was enough.

…

They were missing sugar—and cinnamon, somehow—and that was how Katerina found herself sent back out, grocery bag slung over her shoulder, keys tucked between her fingers.

It was a quick trip. In and out. Or so she’d thought.

She thanked the cashier with a small smile, took the paper bag, and pushed through the automatic doors, and froze.

The sky had turned a bruised grey, clouds hanging low and heavy.

A deep rumble rolled overhead, followed almost immediately by rain.

Not a drizzle. Not a warning. It poured, thick and relentless, the pavement darkening in seconds.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath.

She stepped back under the small strip of cover by the wall, pressing herself close as rain splashed in anyway, misting her shoes and soaking the hem of her jeans.

She glanced down at her wrist. No umbrella. Of course.

The rain only grew heavier, the sound of it drowning out the street.

After a moment, she sighed, resigned. She slipped the hair tie from her wrist and twisted her hair up into a messy knot, tucking loose strands behind her ears.

Taking a breath, she lifted the grocery bag over her head like a shield.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Run.”

She took one step, and suddenly she was turned back around, spun gently but firmly, her momentum stopped by a hand around her wrist.

Katerina sucked in a sharp breath, heart jolting, and looked up.

He was tall. Close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze.

His eyes caught her first.

They were pale, strikingly so, a soft, stormy blue-grey that reminded her of the sky just before rain breaks.

Not cold.

Not sharp.

There was something calm in them, something steady and quietly observant.

His lashes were dark, his brow relaxed, his expression unreadable yet… kind.

For a split second, the world seemed to narrow.

The rain, the street, the noise, all of it faded into the background as warmth bloomed in her chest, unexpected and strange.

It spread slowly, curling through her ribs, settling low and gentle, like the echo of a memory she couldn’t quite place.

Her breath hitched.

And then, it was sudden thoughts.

Blood.

A flash, ever so violent.

The woods. Smoke. Screaming. Flesh tearing.

Those same pale eyes, wider now, glassy, pierced through by steel. Blood splattering across skin, dark and hot, pooling at his feet.

Katerina gasped, a shiver tearing through her body.

She blinked hard, the vision snapping away as quickly as it had come, leaving her cold and shaken.

Her free hand curled instinctively into her sleeve as she looked back up at him, disoriented.

He hadn’t moved. His grip hadn’t tightened.

If anything, his gaze softened further, as if he’d sensed her unease.

Slowly and carefully, he released her wrist and shifted the umbrella he was holding, placing the curved handle gently into her hand.

His fingers brushed hers.

The contact sent another wave of warmth through her, deeper this time.

Familiar.

Comforting.

Dangerous.

She stared at their hands for a moment, then back up at him, lips parted but no words coming out.

He didn’t speak.

He only gave her one last look, quiet, lingering, before stepping past her and walking toward a dark car parked just a few spaces ahead.

The rain soaked him instantly, plastering his hair to his forehead, but he didn’t hesitate.

He opened the door, slid inside, and moments later the engine started.

The car pulled away.

Katerina remained where she was, umbrella clutched loosely in her hand, rain pattering softly above her now.

Her heart was still racing, her thoughts a tangled mess.

She didn’t call out.

Didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t move.

She just watched the empty space where he’d been, a strange ache settling in her chest.

Why did he look so familiar?

And why did it feel, deep in her bones, like she had known him long before this moment, long before this life?

The rain kept falling, but she barely noticed.

XLIV

[averillaratargaryen]

XLII

The dawn never truly rose over the burned campgrounds.

What little light existed clung weakly to the smoke-stained horizon, filtering through the skeletal remains of tents and charred posts like a dying breath.

Ash drifted in slow spirals across the ground, settling over abandoned weapons, broken shields, and the blackened outlines of things that once had shape and name.

Stillness had settled here, heavy, suffocating, until the first sound broke it.

A faint echo.

Then another.

Distant... but growing.

The rhythmic pounding of hooves.

At first it was no more than a murmur beyond the treeline, a whisper carried between branches.

But it strengthened, rolling like thunder through the forest, accompanied by the muffled clatter of armor, the barked orders of men, and the far-off clash of metal shifting with movement.

The White Cloaks were coming.

And they were close.

Katerina stood at the very front of her assembled people, her eyes fixed not on the forest, but on the horizon behind it, listening.

Feeling.

The wind carried the shouts of the men drawing nearer, their voices trembling faintly with the promise of blood.

She sensed the pulse of their intentions before the first rider ever crossed the shade of a tree.

Behind her, their army waited.

Witches, immortals, spirits bound to vessels of flesh.

Those with weapons drawn.

Those with hands glowing faintly with energy. Those whose breaths fogged the air not from cold but from the power simmering under their skin.

Aemond stood behind her, silent, rigid, jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked along the line of his scar.

His one visible eye was fixed on the treeline, cold and steady, but the twitch of his fingers against his sword hilt betrayed him.

His grief simmered beneath the calm.

Everyone could feel it.

And behind them all, chained at the wrists and ankles, forced to sit in the dirt with his head hanging limply forward, was Aegon.

His breath was shallow, chest rising with difficulty; the skin of his wrists had worn raw against the iron links.

His lips were cracked. Dirt and blood streaked across his face like paint.

He had stopped trying to speak hours ago.

Now, he only trembled.

The hooves grew louder.

Branches snapped.

Armor shifted.

Horses snorted.

Katerina inhaled slowly and pushed her mind outward like a wave.

They're here.

The message touched the minds of her warriors with a soft pulse, felt rather than heard.

Instantly their posture changed, shields lifted, stances widened, eyes sharpened.

Aemond stepped half a pace forward, body angled slightly as if instinctively shielding her.

She let him, just for a heartbeat, before her own chin lifted in quiet command.

They would not hide behind grief.

Not now.

The treeline broke.

White Cloaks emerged in rows, their polished armor gleaming even beneath the dim, polluted sky.

Horses pawed the ground, breath steaming in bursts.

Dozens.

Then hundreds.

The white of their cloaks, once symbols of honor, looked almost ghostly in the half-light.

Their front line slowed, but did not stop.

They had come expecting a slaughter.

They had come expecting vengeance.

They had not yet noticed the king kneeling at his captors' feet.

One man raised his sword, shouting something back to the lines behind him.

They were preparing to charge.

A ripple of movement ran through the enemy ranks, shields adjusting, horses shifting weight, formation tightening.

Katerina stepped forward.

Still, they did not stop.

Another shout came from the White Cloaks. Louder this time.

Urging them forward.

A second voice echoed it, somewhere deeper in the forest.

Katerina did not move.

Not a blink.

Not a breath faster than normal.

The White Cloaks lowered their lances.

They were seconds from the command to strike when Aemond moved.

He walked past her with slow, deliberate steps, boots crunching over charred ground.

His hand shot down without hesitation, clamping onto the back of Aegon's collar, lifting him effortlessly to his feet.

Aegon gasped, legs nearly giving out beneath him, but Aemond dragged him forward until they stood beside Katerina, one proud, unshaken, unmoved, the other broken, trembling, barely able to stand.

Only then did the White Cloaks' front line falter.

Only then did their eyes widen.

Only then did the weight of what they were seeing fall upon them.

One rider in the front shouted, voice cracking with disbelief:

"...Stop- Stop! They have the king!"

The ripple moved through their formation like a physical force.

Lances froze mid-air.

Horses reared slightly.

Men crashed into one another in confusion as the order passed back.

They halted.

Silence followed, thick and trembling.

Aegon's head hung forward, sweat and filth dripping from his chin.

His breathing rattled in his chest.

Even in this state, some of the soldiers strained to recognize him, whispering to one another, disbelief rattling their shields.

"He's-?”

"Gods, is that-?”

"What did they-?”

One young soldier snapped and attempted to ride forward, fury twisting his features.

"Treason!" he shouted. "They've betrayed the Crown, they've taken the king hostage!"

Before he could reach even ten feet forward, another man, the one at the very front, swung out an arm and blocked him, sword held horizontal across the younger knight's chest.

He was older, his cloak marked with the gold stitching of rank.

His face was grim, eyes locked entirely on Katerina.

He dismounted.

Every White Cloak watched him with rigid backs as he approached her, boots crunching quietly over the dirt, his sword still drawn but pointed downward.

His gaze flicked once, only once, to Aegon's shaking form.

Then, he stopped several paces before Katerina, his voice steady but hushed with dread.

"...What are your terms?"

The air thickened instantly.

Whispers stirred behind him.

Aegon let out a small, broken sound.

Katerina's lips curled into a slow, cold smirk, the kind that held neither delight nor cruelty, only certainty.

She didn't look at Aegon.

She didn't look at Aemond.

She looked only at the man before her, and through him, at every White Cloak behind him.

When she finally answered, her voice filled the burned campgrounds with chilling clarity.

"A challenge to your king."

Murmurs spread like wildfire behind the White Cloak commander.

Confusion.

Fear.

Outrage.

Desperation.

Aegon stiffened, a weak attempt at lifting his head faltering halfway.

Katerina took one step forward, her sword glinting faintly at her hip.

"I request a duel," she said, each word sharp and deliberate. "One against one. Me... against him."

Aemond's hand tightened around Aegon's collar.

The commander's breath caught.

And the entire battlefield held still.

King's Landing had known fear before, but never this kind.

It began with a tremor, a low, humming rumble that seeped through the stones of the Red Keep like a heartbeat awakening after centuries of sleep.

The sky, once dim with the gathering dusk, broke open with the thundering roar of wings far too large to be birds, far too ancient to be dragons that anyone still remembered.

Two shadows swept across the city.

One golden-scaled.

One dark as obsidian.

The people who looked up screamed long before the flames touched anything.

They did not fly low.

They did not dive.

They simply circled, vast and watching, as if surveying the kingdom that had once belonged to their blood.

Fire cracked in their throats like boiling earth held behind thin walls.

They waited, obeying a command not spoken aloud, a bind Aemond had carved into their minds with old Valyrian power.

And beneath them stood Daemon.

No armor.

No cloak.

Only a shirt soaked in another man's blood, darkening at the collar.

He looked up at the dragons with the faintest tilt of his head, a smile curving like a blade.

"They remember me," he mused.

Alys, standing just behind him, responded with a quiet, breathy laugh.

"They remember Aemond," she corrected. "And the spell he wove into their bones. But you... you they recognize. Old blood. Old sin."

Daemon hummed, amused. "Makes little difference."

He lifted two fingers, slow and casual, like a man instructing a dog to heel.

Both dragons stilled in the air.

Then, with a single beat of their colossal wings, they dropped lower, sending a hurricane of wind through the main courtyard.

Guards stumbled, some thrown to their knees. Others turned and fled, only to be met by Daemon's men, Alys' raiders mixed with hardened sellswords who had sworn to the prince for gold, glory, or simple fear.

The city fell quickly, too quickly.

Half the Gold Cloaks were gone, marching toward the forest to fight Katerina.

What remained were boys, old men, and cowards. And Daemon had no patience for any of them.

He walked through the courtyard like a man strolling through a garden, stepping over bodies without care, letting his sword, Dark Sister, drag across the stones, carving a faint scraping song.

Alys moved beside him, her eyes bright and eerie in the firelit gloom.

Her crossbow hung over her shoulder.

A dagger twirled idly in her hand.

But she didn't need weapons to be dangerous; danger dripped from her like perfume.

Behind them, the smoke rising from the burning barracks curled like dark fingers toward the sky.

Inside the throne room, the screams of the captured echoed, and were silenced.

Daemon hadn't even needed the dragons to breach the Red Keep.

Men died simply at the sight of them circling above.

And by the time he reached the base of Maegor's Holdfast, the resistance was broken.

Only two remained in chains before him now.

Alicent Hightower.

Otto Hightower.

Bound.

On their knees.

Forced to look up into the storm that was Daemon Targaryen.

Alicent was trembling, tear-streaked but fighting to maintain her composure.

Otto's jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone.

Daemon leveled Dark Sister toward the old man first.

"Hand of the King," he drawled. "Though I suppose the position is vacant now, considering my daughter has your king locked up like a sniveling dog."

Alicent flinched.

Otto refused to react.

Daemon leaned in, tilting Otto's chin up with the blade's point.

"You sent assassins after me once," he murmured. "Years ago. Told them to make it look like bandits."

A small, knowing smile curled his lips. "Did you think I forgot?"

Otto's voice was gravel. "I did what was necessary for the realm."

Daemon laughed, full and sharp. "So will I.”

With one swift movement, Dark Sister swept across Otto's throat, clean, deep, decisive.

Alicent screamed.

Blood sprayed.

Otto toppled onto the stones like a toppled statue.

Daemon didn't even blink.

He only wiped the blade on Otto's cloak and turned to the queen dowager.

Alys stepped forward then, coming close enough that Alicent could see the strange, knowing glimmer behind her eyes.

"He was the root of it," Alys whispered softly. "But you... you watered the tree."

Alicent sobbed, shaking her head rapidly. "I did what I thought was right, for my children-!"

Daemon crouched to her level so quickly she flinched back.

"For your children?" he echoed, voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

"Your child, your precious firstborn, murdered innocent children. Burned what he could not control.”

He paused, before her name uttered like a sin at his lips, “Rhaenyra.”

Alicent's breath hitched.

She knew.

She knew Aegon had gone too far.

She had known of it for many years.

Daemon's hand moved to grip her hair, forcing her to look up into his eyes.

"You raised a monster," he said. "And now you'll die because of him."

He lifted Dark Sister.

Alys placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Make it clean," she murmured. "She is not worth your rage, but the gods will want blood."

Daemon almost laughed. "The gods may watch. But I act."

He brought the blade down, mercy swift, death instant.

Alicent collapsed beside her father, her blood mingling with his.

The dragons above roared, long and thunderous, as if acknowledging the kill.

Daemon rose slowly, turning toward the open balcony where the fires of the city flickered below.

"King's Landing," Alys murmured, stepping up beside him. "Yours now."

"Mm." He shrugged lightly. "Ours. For now."

Below them, the people gathered, those who had fled their homes and those who had been herded here by Daemon's men.

They stared up, trembling, whispering prayers, clutching their children.

The ancient dragons settled on the courtyard walls, their massive bodies coiled like serpents waiting for command.

Daemon stepped forward, projecting his voice across the stones.

"Kneel."

The city hesitated.

He tilted his head.

“Or you will die.. screaming.”

The golden dragon opened its jaws, flames gathering in a spiraling inferno.

The people screamed and fell to their knees.

Daemon smiled, slow, wicked, victorious.

Alys turned to him, her voice low. "Katerina and Aemond will come soon."

"And when they do," Daemon answered, slipping Dark Sister back into its sheath, "they will find their throne ready."

Alys studied him, then offered a small, knowing smile. "You've missed this."

Daemon didn't deny it.

Power tasted the same as it always had, metallic, hot as blood, and intoxicating.

He stood before the kneeling thousands and breathed in the burning air.

"King's Landing is ours," he said quietly.

Above them, the dragons roared again, ancient, wild, bound by Aemond's power but answering to Daemon's command.

Firelight bathed him in gold and red as he crossed his arms behind his back and surveyed the conquered city.

He looked every bit the prince who had once nearly taken the crown by force.

Every bit the man who still could.

And when the last scream faded and only the crackle of fire remained, Daemon smiled like a man reborn in war.

"Let the realm tremble," he said softly.

"For they must fear what rules them.”

Armour clattered like distant thunder as the Greens worked in tense, subdued silence.

The world around the camp felt strangely suspended, smoke drifting low over the burnt earth, banners hanging limp in the still air.

The light of the dying afternoon turning everything a shade of red, as if the ground itself bled for what was about to come.

Aegon stood in the centre of the clearing, shoulders rigid as one of his remaining Kingsguard strapped on the final plate of his armour.

He looked every part a king preparing for trial by combat, yet there was something hollow behind his eyes, something desperate and strained that even steel could not disguise.

When the sword was placed into his hands, he stared at the blade for a long moment, jaw flexing, before tightening his grip around the hilt. He swallowed.

If he was afraid, he refused to let it show.

Across the clearing, Katerina stood perfectly still as Aemond tightened the leather straps beneath her armour.

His movements were controlled, precise, but not cold.

There was tension in his jaw, the faintest tremor in his breath whenever his fingers brushed against her ribs or shoulder plates, as though every touch reminded him of what she was about to face.

"Too loose," he muttered under his breath, adjusting another buckle with unnecessary force. "If he lands even one strike-!”

"He won't," Katerina said gently.

He didn't answer, but she felt the way his hands paused for the briefest moment, the way his breath caught.

She turned her head slightly, enough to meet his gaze without moving her body too much.

His single eye was sharp, but behind the intensity lay fear, that he would never admit in words.

When he finished checking the last strap, he stepped back, just enough to look at her fully.

The camp noise drifted away.

The smoke, the shouting, the shifting of armour, all of it dimmed until only the sound of their breathing remained.

Something in his expression softened.

He looked at her as though memorising her.

As though preparing for the possibility of losing her.

And that was when the memory hit.

They had been alone, deep within the shadows of a tent lit by a single, flickering lantern.

Aemond paced like a caged dragon, boots scraping against the ground, tension rolling off him in waves.

"You don't have to do this," he said sharply.

"I can face him. I should face him. You have never lifted a sword in open combat, not like this, not to the death-!”

"This is not your fight, Aemond."

"It is my brother."

"And it is my vengeance."

Her words struck him harder than a blade could. He stopped mid-step, turning to face her fully. His eye searched her, for hesitation, for doubt, for anything he could use to convince her.

But she stood tall, spine straight, jaw set with quiet certainty.

"Katerina," he said, voice low and urgent, "you could die."

"I won't. Not yet.”

"You cannot promise that."

"I can," she countered, stepping closer, until they were nearly touching.

“Because this fight began with us, with Aegon and me. From the moment he destroyed my family, from the moment he set everything I loved ablaze, this path was carved. I knew, one day, it would lead to this."

Her eyes glistened, but did not break.

"I knew I would have to be the one to end it."

Aemond's breath trembled. "Let me do it for you."

"No."

The word was soft but unyielding.

"This is my burden. My right. And my finishing blow to strike."

He closed his eye, as though the truth of her conviction physically hurt.

When he opened it again, he reached for her hand, not in plea, but in surrender.

In understanding.

In a bond deeper than fear.

"If you must do this," he whispered, voice raw, "then do not lose."

She squeezed his hand once, a vow, not reassurance.

"I won't."

A sharp voice cut through the air, snapping the memory away.

"My lady," one of Aegon's men announced, armour scraping as he bowed stiffly, "we're ready when you are."

Katerina inhaled slowly, feeling her heartbeat settle into fierce, deliberate steadiness.

She turned back to Aemond.

His expression had returned to its controlled, composed mask, but she could see everything hiding beneath it.

The fear.

The fury.

The unwillingness to let her go, and the iron resolve to let her anyway.

She leaned in just a fraction, lowering her voice so only he could hear.

"You know what to do."

Aemond didn't move at first.

His throat bobbed.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he lifted his hand and clasped her wrist, firm, grounding, almost bruising with how tightly he held her.

"I do," he said quietly.

It was not just agreement.

It was a promise.

A duty he had vowed to carry out long before this battle ever began.

Their hands slipped apart, unwilling at first, then inevitably, as though the world itself was prying them from each other.

Katerina turned away before she could second-guess the weight in his eye.

Before he could say something that might fracture her resolve.

The weight beneath her boots felt heavier than it had moments before, each step away from him echoing like a heartbeat.

The wind carried the scent of ash.

Aegon lifted his sword, armour gleaming faintly with soot and sunlight.

The circle formed around them, soldiers from both sides shifting back, creating a harsh, silent ring of witness.

The air tightened.

The world narrowed.

Aemond stood behind her, just at her back, but no longer at her side.

His presence was a scorching heat at the edge of the battlefield, an anchor she was forced to leave behind.

She stepped into the centre.

Aegon exhaled.

Steel glimmered.

Her fingers brushed the hilt of her own sword.

And without looking back, without letting herself hesitate, Katerina walked forward toward the man who had destroyed everything she once knew, everything she once was.

Toward the duel that would end one of them.

…

The circle had swallowed her whole.

Katerina stepped into the cleared space where ash clung to the earth like old scars and the air trembled with held breath.

The gathered soldiers.

Greens and her own,

fell silent, forming a ring of cold faces and cold steel.

Above them, smoke drifted like ghosts searching for something unresolved.

Aegon stood opposite her.

Armoured, armed, jaw tight.

His blond hair was tangled and soot-streaked, his breath visible in small, sharp puffs.

His eyes, wide, blue, frenzied, fixed on her with a hatred that pulsed like a fever.

"Begin!" someone barked from the line of Green soldiers.

Steel met steel instantly.

Their swords collided with such force that the shock ran up Katerina's arms, numbing her elbows.

Aegon lunged forward almost immediately, slashing with an aggression born of desperation, of bitterness, of the terror of being cornered.

The first minutes were frantic.

He fought like a man drowning, wild, swinging, reckless, and Katerina barely parried two of his blows before feeling the vibration all the way through her ribs.

He was stronger.

But she was faster.

When he swung down in a brutal overhead arc, she sidestepped, the blade grazing her shoulder plate.

She countered with a swift slice across his pauldron, sparks flaring where metal scraped metal.

Aegon snarled.

"You think you deserve this victory?" he spat, driving his blade toward her side.

Katerina blocked, and the clash rang in her ears like a bell.

"I earned this victory," she hissed back, pushing him away with a shove of her shield.

The crowd muttered.

Aemond's breathing sharpened behind her.

They had gone ten minutes in, back and forth.

Their breathing had turned ragged.

Sweat dripped.

Blood dotted the ground, both theirs, neither willing to fall back.

Aegon's blade cut a line across her forearm, shallow but stinging.

The sight of her blood made his expression twist into something triumphant, manic.

"Bleeding already?" he taunted. "You always were weak."

She swung hard, forcing him back.

"Not weak," she growled. "Never weak."

Her sword carved into the side of his armour, denting the metal and knocking the breath from him.

Aegon stumbled, but didn't fall.

She pictured her last moment with him, before looking back up at him.

Aegon above her, wearing that same twisted smile.

"It's mercy," he had said. "They were liabilities."

Mercy.

Liabilities.

Her mother.

Her family.

The fire.

The screaming.

The memory slammed into her chest with the force of a hammer.

She charged.

Steel screeched as their blades locked again. Aegon's teeth bared.

Katerina pushed, muscles shaking, trying to overpower him.

He shifted his weight and broke the lock with a knee to her stomach.

She doubled over, air punched from her lungs.

Aegon went for her throat.

Katerina rolled at the last second, the tip of his sword slicing past her cheek.

She tasted blood, metallic, hot, grounding.

She rose again, panting.

Her mind struck with yet another memory.

Her brother's screams.

Aegon’s laugh, loud, triumphant.

"You should thank me," he'd said. "Your life begins here."

Her grip tightened around her sword.

"You ruined everything!" she yelled, charging again.

"And I'd do it again!" Aegon roared, blocking her downward strike.

This time, he fought with renewed energy, like her pain rejuvenated him.

Their swords clashed again and again.

Minutes bled into minutes.

Sweat dripped into Katerina's eyes.

Her muscles trembled.

Aegon staggered twice from exhaustion but always found his footing again.

Her body screamed at her to stop.

To fall.

To breathe.

But she pushed through it, pushed through the fatigue, the fear, the burn in her lungs.

Because this wasn't just a duel.

This was her entire life leading her to this moment.

Aegon landed a blow to her ribs that sent her stumbling.

She gritted her teeth, raised her shield just in time to block his next slash.

He was panting now, too.

Sweat matted his hair.

Blood dripped down his jaw.

"You think vengeance makes you strong?" he spat, chest heaving.

"No," she said.

"It only makes you weak.”

She swung again, her blade slicing through a weak spot in his armour.

Blood welled at his side. Aegon hissed, staggering back.

Her vision blurred for a second, and another flashback broke through.

His voice ringing through her ears, as she was left lifeless by his acts.

"You look better dead."

Her heart lurched.

Her lungs burned.

Her knees momentarily buckled.

Aegon saw the hesitation.

He grinned, bloody, cracked, wild.

"There it is," he said. "The moment you break."

He rushed her, striking harder and faster, like a cornered animal sensing its one chance to kill. Their blades sang a vicious rhythm, from clang, to scrape, to slam, until Katerina felt her fingers go numb.

Aegon crashed his full weight into her, and she hit the ground, rolling through dirt and ash.

Her sword slipped from her grip, skidding across the ground.

Gasps erupted from the circle.

Aemond stepped forward, hand twitching toward his own blade, but he stopped himself, jaw clenched so tightly the muscles trembled.

Aegon raised his sword, aiming for her heart.

"This ends now," he panted.

Katerina's eyes flicked to her sword.

Too far.

Her breath halted.

Her head spun.

And she heard the last words spoken to her from within.

Her own blood pooling beneath her.

"You were never meant for this world."

The darkness swallowed her.

Katerina's vision cleared.

Her hand moved without thinking.

Her dagger.

The one Aemond had strapped to her thigh that morning.

As Aegon's sword descended, she rolled, every muscle screaming, and drove her dagger upward with all the strength she had left.

It sank into his chest with a sickening, deep, final sound.

Aegon gasped.

His sword slipped from his grip.

He looked down at the blade buried in his heart, eyes widening, breath shaking.

Blood bubbled at his lips, dripping down his chin.

Katerina stayed there, holding the dagger lodged in him, their faces inches apart.

Aegon's voice was barely a whisper.

"...not... like this..."

She leaned closer, her voice steady, low, furious yet calm.

"It was always going to be like this."

He swayed.

His knees buckled.

And then Aegon Targaryen, the second of his name, the king who burned her life to ashes, fell forward onto her shoulder before collapsing onto the ground.

His final breath left him in a shudder.

Silence ripped through the clearing.

Not a shout.

Not a whisper.

Not even a breath.

Every soldier froze.

Greens stared in horror.

Her army stared in stunned triumph.

Aemond stood motionless, as if carved in stone, but his eye glistened, jaw clenched, breath trembling.

Katerina rose slowly, blood dripping from her dagger, her armour streaked with red and ash.

Aegon's body lay motionless at her feet.

The king was dead.

And the world around her had stopped to witness it.

"Treason!"

The word ripped through the air the moment Aegon's body hit the ground.

His sword clattered beside him, his chest rose once, twice, and then stilled.

The white cloaks roared with outrage, the forest trembling under the sudden surge of rage.

Horses reared, armour clanged, the line of men surged forward, ready to avenge their fallen king.

Katerina did not flinch.

She stood over Aegon's corpse with her sword dripping red, her chest heaving, strands of her hair stuck to her blood-stained cheek.

Slowly, she turned, her eyes locking with Aemond's across the battlefield.

He stood behind the line, breath shallow, face unreadable.

She mouthed one word to him.

"Now."

Aemond's jaw clenched, the grief in him twisting into resolve as he stepped forward, lifting his hand.

The white cloaks surged again, ready to charge.. before Aemond whispered the spell.

"Sythra'ven."

The air split.

A crack like thunder tore through the ground, and in an instant, a shimmering wall of pale silver shot up around Katerina, Aemond, and the nearest ring of soldiers.

Those outside slammed into the invisible barrier, cries of shock erupting as their swords bounced off harmlessly.

Those inside stumbled, trapped in a glowing dome, the world around them vibrating.

The white cloaks froze in confusion.

Katerina turned back toward them, raising her blood-soaked sword.

She didn't wait.

She ran.

The trapped men rushed toward her in the chaos, shouting, swinging, desperate, but Katerina cut through the first line like a storm, moving with feral precision.

Every strike was a cry for those gone by the hands of Aegon’s cruelty.

Every kill was a promise kept.

A man lunged, she stepped aside, sliced the tendon behind his knee, drove her blade through his ribs, and ripped it out before the body hit the ground.

Another swung downward, her sword caught his, sparks flying, and she thrust her dagger into his throat in one clean motion.

She could feel Aemond behind her, closer now, finishing any who slipped past her.

His sword flashed silver, fueled by fury deeper than words.

The two of them were fire and storm, fighting as if one mind guided both bodies.

But the dome held too many.

Too many men, too many blades.

And they were growing tired.

Her sword grew heavy, her arms trembling.

She barely parried a blow that would've taken her head.

Her grip slipped, her breath staggered, her knees buckled for a moment under the sheer weight of it all.

Aemond shouted her name, she didn't hear the words, only the panic.

But she pushed on.

Because this had been decided long before the battlefield.

Night had fallen hours earlier when Katerina dipped the quill into the ink one last time.

The parchment on the table glowed under candlelight, her handwriting steady despite the storm inside her chest.

This was the last message she would ever write.

A message for Daemon.

For Alys.

For the last stand.

She rolled the parchment carefully and sealed it with wax, pressing her ring into the soft red until the sigil shone.

When she turned, Eryth was already there, standing silently, his eyes bloodshot, his expression hollow.

He looked both furious and broken.

"Here," she whispered, holding the scroll out to him. "You know where to take it."

Eryth didn't reach for it at first. His eyes flicked between her and Aemond.

His breath shook.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly.

Katerina's smile trembled. "I do."

Aemond stepped closer, resting a hand on her back, but didn't speak, didn't interfere.

Eryth took the scroll with shaking hands.

Tears welled, staining the corners of his eyes red. "We will remember your name," he swore.

"Both of you. I will teach our children your stories. The coven will never let your sacrifice fade."

Katerina swallowed hard. "Eryth..”

"No," he insisted, his voice breaking.

"You... you will create the world we were promised. You will be the reason immortals and the living can finally stand together. You will be the reason it changes. All of it. Because of you."

His fists tightened around the scroll.

"For our Queen."

He bowed his head, deep and trembling, before shifting into raven-form and launching into the night sky.

A soldier screamed as Katerina's blade tore into him, but she didn't slow.

Aemond sliced through another approaching from behind.

They were starting to close in, a circle of bodies pressing, circling, snarling.

Aemond reached her first.

Their backs pressed together, swords raised.

Both panting. Both bleeding.

The dome flickered, the spell weakening.

The men realized it at the same moment.

They were trapped with monsters.

The last of the white cloaks inside the dome hesitated, but only for a breath, before charging them, knowing they had nowhere else to go.

Katerina reached for Aemond's hand.

He grasped hers instantly.

Their palms met, fingers lacing together, their combined power thrumming between them, dangerous, wild, unstoppable.

The dome shimmered brighter, humming with pressure, cracks spiderwebbing through the air like glass about to shatter.

Aemond turned to her, his eyes soft for the first time since Nyssa died. "Katerina..."

She looked back, tears finally breaking free.

"I love you," she whispered.

Aemond leaned his forehead to hers for the briefest moment, blood, sweat, grief mixing between them. "I love you."

And then.

They unleashed everything.

Not a spell.

Not a chant.

Just pure, unrestrained force.

Light erupted from their joined hands, white, blinding, violent.

The dome collapsed inward, sucking the world into itself with a roar so loud it drowned out every scream.

The bodies of soldiers disintegrated into dust, armour melting, blades turning to ash.

The last thing either of them felt was the other's hand.

Still holding on.

Still refusing to let go.

And then…

Nothing.

Silence.

The battlefield was empty.

The dome was gone.

So were they.

The only thing left was the faint echo of two intertwined souls breaking the world apart to save it, and her army that were left silent and devastated, realising the sacrifice both had made.

The Red Keep was restless that morning.

Too many whispers, too many strange shadows cast against the sun.

Alys had felt the shift long before the raven landed on the rookery's stone lip, a heaviness in the air, a sharpness in the wind.

But even she was silent as she stared at the young man who'd arrived at the gates.

Eryth.

Pale-skinned, silver-eyed, bearing the stillness of someone who belonged to neither the living nor the dead.

He carried the scent of magic woven into his clothes, the trace of Katerina's covenant lingering faintly upon him.

"Call him," Alys had whispered to the guards. "Now."

And so Daemon Targaryen stormed into the chamber, slightly breathless, irritation sharp in his voice.

"What in the seven hells was so urgent you-?”

He stopped.

His gaze snapped to Eryth.

"Who is he?" Daemon asked, frowning at Alys.

Alys did not answer with words at first.

Instead, she extended the raven's parchment, black ribbon, silver wax, stamped by a sigil Daemon had not seen in twenty years.

A crescent moon, split clean down the center.

Daemon's heartbeat faltered.

Slowly, very slowly, he took the scroll from her hand.

His eyes scanned the first few lines.

And everything inside him... broke.

His breath stuttered.

His jaw clenched to the point of trembling.

The light in his eyes cracked, his features falling from anger to dread, to disbelief, then finally to something hollow.

Empty.

Stripped.

He swallowed, hard enough that the sound echoed in the silent room.

Then, with shaking fingers, he unfurled the letter fully.

And he read.

…

Daemon stared at the final line, lips parted, breath shaking.

His eyes were glazed, shocked, confused, torn wide open in a way no one had ever seen.

The letter slipped in his trembling hands.

Tears gathered but did not fall.

Not yet.

He looked up at Eryth, this pale, ethereal, unnervingly calm young man who watched him with an expression painfully familiar.

Katerina's softness.

Katerina's steadiness.

Katerina's bloodline.

Eryth stepped forward and dropped to one knee.

"Her people await you, your Grace."

The words hit Daemon like a blade to the ribs.

He stumbled back, breath ragged, and rushed to the window.

What he saw, it stole the air from his lungs.

Below the Red Keep stood dozens of beings: immortals, hybrids, vampires with silver eyes, witches with glowing marks tracing their skin, and humans interwoven among them.

Folk of the capital who had long lived quietly under Katerina's unseen protection.

All of them knelt.

Every one.

Kneeling to him.

The sky shifted, clouds parting like curtains.

And then the dragons descended.

Caraxes landed first, shrieking triumph.

Syrax's wings beat golden light into the crowd.

Vhagar's shadow swallowed the courtyard whole.

They circled the city, free, unchained, called by the magic of a fallen queen and the blood of the king she chose.

Sunlight broke through, spilling across King's Landing like a blessing.

Daemon stood frozen, chest heaving, the letter still clenched in his shaking fist.

And for the first time in decades...

He had no words.

The city no longer smelled of fear.

Where once smoke clung to the rooftops and whispers slithered through dark corners, King's Landing now hummed with a different kind of life.

Warm, vibrant, strange, and wondrous. The sun climbed low over the spires of the Red Keep, gilding the streets in soft gold.

Below, the capital stirred awake in its new rhythm, one built on peace rather than suspicion.

Mortals and immortals walked side by side along the cobblestone paths.

A baker shouted cheerfully as he handed out loaves still steaming from the oven, laughing when a young witch accidentally made the flour on his apron shimmer with harmless sparks.

Street vendors sold draughts and herbs next to stalls offering spiced meat and woven cloth.

A vampire with silver eyes haggled over oranges with a mortal woman who looked entirely unbothered by the fangs that flashed when he grinned.

Children chased each other, some lifting a few inches off the ground when their magic burst in excitement, others dragging wooden toys behind them as they shrieked with laughter.

For the first time in centuries, the city felt alive, not afraid of shadows, but filled by them.

"It feels different every time I step outside," Alys said quietly as she leaned over the balcony of Maegor's Holdfast.

The wind tugged at her dark hair, lifting it in gentle waves. "As if the city is breathing again."

Daemon stood beside her, hands folded behind his back.

His silver hair was tied loosely, a stark wave of moonlight against the deep red of the tunic he wore.

"It's because they finally have room to," he replied. "No one is hiding anymore."

Alys glanced at him from the corner of her eye, a faint smirk pulling at her lips.

"You say that as though you did nothing."

Daemon huffed, though his gaze softened as it swept across the bustling streets.

"I did what needed to be done," he said simply. "They did the rest. Her city... became what she wanted it to be."

"Her dream lives through them," Alys murmured. "Through you."

He did not answer, but Alys did not expect him to.

His silence was the only place where he allowed his grief to settle.

A soft flutter of wings drew their attention as a raven landed on the stone railing, its eyes glowing a faint ember-red.

Eryth stood behind them, watching the bird with a fondness he tried to hide.

"I told him to go hunt," Eryth said dryly. "He prefers to follow me instead. Says the kitchen scraps are better."

Daemon raised a brow. "You speak to him so casually."

"He speaks back," Eryth replied with a shrug. "Mostly complaints."

Alys laughed, the sound brief but genuine.

"Magic or mortal, creatures always complain," she said.

Eryth stepped forward to stand beside them, his red eyes reflecting the sunlight.

Months had reshaped him, he stood taller, calmer, more sure of himself.

The weight of Katerina's last request rested on him, but it strengthened him rather than crushed him.

"The city is gathering," he said. "They're waiting for you."

"Waiting?" Daemon exhaled a sigh, though a corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"I am beginning to think they enjoy meetings far too much."

"It's because the council actually does things now," Alys responded. "A novelty for the capital."

Daemon snorted. "Then let's not ruin their excitement."

They turned from the balcony and walked through the halls of the Red Keep, halls once echoing with tension and secrecy, now filled with murmured greetings and nods of respect.

Guards of both mortal blood and immortal heritage stood at their posts.

Torches burned brighter, the air warmer.

Eryth walked a pace behind Daemon, his steps steady, shoulders squared.

Only months ago, the boy had trembled under the weight of prophecy and loss.

Now, he wore a dark cloak embroidered with silver thread, the crest of Katerina's coven intertwined with the Targaryen dragon.

The symbol had been his idea.

The doors to the council chamber stood ahead, carved with new sigils representing unity.

Alys stopped beside Daemon just before the doors opened.

"Ready?" she asked softly.

Daemon inhaled.

The scent of parchment, steel, warm air, and faint incense reached him from the other side.

"For a city like this?" he said. "Always."

The guards pulled the doors open.

Light poured into the corridor.

Inside, council members rose from their seats, witches with glowing runes, mortals in fine robes, hybrids with sharpened eyes and calm expressions.

Maps, scrolls, and crystal-bound tomes lay upon the table.

Alys stepped inside first, gliding to her place with quiet confidence.

Eryth followed, bowing his head slightly as the council acknowledged him.

And then Daemon Targaryen entered the chamber, ruler of a city reborn, the man who had inherited a dream carved from blood, fire, and sacrifice.

The room settled into silence.

A new era was ready to begin.

And the city breathed on.

XLIII

[averillaratargaryen]

XLI

The smoke still clung to the air, thick and stinging.

The grass was charred in long blackened streaks, and fragments of tents still glowed with slow-burning embers.

Sunfyre's fire had torn through the camp only moments before, leaving behind a landscape of ruin.

Bodies lay scattered, some groaning, some still, and others being pulled aside by the surviving immortals.

Aemond barely registered any of it.

His entire world narrowed into the tiny, writhing figure in his arms.

Nyssa screamed, high, broken, animalistic.

Her small fingers dug desperately into his tunic, trembling violently.

Blood streamed from her eyes in thin rivers down her cheeks; each drop fell warm against his hand.

She choked, breath hitching, "it hurts-! please-!”

"I know," Aemond whispered, voice cracking as he pulled her closer.

His heart slammed painfully inside his ribcage.

Her body jerked again with another piercing cry.

Aemond's head whipped toward the black-haired immortal beside him.

"How did this happen?" he snapped, fear tightening every word.

"Eryth, what happened to her?!"

Eryth's expression was grim, ash coating his skin like war paint.

He knelt beside them, eyes scanning Nyssa's trembling form.

"She used power far beyond her reach," Eryth said quietly.

"I told her not to. I warned her. But she-!”

"I only wanted to help" Nyssa sobbed suddenly, her voice cutting through him like a knife as she blinked blindly toward Aemond.

Her eyes, red and clouded, searched for him. "I only wanted to help..."

Nyssa screamed again, arching in agony.

Aemond's hands shook.

"I know," he said quickly, desperately, "I know. I know baby, I know-!”

His voice broke on the last word.

Aemond's panic finally overpowered his composure.

He lifted his head and shouted, raw and loud enough to crack.

"Katerina! Help me!"

Across the ruin, Katerina stood over Aegon's unconscious body, his hair matted with soot, his clothes half-burned from Sunfyre's flames.

She had been assessing him, hands hovering with healing enchantments ready.

But when she heard Aemond's voice, she froze.

Slowly, she turned.

The entire camp seemed to still with her, as if the crackling fires had held their breath.

Every face she saw was strained, shaken, defeated.

The dread that weighed the air pressed down on her chest like stone.

She whispered something under her breath, something like a plea, and then she moved.

"Eryth," she said sharply, pointing to Aegon.

He nodded and turned, calling to two others from the remnants of the coven.

Older immortals whose tattoos glowed faintly in the smoke-filled air.

"Sérath voskira daen!" he commanded.

“Take him with you!"

The two immortals hurried to lift Aegon's limp body between them.

Eryth rushed after them, clearing the way.

Only once Aegon was being carried away, did Katerina drop to her knees beside Aemond.

Nyssa's cries were quieter now, but no less agonising.

"Katerina," Aemond gasped.

"Please, do something. She-? she's bleeding. She can't breathe-!”

Katerina gently touched Nyssa's cheek, tilting the child's face toward her.

Her hands shimmered faintly with pale blue light as she closed her eyes.

She sank deeper, into the magic lodged inside Nyssa's mind.

Nyssa convulsed with a whimper.

And then Katerina saw it.

Her eyes flew open with a gasp.

"What?" Aemond demanded immediately. "What is it? What happened to her?"

Katerina's voice trembled. "She used the Veylora Ascendant."

Aemond stared, confused and terrified. "What-? what does that mean?"

"It's a spell that channels multiple branches of power at once. Blood, magic, foresight, elemental force... It's destructive even to an adult who's trained."

Katerina swallowed hard, looking down at Nyssa's small form.

"But for a child... a hybrid child... her brain can't withstand it. The power tears through the pathways faster than her blood can carry it. It overloads everything. Her nerves, her lungs, her heart.”

Aemond shook his head. "No. No, we can stop it. You can stop it.”

"Aemond..." Katerina whispered, stricken.

"There is nothing strong enough to reverse it. The damage is internal. The spell is still burning her from the inside."

Nyssa's cries were beginning to weaken, fading into soft whimpers.

Aemond's breath stuttered. "We have to do something.”

Katerina's eyes glistened, but she said nothing.

"Please." His voice cracked entirely this time. "Katerina... please."

She looked at Nyssa again, really looked.

The girl's fingers had loosened.

Her breaths came in tiny, sharp gasps, each one shallower than the last.

The blood at her eyes had dried to dark streaks. Her breath, Katerina could feel it, was flickering like a candle.

The young girl was dying.

She felt it long before Aemond did.

Nyssa's body went still, too still, her last breath barely more than a small shudder.

Katerina closed her eyes for a moment, her chest tightening painfully.

Aemond frowned, shaking Nyssa lightly. "Nyssa?”

She didn't respond.

"Katerina," he whispered, terror creeping into his voice. "Why-? why isn't she-?”

"Aemond..." Katerina said softly, barely audible. "She's gone.”

Aemond froze.

Everything inside him seemed to stop at once, the breath in his lungs, the world around him.

"No," he whispered. "No, she's just-? Nyssa, come on. Open your eyes.”

He shook her a little harder, panic spiking.

"Katerina, she's just- she's still warm. She’s-!”

Katerina reached out, touching his shoulder gently.

"Aemond... she is no longer breathing."

Something inside him shattered.

"No," he said again, his voice breaking apart.

Katerina bit her lip, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Aemond pressed his cheek to Nyssa's, cradling her tiny body as if shielding her from the reality closing in.

Katerina tried one last desperate thing.

She brought her wrist to Nyssa's mouth, letting blood surface.

"Maybe if she feeds, maybe the balm of hybrid blood could-?”

But Nyssa's lips remained still.

Katerina lowered her hand slowly.

Aemond let out a sound, deep, broken, nothing like anything she had ever heard from him.

He pulled Nyssa tighter against his chest, rocking slightly, as if movement alone could bring her back.

Her limp arm fell from his grip and swung gently.

It was that small, horrifying detail that told him the truth.

She was gone.

"Katerina..." Aemond choked.

Katerina could only bow her head, unable to speak, unable to breathe.

Around them, the immortals had gathered in a loose, silent circle.

Every face was pale, haunted.

They had fought a war.

They had survived a dragon.

But they had not saved the child.

And their grief poured into Katerina's mind.

Rage, guilt, sorrow, fear, so violently that she reeled from the force of it.

She felt everything.

All of them.

Every thought.

She pressed a trembling hand to her temple.

The weight of their grief was suffocating.

In the center of it all was Aemond, curled around Nyssa's small, lifeless body, his shoulders shaking as he cried silently against her cheek.

Katerina looked at him, her own heart aching in ways she did not know she could feel.

And around them, the camp, burnt, broken, blood-soaked, stood utterly still.

The echoes of Nyssa's screams had faded.

Only the sound of Aemond's quiet, devastating grief remained.

The silence that settled after Nyssa's final breath felt heavier than any smoke or ash clinging to the ruins of the camp.

Katerina stayed kneeling beside Aemond for a long, unmoving moment, her palm still resting against the child's cold cheek.

But then, slowly... she lifted her eyes.

They were all staring at her.

Hundreds of immortals, some wounded, some trembling, some gripping onto the last of their strength.

Faces streaked with soot.

Eyes red from smoke, fear, or grief.

They looked to her not because she demanded it, but because they had nothing left to anchor them to this world.

Katerina inhaled.

The breath trembled.

Then she rose.

Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though her bones were carved from the same ash beneath her feet.

She stepped away from Aemond and Nyssa, walking toward the center of the ruined grounds.

The crushed earth crackled beneath her feet. Broken tents sagged around her.

Half-burnt banners flapped weakly in a sickly breeze.

Each step made the coven straighten.

Eyes followed her, lifting with a mixture of dread and hope.

When she stopped, she looked at them all, every face, every wound, every terrified child clutching onto their mother's dress.

She did not wipe the tears that clung to her lashes.

She let them fall.

But her voice, when it came, did not shake.

"My'ra sévri."

My people.

"Vos qirath. Vos jali."

It is not yet over. It is not yet lost.

"Veskorìn maeryn draveth... séra morgha vēj."

Fighting a war comes with the displeasing shadow of death... a truth we all know too well.

"Jorā lembrikha... jorā ēdruta.

You either survive... or you die.

"Aelissa morgha daor ēdruta mōris."

But we cannot let this death of our own go unanswered.

"Jentys ēdrun... hen hāzel korisa. Lioræn bena jethor, ābrar ēdruta ēbrion hā."

They are coming... with their white cloaks. Riding on their horses, they will reach by noon.

"Se sevi aor... gevivesa aor."

So I ask you to stand. I ask you to fight.

"Véla. Jor. Elissa.

Women. Men. Children.

"Sāros ilvyr. Jorā lvessa ēdrun ābra."

We must rise as one. As a single force.

When her final word left her lips, it did not echo,

it settled into their bones.

Even Aemond's quiet sobs stilled.

He lifted his head.

For the first time since the smoke began to suffocate the camp, his breathing calmed.

He looked down at Nyssa's small body in his arm, her lifeless hands curled against his chest, and something brutal settled in him.

Katerina's speech wasn't just words.

It was a vow.

And Aemond felt it as clearly as if Nyssa herself had whispered it in his ear.

A truth took root in his mind.

He had realised how long he had stayed his hand, on the wrong side. The merciless king of a brother he once had.

It truly opened his eyes.

Aemond knew what side he would fight for.

He knew who he was avenging.

His jaw clenched, his grip tightening around the child.

His single eye burned, not with tears, but with purpose.

Around them, the coven stirred.

Some lifted their heads for the first time since the fire.

Others straightened their backs.

Even the children, wide-eyed, frightened, leaned in, listening.

Ashes fell quietly from the sky, but the air vibrated with shared rage.

That was when Eryth stepped forward.

His face was streaked with dirt and blood.

Smoke clung to his feathers that had partially formed along his temple, remnants of his mid-battle shift.

But his voice carried loud and sharply across the ruins as he raised one arm.

"Dae'vyr lirān!"

Do not bend!

"Korvos māzen, lioræn ēdruta jenor daor!"

Let the white-cloaks come, they will not break us!

"Sérath jorā veylan! Sérath Katerina!"

We stand with our Queen! We stand with Katerina!

"Veskorìn ēdrun!”

Tonight we grieve!

“Ābrar éssha!”

Tomorrow we rise!

“Ābrar gevivesa!”

Tomorrow we fight!

The roar that followed was nothing like the desperate cries of earlier.

It was unified.

It was alive.

Weapons lifted.

Spells sparked faintly in palms.

Some pounded their chests; others raised fists to the sky.

Even those too injured to stand reached forward with their hands, adding their silent vow.

Katerina remained still in the center, her hair loose in the wind, ash clinging to her skin, her gaze sharp despite the tears still shimmering there.

When their voices rose around her, voices of the hundreds who had lived through the fire, her shoulders lifted slightly, as though their strength poured into her.

She did not smile.

She did not bow.

She simply stood, absorbing the weight of their trust, and the weight of their grief.

Behind her, Aemond held Nyssa close, his forehead resting against her lifeless one.

He didn't chant.

He didn't lift a fist or weapon.

But when he opened his eye again and looked toward the direction the white cloaks would come from...

There was murder in it.

Purpose.

Resolve.

And a silent vow that matched every word Katerina had spoken.

Eryth turned to her, giving a firm nod, one warrior to another.

The coven echoed it.

Their unity was a living thing now.

A force born from ash and loss.

Katerina closed her eyes briefly, inhaling.

She felt all of it, their pain, their fury, their loyalty, pressing into her mind.

And for the first time since the attack...

she let herself feel it fully.

When she opened her eyes again, tears still glimmered there, but the fire behind them had only grown.

The war was no longer coming.

It had already begun.

Aegon's return to consciousness was not gentle.

It came in waves, first a low hum, like distant thunder.

Then a stabbing pressure behind his eyes.

Then the sudden realisation that his entire skull felt as if someone had pried it open and poured molten iron inside.

He groaned, tried to turn his head, immediately regretted it.

Even the movement made his vision pulse white.

And beneath all of that pain... heat.

A terrible, crawling burn under his skin.

As if his blood had caught fire and was trying to force its way out through his veins.

He wasn't sure if it was leftover dragonflame, or the echo of that witch's spell, or something else entirely,but it seethed in him, restless, boiling, angry.

"What... in the-?”

His throat cracked.

He swallowed, tasted smoke.

His ribs ached.

His jaw throbbed.

Katerina.

He remembered her voice, her eyes, and the violent snap of magic that took him under.

Aegon pushed himself up onto his elbows, panting.

The world blurred, then settled into view.

Bars.

Thick iron bars.

A small stone room.

A brazier glowing faintly in the corner.

A single lantern outside his makeshift cell.

He blinked hard.

He was locked up.

His vision sharpened in a burst of fury.

"What is this?!" he roared, the sound scraping raw at his throat.

He lurched forward, gripping the bars so tightly the metal groaned under his palms.

"Open this door! Do you hear me?"

Silence.

Aegon slammed his shoulder against the bars, once, twice, again, pain shot down his arm, but the anger drowned it out.

“Let me out!”

His voice echoed through the camp ruins.

The same camp grounds he had burned with Sunfyre, the charred smell still lingered faintly. The knowledge made him snarl.

His land.

His command.

Whoever dared confine him here had forgotten something very important.

"I am your King!" he screamed, rattling the cage until sparks of agony burst in his skull.

"You will unhand me at once or I swear-!”

He stopped.

Because there was someone else here.

A presence.

Heavy.

Watching.

Aegon straightened, breath sharp, and peered through the shadows pooling beyond the lantern light.

A shape lingered there.

Still.

Silent.

Not moving, but unmistakably human.

"You," Aegon snapped, pointing through the bars. "Do you know who I am?"

No answer.

The silence needled at him like a blade.

"Speak," Aegon demanded, fury swelling hot under his skin.

"Show your face, you coward. Do you think hiding makes any difference? I will end you. I will tear this place apart. I will make sure you regret-!”

The figure shifted slightly, stepping forward, light brushing the edge of a jawline he knew far too well.

Aegon froze.

His stomach dropped. His breath hitched.

"...A-Aemond?" he whispered.

And from the shadows, calm as a sleeping sea, Aemond replied,

"Hello, brother."

Aegon stumbled back a step, mind scrambling between confusion and outrage.

Aemond walked in fully now, slow, deliberate, the lantern catching the pale of his hair and the cold gleam of his remaining eye.

He looked unharmed.

Controlled.

Almost collected.

Aegon hated him instantly for it.

"You're awake sooner than I thought," Aemond said lightly, tilting his head. "A shame. I was enjoying the quiet."

Aegon gripped the bars again, hands trembling. "Let me out."

"That," Aemond said with infuriating calm, "is not going to happen."

"You dare-?”

Aemond raised an eyebrow. "Yes. I dare."

Aegon's anger spiked so violently the heat under his skin flared again.

He wanted to tear the bars apart.

He wanted to rip that calm expression off Aemond's face.

"You think this is funny?" Aegon spat. "You think you can cage me?"

"I think," Aemond said, stepping closer, "that for once, you're exactly where you cannot cause more damage."

"Damage?" Aegon barked a laugh.

"You're lecturing me? After everything? You've had your head so far up your-!”

"Aegon," Aemond cut in softly, "do choose your next words carefully."

It was the softness that did it.

The quiet threat.

The subtle condescension Aemond wielded like a blade.

Aegon shoved forward again, face almost pressed to the bars. "You have forgotten your place."

"My place?" Aemond's smile sharpened.

"You mean the place you abandoned years ago? The one I've been filling ever since?"

Aegon seethed. "I am the king—"

"And yet here you are," Aemond murmured, "behind bars."

Aegon shook with rage. "Let me out and I'll show you exactly what I am—"

"Oh, I'm well aware of what you are," Aemond replied, leaning in so their faces were only inches apart. "A drunk. A coward. A man who burns his own camp because he cannot stomach losing."

Aegon lunged at the bars with a snarl, but Aemond didn't flinch.

He looked almost entertained.

"That temper of yours," Aemond went on, voice low, "will be the death of you."

Something inside Aegon snapped.

"That bitch has twisted you—"

"Careful."

"You're manipulated—"

Aemond's voice dropped into a dangerous whisper. "Aegon."

"—or you've finally lost what little mind you had left—"

Aemond's restraint shattered.

In an instant, he slammed forward, his hand shooting through the bars to grab Aegon by the throat.

The force of it sent Aegon stumbling against the cell wall, choking.

Aemond's eye burned, wild, too bright. "Say one more word," he hissed.

Aegon clawed at his wrist, gasping.

Aemond leaned closer, lips curled with a feral hunger that was no longer fully human.

Then he sank his teeth into Aegon's shoulder.

Aegon screamed,raw, guttural.

The bite wasn't human.

It was vicious, tearing, puncturing deep.

He felt blood spill warm down his chest.

His vision blurred with shock and agony.

Aemond bit harder.

"Aemond!" a voice cried sharply. "That is enough!"

It hit him like a spell.

Literally.

Aemond's body jerked backward as if yanked by invisible force.

He staggered, breath ragged, lips stained with red.

His fingers twitched, claws just barely withdrawn.

Katerina's figure stood at the staircase, breath unsteady, eyes blazing with magic.

"Step back," she snapped.

Aemond's chest heaved as he stared at Aegon,no longer furious, but trembling with something like shame.

Or hunger.

Or both.

Katerina didn't approach Aegon.

She didn't speak to him.

She only turned her gaze, cold, sharp, unblinking, toward him.

And that single look shut him up instantly.

Aegon pressed himself against the wall, panting, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

He didn't dare move.

Didn't dare speak.

His body reacted before his pride could stop it.

Katerina's attention darted back to Aemond. "Come," she said quietly.

Aemond swallowed hard, nodding once.

He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

She stepped toward him, placing a steadying hand on his arm.

He leaned into her touch instinctively, still shaken, still caught somewhere between rage and whatever beastly thing had risen in him.

Katerina guided him gently toward the stairs. "We're going upstairs. Now."

Aemond gave one last glance toward the cell, toward Aegon, who shrank back further.

Then he turned away.

Katerina led him up through the dim hall of the burnt camp, her fingers still wrapped around his forearm as if grounding him.

Aemond followed her willingly, his breath slowly evening out as the shadows of the lower chamber faded behind them.

Aegon listened to their footsteps ascend and disappear.

He was alone now.

Alone, bleeding, breath shaking, the burn under his skin rising again.

And for the first time in a very long time...

Aegon felt something that tasted horribly like fear.

…

Aemond had been pacing since the moment the door shut behind them.

Back and forth, long strides, boots dragging slightly over the wooden floor as if the act of walking was the only thing keeping the fury inside him from rupturing through his skin.

Katerina stood still near the edge of the bed, watching him.

Her arms were limp at her sides, exhaustion pressing into her bones, but she stayed quiet until his steps grew sharper, faster.

"Aemond..." she called softly.

He didn't even let her finish.

"Do not," he bit out, turning halfway toward her only to turn away again. "Do not say my name like that."

Katerina's brows pinched. "Like what?"

"Like I am a child who needs calming." His voice cracked, the anger too tightly coiled. "I almost had him."

"You were going to kill him," Katerina snapped.

"Yes!" He roared the word, spinning around. "Yes, Katerina! That is the point!"

Her jaw tightened. "That is not what we agreed on."

Aemond stopped pacing only so he could glare at her openly.

His chest rose and fell like he had run miles; the veins in his neck strained.

"Agreed on?" he echoed with disbelief.

"Agreed on. Gods..."

He ran a hand over his face.

"You speak of agreements as if this is a negotiation. As if this is some political game, Katerina. This-!”

He jabbed a finger toward the door. "this is not strategy. That man down there murdered her."

"You do not need to remind me," she said, sharper now, voice vibrating with her own hurt. “ I know."

But that wasn't enough for him.

"Do you?" His voice lowered into something wounded and violent at once.

"Because you stopped me. You stopped me when I should have finished him. She would still be—"

"Don't." Her voice cracked.

Aemond inhaled sharply, but he didn't take the words back.

He didn't soften either.

"She would still be dead," Katerina said first, cutting him off before he could say it.

"Even if you killed him in that moment, Aemond. Her death does not rewind because you sink your teeth into his throat."

Aemond's fists clenched. "He should have died regardless."

"And he will," she insisted, stepping forward finally. "Aemond, he will die. But not like that."

"Why not?" he snapped. "Why in the gods' names not? Give me one reason why he deserves breath in his lungs for even one more hour."

"Because," she said evenly, though her voice trembled,

"an army is marching toward us. Because he has started a war that will arrive by dawn. Because killing him in that cell would throw everything into chaos. Because justice done right matters."

Aemond scoffed, low and humorless.

"Justice," he repeated. "Spare me."

Katerina's eyes flashed.

"What would you have me say? That I want him alive? Because I don't. I want him dead just as much as you do."

"Then why did you stop me?"

"Because I can't be him," she snapped, stepping closer. "I won't kill like he kills. I won't turn into the thing we're fighting."

Aemond froze, chest heaving. "I am not turning into him."

"No," she said, "but in that cell, Aemond?.. you were close."

His jaw clenched.

He turned his head away as if the words had physically struck him.

Katerina softened only slightly.

"You lost Nyssa," she said quietly.

"We lost Nyssa. Nothing about your pain is small. Nothing about your anger is wrong. But you cannot let him drive you into becoming a reflection of him."

Aemond laughed, short, sharp, broken. "You truly think I care about that? If I become a monster?"

"You care," she whispered. "Because if you didn't, you would've killed him long before I stepped in."

That silence was long.

Too long.

Aemond swallowed, throat bobbing.

But then, he whispered out.

"Nyssa didn't get a fair death," he said, voice cracking.

"She didn't get anything. She didn't get a choice. A child-!”

His voice broke harder.

"A child, Katerina. And he gets to live? He gets to wake up? To breathe?"

Katerina closed her eyes for a moment. "No," she said, opening them again.

"He doesn't get to live. Don't mistake me."

Her voice turned into a blade. "He will die for her. I swear that to you."

Aemond's voice rose again. "Then why keep him alive now?"

"So he dies a death worthy of what he's done."

"Since when have you thought about worthy?" Aemond shouted back. "You used to kill, for vengeance. You were a monster, when you killed my sister."

"Aemond." Her voice cut clean through his fury.

“Why are you trying to protect him?”he challenged bitterly.

"I am protecting us," she said, louder.

"I am protecting what we have to do when that army arrives. I am protecting every single person who stands outside this room, who is ready to die for this cause."

He shook his head, stepping away from her, hair falling over his face. "I don't care about them right now."

"That isn't fair," she whispered.

"Nothing about this is fair!" Aemond snapped. "Nothing! And you—! You stand there telling me to wait, telling me to be patient, like you haven’t ever killed unlawfully-!”

He stopped.

He swallowed the rest.

Katerina inhaled sharply. "Aemond..."

But he cut her off, voice low and shaking. "Do not come closer."

Katerina froze, hurt flickering in her eyes. "Aemond, I'm on your side."

"Are you?" His voice cracked under the weight of grief. "Because right now it feels like you're asking me to swallow my rage just to fit your plan."

"I'm asking you not to destroy yourself." She responds.

"Too late," he whispered.

Katerina's breath shook.

The argument was no longer fire, but ash, hot, raw, smoldering.

"Fine," she said finally, taking a slow step back. "If you need to cool off tonight, I'll give you space."

Aemond's head snapped up at that. "What?"

"You heard me," she said, voice tightening.

"That is not-?” He moved toward her.

Katerina stepped away, toward the door.

"I'll be downstairs with the coven. You stay here. Think. Or rage. Or break something. Whatever you need to do."

"Katerina-!”

She reached for the door handle.

And that was when she felt it.

Arms wrapping around her from behind, quick, desperate, trembling.

Aemonds entire body pressed to her back as he buried his head into the crook of her neck, breath shaking violently against her skin.

Katerina froze.

Aemond didn't speak.

He only held on.

Held on like she was the last solid thing left in a world that had just collapsed around him.

After a few moments, Katerina exhaled and slowly placed her hands over his forearms, letting him cling.

Silence hung between them, deep, heavy, honest.

When she finally turned around, Aemond let her, though his hands stayed on her shoulders.

He looked at her with wet, burning eyes, jaw trembling.

He lifted a hand to her cheek,

gently, reverently, as if afraid she would disappear next.

His forehead leaned into hers, breath unsteady.

"Katerina..." His voice was barely a whisper. "I'm sorry."

Her eyes softened.

"I know," she whispered.

Aemond closed his eye, pressing his brow harder against hers.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone, almost trembling.

"I didn't mean—" He swallowed.

"I didn't mean anything I said. I'm just... I'm losing myself."

"You're grieving," she corrected softly. "And grief makes us cruel."

Aemond shook his head faintly. "I shouldn't be cruel to you."

Katerina placed her hand over his, still cupping her cheek. "Just believe me."

Aemond exhaled shakily, nodding once, pressing closer, needing the contact as much as he needed breath.

"I do," he whispered. "I believe you."

And for the first time since Nyssa's death, something in his chest loosened.

Something broke, yes, but something also began to breathe again.

The Sept was silent.

Silent in the way only early mornings in King's Landing could be, the kind of silence that felt almost wrong, as though the stones themselves were holding their breath.

Candles crackled weakly at the altars, their flames tired, flickering against the chill that seeped through the stained-glass windows.

Alicent Hightower knelt in front of the Mother's statue, her hands clasped tightly, white knuckles pressed together.

She had been coming here every morning, long before sunrise, seeking the only place that still offered her peace.

The city outside was restless, talks of war, whispers of dragons, fear threading through the streets, but in the Sept, she could pretend for a moment that the gods still listened.

She bowed her head, whispering a prayer.

"Grant us mercy... grant us safety..."

Her voice trembled, though she tried to hide it.

The prayer broke when heavy footsteps thundered across the marble floor.

Alicent turned sharply.

A guard sprinted inside, winded, panicked, his armor clattering loudly in the quiet hall.

"Your grace” he gasped, nearly stumbling as he reached her. "We must leave. Now. At once."

Alicent rose swiftly, alarm jolting through her. "What is it? What's happened?"

"There's no time, Your Grace," he said, grabbing her arm gently but urgently. "We must take the back passage. Quickly."

Alicent resisted being pulled until she got an answer. "Tell me what has happened!"

The guard swallowed hard, eyes wide as though he feared even saying it aloud.

"There's been an ambush."

Alicent stiffened. "An ambush? By who?"

He hesitated, mouth opening once, twice, before the truth forced its way out.

"Dragons," he whispered. "Dragons that have not been seen in many years-!”

Alicent's face paled. Her voice dropped to a fragile whisper.

"...what dragon?"

But the guard never answered.

A sharp, whistling sound sliced through the air.

Thwack.

The arrow hit the back of his skull so cleanly that his body didn't even jerk.

It simply... stopped.

His eyes rolled backwards, white and empty, as he collapsed face-first onto the marble beneath them.

Alicent screamed.

Her hands flew to her mouth as she stumbled backward, breath trembling uncontrollably.

The guard's blood pooled across the floor, seeping into the cracks between the stones.

Her eyes, wide and terrified, lifted from the corpse to the shadows behind it.

To the woman standing there.

Alys Rivers stepped out slowly from behind a pillar, lowering the crossbow with an unsettling calm, as though the killing had required no more effort than blowing out a candle.

Alicent's lips quivered.

"Alys?" she whispered, disbelief cracking her voice.

"What—? what have you done? What—?"

But before she could finish the question, Alys' eyes widened, sharply, as she uttered one word, breathless.

"Run."

Alicent froze.

She began stepping forward.

Alicent stumbled back, horror choking her.

But when Alys took another step toward her, crossbow hanging at her side, Alicent finally obeyed.

She spun around and fled toward the rear exit of the Sept, the secret door the guard had tried to lead her to.

Her breaths were ragged, terrified.

Her footsteps echoed wildly as she pressed her hands against the heavy wooden door and pushed it open.

Only to collide into a figure standing directly on the other side.

A tall figure.

Armored. Smirking.

Daemon Targaryen leaned against the doorframe, as if he had been waiting there for hours.

"Miss me?" he asked, voice low, maddeningly casual.

Alicent's breath vanished from her chest.

She staggered back a step, shaking her head frantically, eyes darting to the Sept behind her.

"Alys— Alys, help me," Alicent pleaded, desperation thick in her voice. "Please—!"

Alys appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable as she approached.

She stopped a few feet away, gaze flicking from Daemon to Alicent and back again.

"This is not my fight," Alys said simply. "It is yours."

Alicent shook her head violently, tears forming. "Alys— please—!"

But Alys' face remained unchanged.

Calm.

Cold.

Decisive.

And Daemon was already moving.

His hand shot out, gripping Alicent's jaw with a force that stole her breath instantly.

His other hand covered her mouth, cutting off her scream before it even left her lips.

Alicent kicked, clawed at his arm, tried to wrench herself free, but Daemon only tightened his hold.

"Shhh," he murmured mockingly into her ear.

Black spots clouded her vision.

Her lungs burned.

Her arms weakened.

She felt her knees buckle.

Then, darkness swallowed her whole, at least for the time being.

Her body collapsed limp into Daemon's arms.

Alys watched silently as Daemon lifted Alicent with careless ease over his shoulder.

Their heavy breaths mingled with the crackling torches outside, the smoke drifting lazily into the Sept.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Daemon turned, meeting Alys' gaze.

The tension broke, replaced by identical, sharp smiles.

Alys nodded once, confidence gleaming in her eyes. "Let's get this done."

Daemon grinned wider, shifting Alicent's unconscious body.

"After you."

Together, they stepped into the night, leaving behind the body of the guard, the silent Sept, and the city that had no idea war had already arrived.

XLII

[averillaratargaryen]

XL

The morning was still.

The sun rose pale and gold behind the peaks, soft light spilling across the jagged ridges. Thin ribbons of cloud drifted between the mountains like torn silk.

Two figures walked side by side along a winding path carved into the stone.

One tall and cloaked in shadowed blue, the other small, skipping sometimes to keep up with his longer stride. Aemond and Nyssa.

Their steps were quiet, the crunch of gravel beneath their boots the only sound for a time. A gentle wind whispered through the fir trees lining the slopes, carrying with it the crisp scent of pine and frost.

Nyssa kicked a pebble ahead of her, watching it bounce down the hill before it disappeared into mist.

“It’s so high up here,” she murmured, her breath forming a soft cloud. “Feels like the sky could swallow us whole.”

Aemond’s lips curved faintly. “It nearly could,” he said. “The mountains have always liked to remind men how small they truly are.”

The girl tilted her head up at him, her eyes bright beneath the hood of her cloak. “Do you like it here?”

He thought for a moment before answering. “It’s quiet. No one to look down on you from marble steps. No walls that whisper your worth.”

His gaze turned toward the horizon, where sunlight touched the snowcaps. “Yes, I like it here.”

They walked on.

For a long while, neither spoke.

Then, as they turned a bend where the path widened, Nyssa spoke again, softly, uncertainly. “Katerina said you used to live in a castle.”

“I did,” Aemond said, voice low. “Once.”

“What was it like?”

Aemond let out a short breath that could almost have been a laugh. “Loud. Endless. Every wall had ears. Every smile had a blade behind it.”

Nyssa’s brows knit. “That doesn’t sound like a happy place.”

“It wasn’t.” He slowed his pace, gloved hands clasped behind his back.

“My mother favoured my brother. My father favoured my sisters. I was… the remainder.” His eye grew distant, gaze lowering to the path. “I was the one they kept but never quite saw.”

Nyssa frowned, a small crease forming between her brows. “Didn’t anyone see you?”

He hesitated. “Not then.”

“Was it because of your eye?” she asked cautiously. “Katerina told me you lost it when you were young.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, though his voice stayed even. “Yes. After that, I was the one they pitied or feared. Never loved.”

The little girl went quiet for a few steps, her boots crunching softly.

Then, in a small voice, she said, “I know what that’s like.”

Aemond looked down at her. “You do?”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“My parents didn’t like me much either. I was too quiet. Too strange, they said. I’d talk to the wind sometimes, or draw things that scared them.”

She laughed faintly, though the sound was brittle. “They told me no one would ever want me. And I think maybe they were right. I don’t think anyone will.”

Aemond’s expression softened. “You’re wrong,” he said.

She blinked up at him. “About what?”

He turned his face toward the mountain’s edge, the sunlight cutting along his sharp jaw.

“It takes time, Nyssa,” he said quietly. “It took me many years before I found someone who saw me. Truly saw me.”

The girl’s lips quirked into a small, mischievous grin. As though she knew of something.

Aemond glanced at her sidelong, amusement flickering in his single eye. “Do you know what I did then?”

She giggled, skipping a little ahead of him. “You married her.”

He let out a short laugh. “So you’ve heard this story before.”

Nyssa nodded enthusiastically, her hood slipping back slightly as her hair caught the sun.

“Katerina told me! She said you two were only friends at first. I thought that was silly. I mean, you look at her like she’s the only star in the sky.”

Aemond’s laughter was softer this time, threaded with affection. “Do I?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said with certainty. “And when I found out you were married, I thought, well, that makes perfect sense.”

He shook his head with a quiet huff, but his eye glimmered with warmth. “You’re too clever for your age.”

Nyssa shrugged, smiling, “I must take that as a compliment.”

They had reached the steepest part of the climb now, the wind colder, stronger.

Aemond extended a hand to steady Nyssa as she scrambled over a ridge.

Her small fingers grasped his gloved one, her laughter spilling into the crisp air as she caught her footing.

The path curved upward one last time, revealing a flat outcrop overlooking the valley.

Below, the forest stretched endless and wild. The sun had climbed higher, bathing everything in molten gold.

At the top, a familiar voice called out, melodic and teasing.

“It took you a while.”

Katerina stood at the crest of the hill, her dark hair rippling in the wind, her eyes bright against the pale morning.

She looked otherworldly in the light, neither mortal nor divine, but something caught in between.

Nyssa ran forward first, her laughter bubbling.

Katerina crouched to meet her, brushing back a lock of hair from the girl’s face. “And did he keep up with you?”

Nyssa grinned. “Barely!”

Katerina laughed softly, the sound light and warm.

She rose to her feet as Aemond approached, his long coat fluttering behind him.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, gesturing toward the girl. “She asked to come.”

“Of course not,” Katerina said, her smile softening. “I would never mind her company.”

Nyssa beamed at that, cheeks flushing with pride.

Katerina’s hand reached out instinctively, her fingers threading through the girl’s hair, brushing gently against her head in quiet affection.

“You’re safe with us,” she said, voice low, almost like a promise.

The three of them stood there for a while, the wind circling around them like a living thing.

From their height, the world below seemed endless, the rivers gleaming like silver threads, the forests swaying like dark tides.

Aemond stood slightly behind, watching Katerina and Nyssa, the two souls he had grown to care for more deeply than he’d ever thought possible.

There was something about the sight of them together, Katerina’s hand resting protectively atop the girl’s head, Nyssa’s eyes full of laughter and light.

That made him feel, for once, as though the gods had not cursed him entirely.

Katerina glanced back at him, catching the softness in his gaze. “What is it?” she asked, amused.

“Nothing,” Aemond replied quietly. “Just… peace. I’m not used to it.”

Her smile dimmed into something gentler, her voice almost a whisper. “Then keep it while you can.”

The sun was at its highest, spilling molten gold across the plains as Aemond and Katerina trudged through the waist-high grass.

The wind was warm and sweet, carrying the faint scent of salt from the distant coast.

Their cloaks swayed behind them with each step, their boots crunching against the brittle earth.

It had been weeks since they last left the coven’s camp, and now the world around them felt both eerily still and painfully alive, the kind of quiet that comes before something breaks.

Their task was simple, at least in name.

They were searching for the ancient ruins of Vhal’taer, a forgotten temple said to have once been blessed by Elaris herself.

Rumor had it that the stones still hummed with the goddess’s energy, enough to reveal signs of which side she stood on, if any.

Katerina had insisted they go alone. She needed to know whether the Goddess truly abandoned her, and Aemond, though wary, had agreed without hesitation.

“Are you certain this is the right way?” he asked, his tone teasing more than skeptical as he glanced toward her.

The sunlight shimmered off the silver of his eyepatch, his lips curved faintly.

Katerina didn’t look back, her eyes fixed ahead. “The ruins are said to appear only to those who seek with intention. So if you start doubting now, you may as well turn back.”

Aemond huffed softly, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Then I suppose I’ll keep my doubts to myself, little vamp.”

She threw him a sideways glance, that sharp, knowing grin of hers curling her lips.

“Good. I’d hate to think I dragged a prince halfway across Essos for him to complain about sore feet.”

He let out a quiet laugh at that. One that, in another life, might’ve startled him.

It was rare for him to laugh so freely, but with her, it always came easy.

They walked in silence after that, the kind of silence that was steady and comfortable.

When they finally reached the crest of the hill, the air shifted.

The breeze slowed, carrying a low hum, almost like the earth itself was singing.

Katerina stepped forward, her hand brushing against a half-buried stone carved with markings that glowed faintly beneath her touch.

“This is it,” she murmured.

Aemond stood beside her, his gaze tracing the runes as they pulsed with faint blue light. “Elaris’s mark?”

“Or what’s left of it,” she replied.

Her expression softened, wonder, reverence, sorrow all tangled together. “Do you feel that?”

He nodded. “A heartbeat.”

“Not of the living,” she said quietly. “Of memory.”

Neither spoke, in that moment.

The wind swept around them, whispering through the grass, and Aemond reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against hers.

“If she won’t speak to you,” he said softly, “then perhaps it is not silence you’re meant to fear, but what she’s waiting for you to say.”

Katerina looked up at him then, truly looked, and though she didn’t answer, her eyes said enough.

The task had not yet ended.

It had only begun.

…

The air over the campsite was heavy with motion, the kind that came before a storm.

All around, the coven worked in near silence, each person moving with purpose, with quiet understanding.

Tents were taken down, the perimeter wards strengthened. Fires smouldered to embers, leaving faint trails of smoke that wound up into the grey, muted sky.

The immortals, who had lived through ages, through wars that reshaped empires, stood shoulder to shoulder with younger witches and men who still wore fear in their eyes.

Yet they worked together. No questions, no complaints.

Eryth moved through them all with a measured pace.

His sleeves were rolled up, the faint shimmer of his runes visible across his forearms as he reinforced protective sigils along the camp’s edge.

He murmured under his breath, the language of old magic curling like smoke from his lips, fusing with the lines he drew in the dirt.

Sparks flickered and disappeared, leaving behind the faint scent of iron.

A few feet away, two of the coven’s healers were packing their herbs into linen satchels, while a pair of immortals worked together to sharpen blades, dipping them into blackened oil.

Across from them, some of the younger ones whispered to each other, fear tucked behind brave smiles.

Eryth caught one of them looking at him. A boy, no older than seventeen, his eyes wide, uncertain.

Eryth offered a faint smile, the kind that told him he was not alone in his fear.

It was strange, he thought, for creatures who had walked the earth for centuries, the coming of war still made them all feel small.

Mortal.

He moved toward the centre of camp, pausing when he saw two immortals, old as time, their faces marked by faint silver scars, lifting a carved chest together.

It was rare, seeing them exert effort, rarer still to see them speak to mortals without disdain.

For a moment, Eryth simply watched.

Watched as the barriers between what was human and what was not seemed to blur.

And for the first time in what felt like an age, he smiled.

Not in amusement, but in something far gentler. Pride, perhaps. Or quiet awe.

The world around him had always been one of chaos, betrayal, endless struggle.

But this moment of unity, fragile though it was, felt like a promise. That maybe they could do more than simply survive.

He looked down at his hands, at the dirt caked under his fingernails, the runes still faintly glowing beneath his skin.

Perhaps this is what she meant, he thought. What Katerina saw in all of them, the chance for creation, not just destruction.

But that peace didn’t last long.

A low tremor rippled through the ground.

Faint, at first, that it could have been the weight of horses miles away.

Yet Eryth felt it in his bones.

His head snapped up toward the horizon, where the light had begun to dull.

The once pale blue of day had thickened into a lifeless grey, clouds curling in from the east like smoke.

He straightened slowly, every instinct inside him sharpening.

The murmurs around the camp dulled as others began to notice the shift, the drop in air, the stillness that followed.

The ravens perched along the treeline lifted their heads all at once.

One took off, wings beating fast, as if fleeing something unseen.

Eryth’s faint smile vanished.

He turned toward the main tent, where Katerina and Aemond were still gone, his jaw tightening.

The hum of unease crawled across his skin, the old magic inside him stirring with restless energy.

Something was coming.

And whatever it was, it was closer than anyone yet realised.

…

The road home stretched long beneath their feet, the dirt path slick with the faint shimmer of recent dew.

Aemond walked a few paces ahead, his cloak tugged by the wind, his gaze set on the horizon where the mountains were swallowed by mist.

Katerina followed close, her eyes not on the road but on the sky that had begun to change.

It was faint at first, a shift in the light, the warmth draining from the air.

The once golden haze of afternoon dulled into grey, then into a shadowed blue that crawled across the clouds like spilled ink.

The trees whispered in low groans, their leaves trembling though there was no storm to shake them.

Aemond glanced up, furrowing his brow.

“It seems a storm is coming,” he murmured, the faintest hint of relief in his tone. “Perhaps it’s just rain. We could use the cool.”

But Katerina didn’t answer.

Her steps slowed, her fingers brushing against the hem of her cloak as her gaze lifted to the darkening heavens.

“Rain?” she said quietly, almost to herself. “When was the last time it rained in Essos, Aemond? This time of year?”

Aemond stopped walking.

He turned to face her, the breeze flicking strands of silver hair across his face.

“It happens,” he said, though even his voice carried doubt.

He followed her gaze skyward.

The clouds rolled too fast, too heavy, their colour wrong, tinged with something deeper than storm-grey.

Katerina stepped forward, her boots sinking lightly into the softening earth.

The first drop landed against her cheek. Cool, sharp, but when she looked down, she saw it wasn’t clear.

The faintest tint of red clung to her skin before vanishing into the rain.

Her breath hitched.

“Aemond,” she called, her voice low, steady but uneasy. “This isn’t right.”

He moved closer to her side, his hand reaching instinctively for the hilt of his sword.

The rain fell harder now, fat droplets striking the earth, forming puddles that mirrored the sky above.

Aemond’s reflection stared back at him from one, his single eye clear and calm, until the surface of the puddle rippled.

Not from the rain.

But from a tremor that shook the ground beneath them.

Aemond stilled.

The ripples grew, the water trembling in quick succession.

Then came the sound, distant, faint at first, like the roll of thunder.

But it wasn’t thunder, no.

It deepened, thickened, until it became the unmistakable growl of something ancient, something that made the air itself quake.

A sound they both knew too well.

Katerina’s head snapped up, her dark eyes wide, searching the horizon.

The roar came again, closer now, the wind tearing through the trees, scattering branches and leaves as the rain turned into a downpour.

Aemond looked ahead, his jaw clenched tight.

Katerina already knew. Her voice cut through the rain, urgent and sharp.

“We have to get back. Now.”

Aemond turned to her, nodding once, already moving.

Behind them, the sky cracked open with light, and through the curtain of storm and cloud, the silhouette of a dragon passed overhead.

Vast and terrible, its roar echoing through the valley like a warning.

The air had changed before they even heard him.

The immortals stood among the makeshift encampment, the scent of smoke and iron clinging faintly to the air as they worked, binding blades, whispering old spells, sharpening arrowheads dipped in darkened sap.

For a moment, it was calm. The calm that always came before a storm.

Then the shadow fell.

It swept across the camp like a wave, devouring light.

The sky itself seemed to darken as a massive shape moved through it, scales of molten gold gleaming against what little sun broke through the clouds.

The air rumbled with a low, monstrous growl that made the earth shudder beneath their feet.

Every head turned upward.

Some froze.

Some began muttering spells under their breath.

Others stumbled back, hands already reaching for blades or bowstrings.

The moment the dragon’s wings spread wide, catching the wind, the entire forest seemed to bend beneath it.

A roar split the air, deafening, thunderous, and Sunfyre revealed himself in full glory above them.

“Drāqaris nykeā!” one of the immortals shouted, voice trembling between fury and fear.

“The dragon comes!”

Another spat toward the ground, gripping his weapon tight. “Vezof dārion! Drējikē demon!”

“The false king. Burn him!”

Chaos broke like a spark in dry grass.

The immortals scrambled, the clanging of metal and the muttering of spells rippling through the ranks.

Even the children, hidden behind the tents, began to cry softly, the sound piercing through the rising wind.

“Jorrāelagon! Qridis ēdruta!”

“Arm yourselves! Protect the bloodline!”

The shouts rose in a chorus of defiance. Yet above it all came a firm, commanding voice.

“Lykirī!”

Eryth stood in the centre of the encampment, his black cloak billowing against the sudden wind.

His pale eyes burned with calm authority as he raised both hands. “Lykirī, myr ēdruta! Lykirī!”

“Peace, my people! Stand down!”

The immortals hesitated.

The tension in the air trembled, the air thick with the scent of magic and fear.

Eryth looked skyward, the gold dragon wheeling above, the sun flashing off its scales like a thousand knives of light.

He felt the tremor in his chest before he moved, his own shadow shifting, his form breaking apart into a swirl of black feathers.

The raven rose.

Sunfyre’s massive form cut through the clouds, his wings spreading wide as he circled the mountain ridge.

And upon his back sat Aegon Targaryen, golden-haired, eyes sharp with exhaustion and vengeance.

His armor glinted faintly, darkened by ash and blood from travel, yet his expression was one of triumph.

It had taken him a week, seven days of flight, of hunger and rage, but he had found what he was searching for.

A hidden place. A scent of old magic.

They were here. They had to be.

He guided Sunfyre lower, the dragon’s claws cutting into the stone as he landed on the ridge above the encampment.

The force of his arrival sent dust and rock tumbling down the mountain, a warning to those below.

The raven that was Eryth landed before him, feathers trembling in the wind.

Within a breath, the black shimmered away, bones and sinew twisting, feathers folding into skin, until the man stood in his place.

Eryth raised his chin, meeting Aegon’s gaze. “You travel far, King of nothing.”

Aegon sneered, his voice carrying across the ridge. “You speak as though you forget who you face.”

“I know who I speak to,” Eryth replied coolly. “The man who calls himself dragon, yet burns his own kin to feel like one.”

Aegon’s nostrils flared. “Enough riddles. You will give them to me.”

Eryth said nothing at first, his silence heavy as he met the King’s glare.

“Katerina. Aemond,” Aegon continued, his voice lowering into a growl. “They’re here. I know it. You will hand them over, or I’ll burn every cursed one of you alive.”

Eryth tilted his head slightly, his expression one of amusement rather than fear.

“They are not here,” he said. “You’ve flown all this way for nothing but smoke.”

“Do not lie to me!” Aegon snapped, jerking Sunfyre’s reins as the dragon snarled, smoke curling from its nostrils.

“As your King, I demand you surrender them.”

A long silence followed.

Then, Eryth smiled.

“You speak of kingship as though the word means something,” he said softly. “But there is only one name I bow to.”

Aegon’s grip tightened on the reins. “And whose name is that?”

Eryth’s voice rang out, steady, proud, his words echoing across the mountainside.

“Katerina, ābrazȳs īlva!”

“Our Queen!”

For a heartbeat, the world went still.

Then Aegon’s expression twisted in fury. “You’ll regret that,” he hissed.

But before he could draw his sword or command Sunfyre to strike, Eryth’s form shattered once more, feathers bursting outward in a flurry of shadow and smoke.

The raven’s wings beat hard against the wind, diving down the mountainside before Sunfyre’s flames could reach him.

Eryth soared low, his shadow passing over the coven below.

The immortals lifted their heads at once, panic renewed in their eyes, as the raven shifted mid-flight, his body twisting back into human form as his feet struck the ground.

“Zentys ēdruta!” he shouted, his voice loud and commanding.

“Get your weapons!”

“Raise your powers. Guard the young ones.”

The immortals obeyed, though their breaths came heavy.

Eryth’s gaze turned toward the mountain peak, where gold still gleamed against the grey sky.

He could feel Sunfyre’s presence like heat on his skin, could hear the faint echoes of Aegon’s rage carried by the wind.

He turned to the others, the young, the old, the wounded and the strong, and drew a long, steady breath.

“Prepare yourselves,” he said quietly. “The storm has found us.”

The gold dragon soared above them like a burning comet, the sun itself reflected against his scales.

For a heartbeat, all that could be heard was the beat of enormous wings and the distant growl that rolled through the valley.

Then came Aegon’s voice, sharp, commanding, and filled with the thrill of dominance.

“Dracarys!”

Sunfyre obeyed.

Flame poured from his jaws like a flood of molten gold.

It hit the ground in an explosion of fire and smoke, tearing through the encampment.

The shockwave split tents apart and sent bodies flying.

Sand, ash, and the smell of burning flesh filled the air.

The immortals screamed, a mixture of rage and terror.

The ground glowed red beneath their feet. Those nearest the flames raised their hands, summoning what strength they had left.

“Vaedros ēdruta!”

“Fire be bound!”

A circle of light burst up from the earth, but the strength of Sunfyre’s flames shattered it instantly.

Others unsheathed their weapons, long blades carved with runes that shimmered pale silver against the gold inferno.

One woman thrust her sword into the ground, muttering low words that trembled with power.

“Rhaesh mirros, ēdruta sa’rien!”

“Spirit of air, answer my call!”

The blade pulsed, and a violent gust of wind surged upward, twisting flames away long enough for others to take position.

Eryth had already taken flight, his raven form cutting through the smoke as he shouted down to them, his voice echoing in their native tongue.

“Zōbrar ēdruta! Zaldrīzes daor na’rien!”

“Stand firm! The dragon does not rule you!”

But Sunfyre was relentless.

He turned in the sky, wings sending ripples through the air as Aegon guided him downward again.

“Higher! Bring me lower to them!” Aegon shouted, his hands gripping the reins tight. His eyes blazed with fury.

He could smell the fear, and it made him smile.

Sunfyre’s shadow swallowed the camp once more, and the next burst of flame struck through the forest edge, igniting trees and scattering embers across the clearing.

The immortals scattered.

Some were chanting rapidly, spells old and half-forgotten, others simply lifted their blades and fought the wind and heat as though steel could slay a dragon.

“Ēdruta morghon!” one cried.

“Death to the beast!”

Another followed with trembling hands, a spark of light between her palms.

She pushed her energy upward, a streak of blue flashing across the air, striking Sunfyre’s chest. It barely left a mark, but it made him roar, twisting his body violently.

The sound was deafening, vibrating through the bones of all who stood below.

Aegon’s voice bellowed above the chaos. “Burn it all!”

The dragon obeyed once more, raining a stream of fire that devoured everything in its path.

…

In the midst of the screams, Nyssa’s small voice could be heard shouting.

She had gathered the children, no older than ten winters, her face streaked with soot.

“Come on!” she yelled, pulling one by the hand, another by the sleeve.

Behind them, the tents were collapsing under the heat. Sparks fell from the air like burning snow.

“Nyssa!” a woman screamed, holding out a hand, but Nyssa ignored her, weaving between fire and smoke.

She found the safest place she could, an old storage tent at the far end of the site, half-covered by rock and shadow.

Its canvas bore protective markings, painted long ago in dark ink and dried blood.

“Inside!” Nyssa ordered, ushering the frightened faces in one by one.

The youngest began to cry, but she held them close, her voice trembling.

“Dohaerās ēdruta. Zentyss daor ēdruta.”

“Be calm, little ones. Do not be afraid.”

She closed the flap, pressing her palm to the entrance.

The symbols pulsed faintly, sealing the tent in a dim shimmer of light.

Then she turned back toward the chaos.

The air was thick, hard to breathe. The sound of fire was constant, like a living thing roaring in their ears.

Eryth, in his human form again, fought alongside the others, his hand glowing as he summoned blades of air and shadow that sliced upward toward Sunfyre’s wings.

He shouted as he fought,

“Rūkagon ēdruta! Zaldrīzes ēdruta morghon!”

“Strike the beast! Let the dragon taste death!”

His attacks met the dragon’s hide and burst apart, fragments of blue light raining down like shattered glass.

Then he saw her.

Through the smoke and embers, Nyssa running back toward them, small, determined, and utterly reckless.

“Nyssa!” Eryth’s voice cracked, his anger breaking through the battle noise.

“Back with the others! Rhaesh ēdruta! Now!”

“Return to safety! Now!”

But she didn’t stop.

The ground shook as Sunfyre descended again, wings sending a blast of wind that nearly knocked her to her knees.

She shielded her face with her arm, squinting up at the golden blur in the sky.

Aegon’s laughter carried through the roar of the flames.

The young girls eyes widened, but not in fear. Instead, she challenged him.

Her hands were trembling, her breath heavy, but she closed her eyes and whispered lowly to herself.

She didn’t know the full strength of the words she was about to say, only that they had once been written in the oldest of her people’s books.

A forbidden verse, one that bound the spirit to the wind.

Her lips parted.

“Se ēdruta velan… na’rien myr vestri. Se ēdruta arghūlis… ēza morghon.”

“By the bound of flame… I call upon the wind. By the death of fire… I summon life.”

A soft glow appeared between her palms, faint at first, like a candle’s flame trembling in the dark.

Then it grew.

The light swirled faster, forming a sphere of white energy between her hands, pulsing with every heartbeat.

Sparks danced up her arms, through her hair, across her skin. The ground beneath her cracked.

Eryth’s eyes widened. “Nyssa, no!”

He knew the cold truth, of such a spell to be performed by such a young girl. It was not one her body could handle.

But she didn’t hear him, or perhaps she did, and simply didn’t care.

The noise of the dragon filled her ears, the sound of beating wings, the screech of power and destruction, and with every roar, the fire inside her chest grew stronger.

She took a breath that shook her whole body.

Then she whispered the last line.

“Rhaesh ēdruta… ēza ēdruta.”

“Spirit of flame… become my strength.”

The ground burst outward.

Light exploded from her palms, not gold or red, but pure white. It shot forward like a wave, hitting the air with such force that even the fire bent away from it.

The power slammed into Sunfyre’s chest mid-flight.

The dragon’s scream tore through the valley, echoing like thunder. His wings faltered, his body twisting violently in the air.

Aegon clutched the saddle, nearly thrown from his seat as the dragon reeled backward, disoriented.

The energy didn’t burn, it repelled.

It was not meant to kill, only to push.

The shockwave sent Sunfyre spiraling backward several feet, his great wings flapping wildly as he fought to regain control.

Dust and ash flew through the air, sweeping through the camp.

Nyssa dropped to her knees, gasping, her hands still faintly glowing.

The ground beneath her hands steamed, and her breathing came in sharp, painful bursts.

Sunfyre staggered midair, growling, trying to find balance again.

Aegon pulled hard on the reins, his hair whipping across his face, fury flooding through his veins.

“Focus, Sunfyre!” he shouted, voice raw with anger.

The dragon’s roar shook the mountains once more, a sound of rage and defiance.

And below, Nyssa stayed kneeling, the air around her trembling from the last pulse of her power, her small body trembling, barely alive.

The battlefield fell into a tense, burning silence.

…

The air was heavy when Aemond and Katerina returned.

The scent of smoke reached them first, acrid, sharp, alive.

Aemond slowed his pace as the wind shifted, carrying with it the faintest echo of screams now silenced. Katerina’s expression turned to ice, her eyes scanning the horizon.

What once stood as the home of the immortals, the city of light and song, now lay drowned beneath grey ash.

Pillars that once shimmered like crystal were nothing but fractured stumps. The trees that surrounded their site were burned hollow, their leaves falling as black dust.

The air crackled still, with lingering energy, remnants of spells that had been cast too quickly, too desperately.

Aemond’s steps faltered as he took it all in. “Gods,” he breathed, his voice hollow. “What has happened here?”

Katerina didn’t answer.

Her throat ached with the weight of everything around her, the quiet, the smoke, the memory of what had been.

Her fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the raw pulse of the magic still lingering in the air.

She could feel it.

Power used beyond control, fire that had not come from her people, but from above.

They walked deeper into the ruin.

The crackle of burnt embers whispered beneath their boots.

Here and there, a few immortals still stood, their robes torn, their eyes wide and lost. Some tended to the injured, others simply stared at the sky as if awaiting another strike.

Then the sound came.

A shadow passed over the ground, wings beating once, twice, the sound deep and heavy like thunder.

Sunfyre.

The golden dragon loomed above, its wings spread wide as it circled what was left of the city. Aegon sat upon his back, his eyes searching, his voice carrying across the wind.

“Show yourselves!” he called, his tone both commanding and cruel. “I know you’re here! Come forward!”

Neither Aemond nor Katerina moved.

They hid behind the remains of a fallen wall, the wind pressing against them as the shadow swept over again.

Then came another sound, not from the sky, but from behind them.

“My’ra veylan!”

The voice was cracked, desperate, and filled with grief.

Katerina turned, her chest tightening as her gaze fell upon Eryth.

He was kneeling amidst the rubble, his dark hair singed, his hands covered in ash. In his arms lay Nyssa, small, pale, her body limp.

Blood traced faint lines from her eyes, a dark red that had dried against her cheeks.

Aemond froze, the breath leaving his chest.

Katerina’s voice caught. “Aemond,” she said softly, almost pleading. “Go to her.”

He looked to her in disbelief, as though Katerina had just asked him to abandon her. “What—?”

“Go!” she said again, her voice breaking. “Now!”

He didn’t hesitate a second time.

Aemond ran to Eryth, dropping to his knees beside him.

Eryth looked up, his eyes wet, his expression heavy with despair.

“She-? she used it,” he managed, voice trembling. “Power she did not know.”

Aemond’s gaze fell upon the girl.

Her small hands were still faintly glowing, as if the energy had not yet left her body. He brushed a hand through her hair, whispering her name.

“Nyssa,” he murmured, though she could no longer hear.

Katerina stood where she was, her body trembling. Her eyes lifted to the shadow that circled again above.

Sunfyre roared, the sound split through the sky, shaking the mountains, echoing through what remained of the city.

The remaining immortals began to shout, their fear renewed.

Katerina began to walk forward.

Aemond saw her move, his head snapping up. “Katerina, don’t.”

But she didn’t answer.

The wind tore at her hair, pushing it back as she stepped over the ash and ruin, heading directly for the golden beast. Her boots left deep marks in the soot.

Above, Aegon noticed her movement.

He tightened his grip on the reins, leaning forward, eyes narrowing as Sunfyre circled lower.

She came to a stop just beyond the line of ruin, looking up at him.

The dragon’s shadow fell over her, golden scales gleaming against the ashen sky.

Sunfyre’s massive head turned, its nostrils flaring.

For a moment, the creature hesitated. It was as if it recognized something in her, a force that burned hotter than flame itself.

Katerina met its gaze and did not look away.

Sunfyre screeched, pulling back slightly, wings beating hard.

Aegon frowned, confused by his dragon’s sudden recoil.

“What is it?” he hissed, yanking the reins tighter. “Attack!”

But the dragon didn’t move forward. Its eyes locked on Katerina’s, a deep, primal fear glinting within the gold.

Aegon finally looked down, and saw her.

Her hair lifted with the wind, her eyes dark and still, like a storm waiting to break.

“Katerina,” he called, a cruel smile forming on his lips. “So it’s true then. You’re alive.”

She didn’t respond.

Her silence unnerved him, the calm in her posture mocking his chaos.

He laughed, loud and cold. “You have no idea how far I’ve come to find you. To end this. To end you.”

Still, she said nothing.

Aemond and Eryth stood frozen, the others too, watching her from afar.

None dared to interrupt.

There was something about her silence, something that made even the air itself pause.

Katerina’s eyes moved, finally, not to Aegon, but to her people.

She turned to them slowly, her voice low but sharp when she spoke in their tongue.

“Zūgagon. Kessa sagon.”

“Stand down. Turn away.”

The immortals hesitated.

Then, one by one, they obeyed. Weapons were lowered. Eyes turned aside.

Katerina waited until they were far enough, until only the sound of crackling ash and beating wings filled the air.

Then she faced Aegon again, her expression calm. Too calm.

Aegon smirked, mistaking her composure for surrender.

“So, the immortal queen finally bows.”

Katerina didn’t move.

Her fingers, however, began to curl, slow, deliberate, each movement pulsing with power that seemed to draw from the very air.

And as the wind began to change, the flames flickering around her feet, the first whisper of an old, forbidden spell began to rise from her lips.

The air grew heavier.

The very wind seemed to twist and bend around Katerina, her power stirring like a storm reborn.

Ash lifted from the ground, swirling around her feet in a halo of red and black.

Aegon narrowed his eyes, watching the faint shimmer build in the air.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, tugging once more at Sunfyre’s reins. “Speak, you imbecile!”

But Katerina only closed her eyes.

Her lips began to move, the words rolling from her tongue in a language older than fire itself, ancient, sacred, and full of wrath.

“Asha’reth vaelys, drakon ēdruta.”

“From the ash I rise, the dragon within stirs.”

The ground trembled.

The air itself shimmered as the sound of her voice grew stronger. Flames flickered along her hands, first a faint glow, then brighter.

Alive.

Aegon circled above, trying to understand, mockery still twisting his face.

“This is your queen?” he shouted down to the coven. “A woman who gives herself up so easily?”

But his voice was drowned beneath hers as she continued.

“Rhaekar morghūl, ēdruta hen gevives.”

“Death’s flame, awaken from silence.”

The sky cracked.

A bolt of lightning split the horizon, striking the blackened spire at the heart of the ruins.

The immortals who had turned away fell to their knees again, unable to stand beneath the weight of her voice.

Aegon looked down, his laughter faltering. “What-? what is she-?”

Sunfyre hissed, his wings beating wildly as he pulled back, struggling against his rider’s command.

The golden dragon’s scales flared bright, reflecting the growing heat in the air.

“Stay still!” Aegon snapped. “Dracarys!”

But Sunfyre didn’t move.

The fire that had once obeyed his call now recoiled from the energy below.

Katerina lifted her chin, her hair flowing wild around her, eyes opening at last, and they burned.

Not with color, not with light, but with the blinding white of creation itself.

“Rhaesh varōs, ānogros ēdruta!”

“Fire of the earth, awaken in fury!”

A circle of light burst from beneath her feet, the sigil of her power flaring wide, carving glowing veins through the ash.

It spread out, reaching the edges of the ruins like cracks in the world.

Aegon’s confidence faltered. He pulled at the reins again. “Sunfyre! Fly higher. Now!”

But it was too late.

The air ignited.

Katerina’s body became flame, her silhouette a blazing figure of wrath.

Every ounce of her grief, her fury, her heartbreak poured out of her, shaping itself into a storm of fire that spiraled upward.

The sound was deafening, a roar not of dragons, but of magic unleashed.

The force slammed into Sunfyre mid-flight, the shockwave tearing through the air like a scream.

The golden dragon let out a terrible cry, its wings thrown wide as the blast hit its chest, forcing it backward.

Aegon clung to the saddle, shouting over the roar, “Focus, damn you! Focus!”

But the dragon couldn’t.

Its eyes flickered, dizzy, its body spinning as the energy coiled around it like chains.

The flames struck again, brighter, wilder, heat meeting gold, fury meeting pride.

And in one blinding instant, Sunfyre fell.

The mighty beast slammed into the scorched ground with a thunderous crash, the earth trembling beneath the weight of him.

Aegon was thrown forward, landing hard, rolling across the dirt as he coughed and gasped for air.

His armor smoked, his hair singed, his pride shattered.

Silence fell in the wake of the impact.

Katerina stood amidst the wreckage, her body still alight, fire licking along her arms and hair like a living crown.

Every step she took forward left burning footprints in the ash.

Aegon groaned, forcing himself to sit up, his hand reaching for his sword. The blade trembled as he held it, his knuckles white.

“Stay back!” he rasped, his eyes wide.

Katerina did not stop.

Aegon swung the sword forward, but as it met her fire, the steel melted instantly, dripping from his hand like liquid gold.

He stared at it in horror.

She stood before him now, her eyes burning into his soul, seeing every cruelty, every arrogance, every drop of blood he had spilled for his throne.

But what intrigued her the most, was seeing Aegon’s men. Many, that rode their horses. Their smug chuckles, and insults towards Katerina, and her coven.

Words of how they wish to kill, and be over with it.

Her hand shot forward, seizing his armor.

The metal sizzled under her touch.

She lifted him from the ground with unnatural strength, forcing him to look her in the eye.

Aegon struggled, his breath ragged.

“You can’t kill me,” he managed to hiss, “I’m your king.”

Katerina’s lips curved into something almost like a smile, though it carried no warmth. Only exhaustion, and sorrow.

She leaned closer, her voice lowering to a deadly calm.

“You will die tomorrow, my sweet uncle. Sleep well.”

Then she whispered the final word in her tongue, softly, almost tenderly.

“Dorī.”

“Sleep.”

Aegon’s eyes rolled back. His body went limp, collapsing in a heap as she released him.

The fire surrounding her flickered, dimming slowly, until it died out completely.

What remained was silence, the kind of silence that carried grief too heavy for words.

The immortals began to rise, one by one, their faces pale and stained with ash.

They looked to her, their queen, and fell to their knees once more, not in victory, but in mourning.

Katerina barely noticed.

Her gaze had shifted, drawn by something else, something far more painful.

Through the smoke, she saw Aemond kneeling, Nyssa still in his arms.

The girl’s hair was darkened with soot, her small hand limp against his chest. His expression was hollow, his lips moving in silent words that no one could hear.

Katerina’s knees nearly gave way. She stepped forward once, twice, and then stopped.

For the first time in centuries, the Queen of the Immortals felt powerless.

The world around her was ash.

The air still burned.

And in the distance, Sunfyre’s broken roar faded into nothing.

The night at Harrenhal was still, draped in a quiet so deep it felt unnatural.

The embers in the hearth had long gone cold, and the moon hung low beyond the cracked windows.

Alys awoke with a sharp gasp, her body jolting upright as if ripped from the depths of a nightmare.

Her breath came in quick, uneven bursts, eyes wide and clouded with the shadow of what she’d just seen.

The air around her pulsed faintly, threads of invisible magic still humming at her fingertips.

Without a second thought, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold stone floor.

The vision still burned behind her eyes. Fire, wings, the sound of the earth splitting apart.

She didn’t stop to think.

She ran.

Her robe trailed behind her as she darted through the long, dark corridors of Harrenhal.

The torches along the walls flickered weakly in her wake, reacting to her magic, to her fear. The castle seemed to hold its breath as her hurried footsteps echoed through the halls.

She reached Daemon’s chamber and pushed the doors open with trembling hands.

The heavy wood struck the wall with a crash that shattered the silence.

Daemon stirred immediately, sitting upright in bed.

His silver hair caught the dim light, and his one visible eye fixed on her, sharp, alert, searching.

He needed no words to understand the weight in her expression.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice low, steady, but lined with dread.

Alys stood in the doorway, her chest rising and falling as though she’d run from death itself. Her eyes glistened beneath the candlelight.

“It is time,” she breathed.

And the room fell silent once more.

XLI

[averillaratargaryen]

XXXIX

The doors opened abruptly.

A knight, dust covering his armor and a wound crusted on his brow, stumbled into the hall.

His eyes were wide, voice breathless as he called out, "Your Grace-!”

Aegon's head lifted slightly. "Speak."

The man bowed, trembling.

"Harrenhal, Your Grace. We've.. we've lost them. Two hundred men, gone. Ser Criston Cole... is dead."

Silence gripped the hall.

Alicent's lips parted in disbelief, a faint sound escaping her.

Otto turned sharply toward the knight, demanding, "Dead? How?"

"Prince Daemon," the man rasped.

"He lives. He led the attack himself. They... they say he struck Ser Criston down with his own blade. Harrenhal burns."

Aegon's jaw tensed.

His hand clenched the armrest, the veins of his hand standing rigid.

"Daemon?" he whispered, almost disbelieving.

Otto, too, looked bewildered.

"Impossible," he murmured. "We saw his corpse burned... there was nothing left."

"Nothing left," Aegon echoed softly, eyes narrowing, "and yet the rogue lives."

Alicent rose from her seat, face pale as marble.

"And Ser Criston?" she asked quietly, as though saying his name could undo the truth.

The knight lowered his head. "Gone, Your Grace. Bled in the chest by Prince Daemon himself."

Her breath hitched.

Otto turned, watching her closely, yet said nothing.

Aegon stood then, his voice low and simmering with restrained fury.

"So the dead rise, and the loyal fall," he said bitterly. "Daemon Targaryen lives, and my men rot in the dirt."

…

The stench of ash and the sound of chains filled the air.

The Dragonpit was alive with activity.

Soldiers, handlers, and maesters moving in rhythm, their faces streaked with sweat beneath the burning sun.

The great beast Sunfyre hissed, the golden scales of his body reflecting light like fire on water.

Aegon stood before him, his armor half-fastened, his hair disheveled.

Every movement he made was sharp, restless, his hands shaking slightly as he adjusted the straps on his vambrace.

Alicent appeared at the archway, her cloak drawn tight over her shoulders as she stepped through the heat and smoke.

Her eyes found her son instantly.

Her boy, though no longer the child she once held.

He stood too tall now, too hardened, a reflection of every choice she had ever made.

"Aegon," she called, her voice firm.

He turned, annoyance flashing across his face. "Mother," he greeted, his tone clipped.

She approached him slowly, careful of the beast that loomed behind. "You mean to go alone?"

Aegon didn't answer, merely gestured for his sword, which a squire immediately handed to him.

He tightened his grip around the hilt, his gaze sharp and distant.

"You cannot," she pressed, stepping closer. "You will not go to Harrenhal without your council, without-!”

"Without what?" Aegon cut her off, his tone rising. "Without your blessing? Without your endless talks of caution and peace?"

Alicent's face hardened. "Daemon killed your men, yes, but do not be reckless. This is what he wants. You walk into his hands if you go."

Aegon scoffed.

"He killed two hundred of my men, Mother. Two hundred! And Cole, gone! Would you have me sit in this cursed city and wait for him to burn my gates next?"

Alicent's expression faltered at the fury in his eyes.

"You do not understand," he said, his voice trembling slightly, though whether from rage or grief, she could not tell.

"He's alive, and she's alive. That witch, vampire, whatever she was reborn into… Katerina has taken my brother, my blood. If I let this stand, what am I, if not a coward?"

"You are a King," Alicent answered sharply.

"A King!" Aegon barked out a bitter laugh.

"A King of ash and ghosts. My people whisper, my council doubts, and my own blood turns against me. Tell me, Mother, what am I to rule if there is nothing left?"

She stepped forward, grabbing his arm, pleading now.

"Then let me come with you. Let me send men, dragons. Perhaps i could have a chance to speak to your brother-?”

"No." His voice was like a growl. "This is mine to end."

He turned from her, but she would not yield.

"Aegon," she said again, louder this time. "Do not make this mistake."

He froze, then turned back toward her slowly, his eyes blazing with defiance. "It's not a mistake. It's justice."

"Justice?" she echoed, her tone filled with disbelief.

"You speak of justice while you chase vengeance. You think killing them will end this? That Daemon's death will stop what is coming?"

He smirked, the cruel twist of his mouth reminding her painfully of Viserys in his weakest moments.

"It'll stop him," he said simply.

Alicent shook her head. "And what then? When Aemond falls by your sword next?"

Aegon's expression flickered, but he turned away, moving to where the maesters readied Sunfyre's saddle.

"Aemond chose his path," he said darkly. "He's no brother of mine. No son of yours."

She stiffened, the sting of his words cutting deep. "You would kill your own blood?"

He turned sharply then, stepping close. So close she could see the wildness in his eyes.

He grasped her arms harshly, shaking her as he said, "He was never on our side! He abandoned us. He chose her, them. You need to let him go."

Alicent winced under his grip, her voice low but trembling.

"And you, Aegon? What will you become when there is no one left to stand beside you?"

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper.

"I will not back down. We have come too far to turn around now. I have enough men left, for now, to take them down."

He released her then, the cold weight of his words lingering between them.

Alicent's hands shook as she held her cloak tighter, her eyes glistening though she refused to let tears fall.

"You may have a dragon," she said quietly, "or many men, and you may even succeed for some parts. But you cannot take down Daemon."

Aegon's jaw clenched. "Watch me."

She looked up at him then, truly looked, and saw not her son but a man swallowed whole by pride and fire.

"You may," she repeated softly, "but you will not return the same."

He said nothing more, only turned toward the golden beast that awaited him.

Alicent's voice trembled one last time as she called out, "Six men, or sixty... he is Daemon Targaryen."

The morning was unlike any they had known.

It came soft, not with birdsong, but with the low hum of magic that rolled across the forest like the tide against sand.

The light that spilled through the canopy wasn't gold.

It shimmered faintly blue, threads of mist coiling between the branches, whispering against bark and bone.

Aemond moved through the tall grass with quiet steps, his cloak brushing dew from the leaves, his hair catching the strange light like a halo of silver flame.

Beside him, Katerina walked barefoot, her crimson dress dragging softly against the earth, her lips stained with the faint trace of blood.

They both laughed, low and quietly, like thieves returning from forbidden delight.

Katerina wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smirked.

"You always take too much," she teased.

Aemond glanced sideways at her, his single eye gleaming. "And you never take enough."

She arched a brow. "I take what I need."

"You take what you allow yourself," he corrected, his voice rough but not unkind.

Katerina rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips as they climbed the slope toward their encampment.

Behind them, the forest breathed, alive, luminous, otherworldly.

For the first time in centuries, they had fed freely, openly, unmasked.

The taste of human blood still lingered on their tongues.

Rich, vibrant, singing with the life they'd stolen.

It wasn't hunger that drove them anymore.

It was freedom.

For so long they had lived in the shadows, pretending to be what the world demanded, half-truths in mortal skin.

Now, with the veil between realms thinning, they were themselves again.

Witches.

Vampyric.

Bound by ancient blood and divine defiance.

The wind caught Katerina's hair as she looked over the hills, the faint scent of iron still clinging to her skin.

"Do you remember the first time you saw me feed?" she asked with a soft chuckle.

Aemond's mouth curved faintly. "How could I forget?"

"You looked ready to burn me."

"I was," he admitted, tone low, almost amused. "Until I realised I wanted to kiss you instead."

Katerina laughed quietly, shaking her head. "You were a fool then."

"I still am," he murmured.

Their laughter faded into the morning's hush, and for a moment, the world seemed stilled in that fragile peace, until a rush of air broke through the trees.

A raven spiralled down from the sky, black wings slicing through mist.

It landed before them, feathers rippling, before its form began to twist, bones shifting, feathers melting into flesh.

Eryth stood where the raven had been, his pale hair damp with morning dew, his expression grave.

Katerina's smile softened instantly.

"Eryth," she greeted warmly.

But her smile faltered when she saw his face.

There was no mirth in his eyes.

Only weight.

"What is it?" she asked, her tone shifting, low and wary.

Eryth lowered his head briefly, then looked between the two. "We must speak. In private."

…

The camp was quiet when they arrived, the rest of the coven still at rest, tents faintly glowing from the wards cast around them.

They gathered in Katerina's pavilion, where candles burned with soft, azure flame.

Aemond stood beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, while Eryth paced slowly before them.

His voice was hushed when he finally spoke.

"It's Prince Daemon," he began.

"Word travels fast through the crows and the whispers of the east. He struck Harrenhal."

Katerina frowned. "Harrenhal?"

"Aye," Eryth nodded grimly.

"Two hundred men, gone, by the rouge Prince’s hands. They speak of the knight, who had gone by the name of Criston Cole, among them. The city burned before sunrise."

Aemond's face hardened. "And Aegon?"

Eryth hesitated.

"He's not sitting idle. He's mounting Sunfyre. The word among the spies says he flies east, to find you both."

Silence descended.

Katerina exchanged a look with Aemond.

His jaw had tightened, his gaze distant, calculating, cold.

"How far?" Aemond asked.

"Nearly a week's flight if he rides the winds by day and rests by night," Eryth replied. "But if he presses through..."

"He won't rest," Aemond cut him off. "He never does when he's angry."

Katerina placed a hand on his arm, a quiet gesture, though it was enough to pull him from his thoughts. "Aemond..”

He turned to her sharply.

"He's coming for us, Katerina. We can't wait. We strike first, set wards, move the young ones north. If we stay-?”

"No."

Her voice was soft but resolute.

He stared at her, disbelief flickering. "No?"

She met his gaze.

"It will take him many days to reach us. And even then, he will not come without his banners. You know how he is. He needs an audience to bleed for."

Aemond exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair. "You think you know him."

"Perhaps i do," she said simply. "Better than he knows himself, maybe. I don’t know.”

Eryth shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

Aemond stepped closer, frustration rising.

"Katerina, I know my brother. When anger strikes him, it blinds him. He doesn't think, he burns."

"Then let him burn," she replied quietly. "We will be ready when he does."

Eryth looked between them, his expression solemn.

"I must agree with the prince," he said finally, his tone respectful. "If Aegon's rage drives him, there will be no reason in him. Only fire. We should prepare."

Katerina looked at him with a faint, weary smile. "I know what you both fear. But listen to me, I cannot strike fear into my people now. Not when they've only just begun to breathe free."

Aemond's brow furrowed. "They already know this is war."

"They know what could come," she corrected softly, "not what already is."

Her gaze dropped, voice lowering with something heavier, older.

"They were told I came to lead them into strength, not despair. I will not have them look upon me and see dread."

Aemond's jaw clenched. "And when Aegon's fire reaches this forest? When his banners stand at our gates?"

"Then they will fight," Katerina said. "But not before."

Eryth's eyes glinted faintly in the candlelight. "Does the Goddess Elaris does not answer?"

Katerina's shoulders tensed.

The question she had avoided was now laid bare.

She turned from them, her gaze drifting toward the candle flames flickering on the tent walls.

"She will not," she whispered.

Aemond frowned, stepping forward. "How can you be certain?"

"Because I am who spoke with her," Katerina said quietly, her voice trembling with restrained fury. "She said so herself, that when time comes, and blood is spilled, she will not come."

Eryth bowed his head, murmuring something under his breath.

A prayer or a curse, neither could tell.

"She has always favoured the balance. It is why she had given my sire, Lestat, a certain time of life. But it seems Lestat had other plans for me." Katerina went on softly.

"Life and death. Creation and ruin. To live forever, she said, is to defy that order. And now... now I see that she is right. For people to live an immortal long life. It is no gift. It is a chain. And perhaps, as cruel as it is, it is not her place... nor mine... to take it away."

The air grew still. Even the candle flames stilled, as if listening.

Eryth lifted his head slowly. "Then what will you do?"

Katerina's voice wavered. "I do not know. If not from her, then who will answer us?"

The silence that followed was broken by a soft, melodic voice.

"You have us."

They turned.

Nyssa stood by the tent's entrance, the drapes parting around her like a curtain of light.

Her face was calm, her eyes fierce.

Behind her, the forest glowed faintly, and through the shifting light, figures began to emerge.

One by one, the coven stepped forward.

Men, women, and children, all cloaked in hues of shadow and dawn.

Their eyes burned with quiet loyalty, their weapons gleaming under the morning light.

Katerina's breath caught. "Nyssa..." she whispered.

Nyssa stepped aside, revealing them all.

"You have us," she repeated firmly.

Katerina's gaze swept over them.

Dozens of faces, familiar and new, bound by faith and fire.

Her heart clenched with pride and fear all at once.

For a long moment, she could not speak.

Then Aemond moved forward, slow and deliberate.

The light caught his blade as he unsheathed it, raising it high above his head.

His voice rang out, strong and fierce, echoing through the forest.

"We fight for our Queen!"

A surge of voices answered him.

A roar that rose from every corner of the encampment.

Weapons lifted.

Hearts ignited.

"My'ra velan!"

The shout rolled through the air like thunder.

Katerina's eyes widened, her chest tightening as she watched them.

Her people, her coven, all of them standing as one.

Aemond turned to her, his gaze burning with unshaken devotion.

And behind him, Nyssa stood, her young face lit with pride, her eyes reflecting the very fire she saw in him.

The kind of strength she would one day become.

Katerina looked between them all.

Aemond's sword raised to the sky, Nyssa's small but unwavering stance,

Eryth's bowed head.

And for the first time since the Goddess had gone silent, she felt something stir within her.

Not divine. Not celestial.

Fire.

The fire of the living.

The will of the damned.

…

The night pressed close around them.

Dark, still, and tense.

The air inside the war tent hummed with quiet activity, a low murmur of plans and shifting steel.

Maps lay sprawled across the table, their corners pinned by daggers.

Ink bled through parchment where Aemond had marked routes and sigils, his gloved hand steady as he studied every potential path Aegon could take.

Around him, Eryth moved with purpose, his voice carrying low but firm as he divided the coven into ranks.

Those skilled in bloodcraft to the north, the shapeshifters and hunters to the west, the healers set behind the tree line where wards had been drawn in ash.

"Keep them in threes," Eryth was saying. "If one falls, two can recover. The wards must be watched at all hours."

Aemond nodded without looking up, his gaze tracing the black line that marked Harrenhal.

His mind was already two steps ahead, calculating, testing, anticipating.

Then silence rippled through the tent.

Katerina stood at the edge of the room, half-hidden in the candlelight.

Her brow furrowed, her fingers pressed to her lips as she bit at her nail, a habit he had seen only when she was truly worried.

The light caught her eyes, turning them from flame to glass.

Aemond watched her for a moment before speaking.

"Katerina," he called softly.

She didn't look up at first, only dropped her hand, folding her arms across her chest as though to contain herself.

When he stepped closer, the noise of the tent seemed to fade away, leaving only the quiet between them.

"What is it?" he asked, though he already knew.

Her thoughts pressed against his like fog, restless, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Katerina's gaze flicked toward the map, her voice low.

"No doubt Aegon would reach Harrenhal before here," she murmured. "With my father there... and Alys-?”

"They will not be harmed," Aemond said immediately.

Her head snapped toward him. "How can you be certain?"

He paused, not with hesitation, but with a kind of deliberate patience.

Then, slowly, a small grin touched his lips.

The faintest glow rippled through the air between them, unseen but felt.

It brushed against Katerina's mind like a whisper, that familiar hum of his power reaching outward, threading through the night.

Katerina's eyes widened slightly as she understood. "Aemond..."

His grin deepened, quiet and knowing.

"You're not the only one with roots in this world," he said.

She stepped closer, searching his face. "Who did you send?"

He didn't answer in words.

Instead, his eye, that sharp, storm-blue eye, flickered faintly with light, and for a heartbeat, she saw it.

Ravens soaring over mist.

The pulse of distant thought.

The mental threads he had stretched across the realm, binding allies unseen.

He didn't need to speak.

The message was clear.

Katerina exhaled slowly, her shoulders loosening, though not entirely free of worry.

"You've planned this all along," she murmured.

Aemond leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Aegon may have his dragons," he said, "but I have eyes where his flames cannot reach."

The candlelight trembled between them, casting their shadows long against the walls.

Outside, Eryth's orders continued, blades drawn, wards tested, the forest stirring with quiet readiness.

Inside, Katerina stood beside Aemond, no longer biting her nails but watching him in silence, that small, dangerous smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth.

And though she did not say it aloud, she understood.

Aegon would not reach Harrenhal.

Not while Aemond lived.

It had been a week since the attack.

The air at Harrenhal was still heavy with the ghosts of it.

The smell of burned flesh, of damp ash that refused to lift no matter how fiercely the fires were stoked.

What remained of Daemon's men patrolled the ruined courtyard, blades drawn even when no enemy approached, their nerves stretched thin.

Alys stood by the arched window of the war room, her gaze tracing the faint trails of smoke curling from the distant woods.

Beyond the trees, the world was too quiet, too expectant.

She could feel it, the pull of fate tightening with every breath she took.

Daemon was at the table behind her, armor stripped to his shirt, his sword laid out beside him.

He leaned over a parchment map littered with smudges of red ink, marking the movement of Aegon's last remaining legions.

"They'll come," Alys said quietly, still looking out. "He'll come. You know that."

Daemon didn't lift his head. "Aegon has nothing left to lose. Men like that don't retreat. They burn everything with them."

Alys turned, arms folded, her eyes a storm of green and gold. "Then we must be ready when he does."

A faint smirk curved Daemon's mouth. "I was born ready, my lady."

He said it lightly, but she heard the undertone, that same unrelenting edge he carried when battle was near.

Still, for all his calm, she could sense the exhaustion beneath it.

Neither of them had slept well since the last attack.

Neither had eaten much, nor spoken of the nightmares that followed them.

A knock broke through the quiet.

Heavy, rushed.

Daemon straightened, turning toward the door.

One of his men burst in, panting.

"My lord," he said, bowing hastily. "You're needed. Both of you. There's... someone calling for you. By name."

Daemon's brows drew together. "Calling for me?"

The man nodded quickly. "And for the lady Alys. Says she's sent from beyond the Trident."

Alys and Daemon exchanged a look, confusion flickering into suspicion.

Daemon snatched his sword from the table and strapped it across his back.

"Show us," he ordered

…

The courtyard was cold when they stepped out, the ground slick from morning rain.

The men had gathered in a loose circle near the gate, whispering among themselves.

And at the center stood a lone figure.

Small, still, and utterly strange.

She was a young woman, no more than twenty by her face, though something about her presence made age meaningless.

Her skin was pale, almost translucent, with faint, silvery scales glinting along her neck and jaw.

Her eyes, gods, her eyes, were slit and bright as molten amber.

Daemon halted a few paces away, hand resting on his sword hilt.

Alys slowed beside him, her expression unreadable.

"Who are you?" Daemon demanded.

The woman tilted her head slightly. "I have no name."

Her voice was soft yet sharp enough to cut through the murmur of the gathered men.

"I serve only the gods and the realm they seek to restore."

Daemon frowned. "And what in the seven hells does that mean?"

But the woman didn't flinch.

Her lips curved in something that might have been a smile, or might have been nothing at all.

"It means," she said, "that help has been sent, for the fight that is to follow."

The air stilled.

Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

Daemon glanced at Alys, whose eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Help? From who?"

But the woman only raised her gaze to the horizon, her expression serene, distant, as though she were listening to something neither of them could hear.

And then Daemon heard it too.

At first, it was faint, a low vibration rolling through the clouds, like thunder too far to see.

Then came the wind, sharp and sudden, sweeping through the courtyard and tugging at cloaks and hair.

The men looked up.

A screech split the sky.

Alys's breath caught, her hand gripping Daemon's arm as the sound grew louder.

Closer.

The beating of wings followed, heavy and rhythmic, shaking the stones beneath their feet.

Daemon's head snapped upward, eyes wide. Shadows crossed the sun.

From the distance, they appeared first as specks, then as vast, living storms cutting through the air. Many first burst through the clouds in a blaze of gold and crimson.

Behind him, others followed.

Syrax, her golden hide glinting like fire, Moondancer, sleek and white, her wings slicing the air with elegance.

But Daemon barely saw them.

His gaze was fixed on the third that descended from the northern line.

A massive creature, ancient and thunder-gray, her wings like torn sails.

Vhagar.

Alys's whisper was barely a breath. "Aemond."

Her heart pounded in disbelief.

Of course, it could only be him.

No one else could command that beast, no one else could send such creatures as a gift of war.

But before she could speak further, the air trembled again, a deeper, stronger rumble that made even the dragons falter mid-flight.

The clouds split open one final time, and a roar tore through the heavens so fierce it rattled the stones of Harrenhal's towers.

A crimson serpent swept through the sky.

Vast, sinewed, alive with flame and fury.

Caraxes.

Daemon's eyes widened, a sharp inhale tearing through him.

For a moment, the world narrowed to that single sound, the keening cry of the dragon that had once been his own.

Caraxes circled low, his roar turning from rage to recognition, a haunting, joyous sound that shook the ruins.

Daemon stepped forward, his face illuminated by the red glow of dragonfire reflected in the clouds. His heart surged in his chest, disbelief and triumph entwined.

He didn't speak.

He couldn't.

But the smile that crept across his face said all that words could not.

"Caraxes," he whispered.

The dragon's great head tilted, as though he had heard him from the sky.

Another cry echoed, high and wild, a call not of war, but reunion.

Alys looked from Daemon to the heavens, her own eyes wide with awe.

The dragons wheeled above them, four colossal shadows circling the fortress, their roars melting into one great storm.

Daemon's grin widened.

"Seems the gods have decided to even the odds," he said.

Alys let out a breathless laugh, half wonder, half disbelief.

"Or perhaps," she murmured, "the gods simply favour those too stubborn to die."

And as the dragons shrieked above them, the nameless woman bowed her head once, vanishing into the mist that rolled across the courtyard, leaving Daemon and Alys staring up at the sky, where their fate now burned with wings of fire.

…

The courtyard had emptied by the time the sky cleared.

Only Daemon remained, his cloak snapping at his heels, his eyes fixed on the shape descending through the clouds.

Caraxes.

The dragon's cry was unlike any other.

Deep, guttural, full of life that pulsed like blood.

His scales shimmered crimson in the dull light, scarred from battles long past, his wings vast enough to blot the sun.

Each beat of them stirred the earth below, scattering dust and leaves into whirling patterns that danced across Daemon's boots.

Daemon stood still.

The man who once faced death without flinching now found himself unable to breathe.

For years, he had believed this creature lost to him, or worse, that time had dulled the bond they once shared.

But when Caraxes landed, his claws cracking stone, Daemon felt it instantly.

The pull.

The old ache of recognition that settled deep in his chest.

Alys lingered several paces behind him.

She said nothing, her eyes glinting beneath her hood.

She didn't need to speak, she felt it.

The pulse that echoed not only in Daemon's heart but in the creature before them.

It was alive, vast, ancient, and beautiful.

Caraxes lowered his great head, his eyes narrowing with slow, careful understanding.

Smoke coiled from his nostrils, curling toward the man who had once been his other half.

Daemon's lips parted. "Caraxes."

His voice was low, cracked, reverent, a prayer, not a call.

The dragon rumbled deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through the air, shaking through Daemon's bones.

He took a step forward, then another.

When his palm met the warm scales of the dragon's snout, the world seemed to still.

Firelight danced between them, a faint shimmer, the trace of old magic.

Daemon closed his eyes.

He could feel it, the echo of every battle they'd fought, every flight, every fall.

He could feel the years of absence too, hollowed and waiting, the way the dragon had searched the skies for him and never found what he sought.

"You waited," Daemon murmured. "You damned fool, you waited."

Caraxes gave a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a sigh, a deep vibration of relief that rolled through the stones of Harrenhal.

His wings folded slowly, curling in like arms around them both.

Behind them, Alys felt her throat tighten.

She could hear it.

Not the sound, but the rhythm beneath it.

The heartbeat of the beast, thunderous and uneven at first, then steadying, matching the man before him.

She closed her eyes. In that rhythm, she heard everything.

The ache of years spent searching, the loyalty that never wavered, and the faint tremor of joy that now trembled through the air.

Caraxes had known.

Even when the rest of the realm whispered that Daemon Targaryen was dead, even when dragons across the lands had grown restless, Caraxes had refused to take another rider.

His soul had felt the bond, the thread of life that tethered him to Daemon's own.

And now, as the two found each other again, Alys felt that bond hum like a spell through the wind.

Daemon pressed his forehead to Caraxes' snout, his eyes shut tight.

Alys could almost see the memories flicker through his mind, the sky at dusk over Dragonstone, the first scream of a hatchling, the fire that once lit their shared battles.

The dragon huffed, a great plume of steam rising, the heat of his breath washing over Daemon's face like a benediction.

Alys smiled faintly.

The sight of it, the reunion of man and creature stirred something deep within her.

It was love, yes, but not the love of flesh.

It was something older, purer.

A loyalty that had survived death itself.

She stepped forward, quietly, her boots crunching over the stone.

The air was warm now, filled with the scent of smoke and soil and something else.

Peace.

For the first time since the fires of Aegon's assault, the world felt still again.

Daemon turned slightly, just enough for his gaze to find hers.

There were tears unshed in his eyes, though he would never admit it.

"He never left," Alys said softly.

Daemon's voice was rough. "Nor did I."

The dragon shifted, a deep exhale shaking through his chest, lowering his head once more until it brushed Daemon's shoulder.

A rumble followed, not threatening, not wild. Simply content.

Alys's smile deepened, faint but genuine.

She could feel the heartbeat again, slow and steady, one belonging to the dragon, and one to the man.

The rhythm was the same.

"Then it seems," she whispered to herself, "the realm still remembers its true fire."

And above them, as if to answer, Caraxes let out one final roar.

Not of battle, but of return.

…

Night fell soft over Harrenhal.

For the first time in many days, the halls glowed with warmth and laughter rather than smoke and steel.

Daemon sat at the long oak table, firelight flickering across his face, the gold of his cup glinting in his hand.

Around him, his men, the remnants of war and survivors of loss, feasted as if the world beyond these walls did not threaten to fall apart.

Caraxes rested beyond the castle gates, his breath heavy and rhythmic, the air thick with the scent of ash and dragonhide.

Even the earth seemed to hum with peace.

Daemon rose from his seat, raising his goblet high.

"To those who remain," he declared, his voice echoing through the chamber, low but strong.

"To the blood that burns brighter than the gods would ever allow. To my brothers in arms, and to the beasts that remember."

A roar of voices answered him, cups lifted, laughter filling the gaps where sorrow once lived.

Alys stood near the end of the table, her dark hair falling loose, her lips curving faintly as she lifted her glass in silent salute.

Daemon met her eyes across the firelight.

A moment, fleeting but weighted, passed between them before he drank deep.

As the night wore on, the hall emptied.

One by one, men stumbled out or fell asleep where they sat.

The fire sank low, leaving only embers.

Daemon lingered, then rose and made for his chamber, his body heavy with fatigue.

He peeled off his coat, the fabric sticking faintly to his skin, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

The silence of the hour pressed around him, save for the faint hiss of the dying fire.

Then, a sound.

The creak of the door.

He turned sharply, one hand still at his collar, to see Alys standing in the threshold.

She froze when she saw him half undressed, her eyes darting away as she spoke quickly. "Forgive me, my Prince. I didn't mean-?”

Daemon's mouth twitched into something almost like amusement. "You've seen worse, I imagine."

"I came only to-!”

"Then come," he interrupted softly, voice roughened by drink and weariness. "I can wait."

After a pause, Alys stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

The soft lamplight caught on the gold of her hair, her face still pale from the long week.

She did not look at his chest, though the sight of him, scarred, strong, yet human, lingered in her periphery.

Instead, she moved toward the bed, sitting at its edge.

He followed, lowering himself beside her, elbows on his knees, head slightly bowed.

Alys was the first to speak. "I heard Aemond's voice tonight."

Daemon lifted his gaze. "Through the wind?"

She nodded, her tone almost distant.

"He sent the dragons, Daemon. It was him who commanded their flight. He knew Aegon would not face so many, he would retreat, gather himself again. That was the plan. Aemond bought us time."

Daemon said nothing.

But her voice softened, the words harder to say.

"He also spoke... of himself. And of Katerina. He said they may not live through this war. That it was better this way. They've lived long enough, beyond what the gods allow. He sent the dragons not only as strategy... but as farewell."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Daemon stared at the floor, the flicker of the candle catching on the lines of his face.

Then he leaned back, his hands dragging down his face before he fell against the bed with a groan, palms pressed over his eyes.

"I've buried too many daughters in this damned life," he muttered hoarsely.

"I won't do it again. Not for her."

Alys turned toward him slowly. "You will not lose her. Not yet."

"You speak as if the gods listen to us," he rasped. "They curse, they twist fate, they mock every man who dares love."

"And yet you still do," she whispered.

Daemon's hands dropped away from his face, his gaze finding hers.

There was fire in his eyes still, not fury, but pain. "Tell me, witch. Does your magic dull grief?"

"No," Alys said softly. "It only teaches you how to breathe through it."

For a long moment, neither spoke.

The air thickened between them, the quiet hum of something unspoken.

Grief, yes, but also something far older.

Alys reached out, her palm hesitating, then resting against his bare chest.

His heartbeat thudded unevenly beneath her fingers.

She closed her eyes, whispering words too soft to catch, an old spell, a soothing rhythm meant to steady the soul.

Daemon stilled beneath her touch.

The pounding in his chest slowed, evening out, matching the pace of her breath.

When his gaze fell to her hand, still splayed against him, something in him shifted.

He turned, just enough that their eyes met, close now, only inches apart.

Her breath caught.

The air between them grew taut, charged, the scent of wine and smoke thick around them.

Alys didn't pull away.

Neither did he.

"Do that again," Daemon murmured, voice low.

"What?"

"Make me forget," he said. "Just for tonight."

Her fingers pressed a little deeper against his skin. "That's not what I do, my Prince."

He huffed a faint, broken laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Then perhaps," he murmured, leaning closer, "you should learn."

The candle guttered as the wind sighed through the cracks in the window.

Alys didn't move her hand, and Daemon didn't look away.

The world beyond the chamber, the wars, the gods, the curses, faded into the dark.

And for the first time in weeks, the only thing either of them could hear was the sound of a heartbeat, steady, alive, and human.

XL

[averillaratargaryen]

XXXVIII

The air in the chamber was still when Aemond entered.

Only the faint hiss of the hearth broke the silence.

That, and the soft rustle of Katerina's gown as she stood near the window, the night wind tugging gently at her hair.

The door shut quietly behind him with a dull thud.

Aemond's footsteps echoed against the floor, slow and deliberate, the scent of iron and earth following him as he crossed the room.

In his hand, he held a cup, black stone, filled near to the brim with blood still faintly warm from its draw.

Katerina didn't turn, not yet.

But her body tensed, a quiet shift in the shoulders that told him she'd felt his presence long before he spoke.

He came to stand just behind her, close enough to see her reflection faintly in the window's glass, her face pale and contemplative, her eyes distant and unfocused, staring out at the forest below that swayed under moonlight.

"Drink," Aemond said simply, holding the cup forward.

His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, something between insistence and care.

Katerina blinked, glancing down at the reflection of the cup before her, but she didn't turn.

"I cannot," she murmured, her voice a ghost against the glass.

Aemond's jaw tightened. "You must. You've not eaten since the awakening. Your mind will cloud if you-?”

She turned then, her eyes finding his, tired, sad, but still burning with that quiet storm that always lingered in her.

Her hand reached out, gently pushing the cup back toward him.

"I said I cannot," she repeated softly.

Aemond's stare didn't waver. "And I said you must."

Katerina's gaze faltered for only a heartbeat before she looked away, turning back to the window.

"How can I drink," she whispered, "when the world itself asks me to choose whom I betray?"

The words lingered, low and trembling.

"For Elaris to wish for me to turn against my own people," she continued, her reflection faintly shaking.

"For Aegon to wish to destroy the last of them. I am torn between a goddess and a king, both blinded by what they believe is right."

Aemond's silence filled the space behind her like a shadow.

Katerina's voice broke slightly as she went on,

"I do not know what is happening anymore, Aemond. I do not know who I can turn to. When even the light that made me myself, has told me to betray my own kind..."

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Aemond took a step forward, the sound of his boots soft over the rug. "I understand," he said quietly.

She gave a humourless laugh. "Do you?"

"Yes," he answered simply. "Because I know what it is to be torn between blood and duty. Between what the world demands and what your heart desires."

He lifted the cup slightly again, his tone firm. "But none of that matters if your body fails you. Drink. Keep your mind steady. Only then can you think clearly."

Katerina shook her head. "I cannot think clearly because the truth itself is broken."

She moved past him, her steps slow, trailing a hand over the carved edge of the bedpost as she crossed the room.

Her voice softened as she spoke again.

"Recently, I have imagined raising a kingdom one day. Or at least being able to see one. A place where those like us would be welcomed and celebrated."

Aemond followed her with his gaze, the cup still in hand, listening.

"Where the world would not see us as cursed," she went on, her voice a fragile thread, "but as beautiful things. As protectors. As something more than the legends humans whisper of in fear."

She turned halfway, looking at him over her shoulder.

"But people... they only ever see us as monsters, Aemond. Because humans make us do monstrous things."

Aemond's lips pressed thin, but he didn't interrupt.

Her eyes glistened.

"They strike first. They burn what they fear. And then they point to the ashes and say, 'See? There is the proof. There is the monster.'"

Katerina's voice dropped lower, her words trembling.

"Take what your brother did to me, to my family. He called it justice. But it was works of evil. And now the gods themselves ask me to forgive him?"

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Only the fire crackled softly, the flames bending toward her as though drawn to her grief.

Aemond finally set the cup down on the table beside them.

The faint sound of it meeting the wood broke the stillness.

He stepped closer. "Katerina," he said quietly.

She turned to face him fully now, her tears catching the light. "I do not know what to do."

Aemond's gaze softened.

He reached out, not to touch her yet, but close enough that she could feel the faint warmth from his hand.

"Then do nothing," he said. "Not yet. You need not decide tonight."

Her brows drew together. "And if waiting costs lives?"

He stepped closer still, his tone low but steady.

"Then let it. You are not their weapon, Katerina. You are not anyone's. You are more than what either god or king claims of you."

His voice deepened. "Do not let them rush you into war while your heart still bleeds."

For a moment, she said nothing, only looked at him as if seeing him anew.

When she spoke, her voice was smaller, vulnerable. "How am I not to worry?"

"Because," Aemond said, "you will not face it alone."

He took another step forward until the space between them disappeared entirely. "We will get through this. Together."

Katerina's gaze lingered on him, her lips parting to speak but no sound came.

"I know Elaris is a goddess," he continued, "and I know her will is strong. But I also know you."

His hand rose at last, brushing lightly against her arm, the touch grounding.

"You are stronger still.”

His eye burned with sincerity.

"If you believe yourself capable of ruling, of building a kingdom that can change what the world believes of your kind, then I will follow you every step of the way. To fire. To war. To the world's end."

Katerina's breath trembled.

Slowly, she smiled, small and weak, but real.

"You would follow me?" she whispered.

"To the last breath I have," he replied.

Her eyes shimmered again, though now with something gentler than sorrow. "You do not know what that means to me."

Aemond tilted his head slightly. "Then tell me."

Katerina exhaled slowly, almost in disbelief.

"They called me My'ra Veylan. Not because I had a throne or subjects or gold. But because they believed in something greater. They believed I could bring it."

Her gaze lifted past him, unfocused, lost in memory.

"How can I disappoint them, Aemond? How can I turn my back, when they saw me so highly?"

He said nothing, only watched her with quiet reverence.

Her voice softened to a whisper, her eyes distant as she began to speak almost dreamily, her thoughts spilling like a vision spoken aloud.

"I wish to have a beautiful kingdom," she murmured.

"To rule over men who are fat and fed, ones that are full of love and happiness. For women to be carefree, their immortal beauty shining within and without. To hear children laughing."

Aemond's expression eased, her words cutting through the heaviness like a fragile light.

"True happiness," she went on, "is what I wish for my people. I must show the world that they are no different than those of the realm, even with immortal souls."

Her gaze found his again, fierce now through her tears.

"A queen does not belong to herself," she said. "She belongs to her people."

Aemond watched her in silence, the faintest glimmer of a smile touching his lips.

"And do you accept that?" he asked quietly.

Katerina nodded, slowly, solemnly.

"I do. I must. For all that we've lost, for all that I've lost, I cannot turn from what they've given me."

She drew a deep breath, her composure returning like the settling of embers into steady flame.

"I will live up to it. To them. To the promise I made when I took their vow."

Aemond's hand moved then, resting lightly beneath her chin, lifting her face so their eyes met.

"Then let the world see you as I do," he said.

"Not a monster. Not a weapon. But a queen who was born of fire, and who will set it alight again, in her own name."

The air between them stilled.

A moment suspended in quiet understanding, in shared resolve.

Outside, the wind shifted, carrying with it the faintest echo of distant laughter, the forest whispering, perhaps, or something older, something watching.

But inside the chamber, there was only Katerina and Aemond, the firelight painting their faces in gold and shadow, the blood cooling untouched on the table beside them.

…

The clink of metal and the scrape of leather filled the chamber.

Aegon stood before the long mirror, his arms stretched slightly as servants fitted him into his armor piece by piece, the golden scales gleaming dull beneath the morning light that broke through the high windows.

Alicent stood across the room, her hands clasped tightly before her, her face pale with exhaustion and disbelief.

She had not slept.

Not since Daeron's departure.

The echo of hooves had barely faded when she'd gone to find her eldest son.

Aegon, however, didn't look half as troubled.

He turned his head toward one of the servants, adjusting his arm plate, his expression almost bored.

There was no anger, no grief, just that strange, hollow detachment that had grown over him in the weeks since Aemond's defection.

When the servants withdrew, leaving the room in stillness, Alicent finally spoke.

"So," she said softly, her tone steady despite the tremor beneath, "you've heard."

Aegon gave no answer. He fixed his sleeve cuff, tightening the strap.

She stepped closer. "Your brother. He's gone."

"I know," Aegon replied finally, his voice flat, his gaze still upon his reflection. "You told me."

"And?" Alicent's tone sharpened slightly. "What do you plan to do?"

Aegon's reflection turned, his real body following a second later, his expression unreadable.

The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smirk.

"What could I possibly do, Mother?" he said with a shrug. "He's made his choice.”

"Daeron is your brother," Alicent pressed. "You cannot simply-!”

Aegon cut across her, his tone rising, "He has chosen where he stands, and it is not beside me."

He stepped forward, the sound of his boots hard against the floor.

"Tell me then, what would you have me do? Send men after him? Drag him back kicking and screaming? Put him in chains like a traitor?"

His voice carried a sharpness that made her flinch, but he went on. "No, Mother. I'll do nothing. Because clearly, nothing can be done."

Alicent's lips parted, a mixture of disbelief and anger trembling in her chest.

"You would just dismiss one brother," she said, "after losing another for good?"

Aegon's expression darkened for a moment, but then he scoffed.

"One blinded by love," he said bitterly.

"The other obsessed with peace, even when peace is nothing but a fool's dream. Tell me, Mother, what am I supposed to do with that? Neither of them has the spine for what must be done."

He turned away again, reaching for his sword.

The metal hissed softly as he drew it halfway from its sheath, examining the gleam along the edge before sliding it back.

"I do not care for either of them," he said coldly. "Let them live, die, rot, I've no care. Not anymore."

The words struck her like a blow.

"Aegon..." Alicent whispered, stepping forward, her voice faltering. "Why have you become this way?"

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "This way?"

"You speak as if they are nothing to you," she said, her voice breaking through the restraint she'd held so long.

"You speak as if blood means nothing. As if your father's house means nothing!"

Aegon's laugh came sharp and humorless.

"My father's house?" he said mockingly. "My father's house was divided before I even drew breath. And do not pretend otherwise.”

Alicent shook her head. "You could still bring this family back together, Aegon. If you would only-!”

"Put aside my pride?" he interrupted, turning fully toward her now, his gaze bright with cruel amusement.

"Yes," she snapped, desperate. "Put aside your pride, your vengeance, all of it. Bring the city back together, rather than travel to another to take revenge."

Aegon was silent for a long moment.

His head tilted slightly, eyes glinting.

Then his expression softened, not kindly, but calculatingly.

He took a few slow steps toward her. "You speak as if she would not burn us all the moment she had the chance."

Alicent frowned. "She?"

Aegon's tone grew low, almost coaxing. "Katerina."

Her name alone seemed to draw the room tighter around them.

"We do not know that yet-!” Alicent began, but Aegon cut her off again, his voice smooth, dangerous.

"She would," he said.

"You know what she is. She's no longer just the girl we once knew. She's something else now. Something that kills without remorse. You saw what she became."

He circled slowly around his mother, speaking softly but with deliberate precision, as if shaping each word to pierce exactly where he wished.

"She's with Aemond now. You think she's there to bring him back?" A dark chuckle escaped him.

"No. She's there to make him hers. To twist him, to turn him against everything he once was."

Alicent's brows knit. "You don't know that."

Aegon's tone grew quieter still, almost a whisper near her ear.

"Don't I? Look what she's already done. Aemond left us for her. Daeron left us because of what she caused. Our house is falling apart, and who stands at the centre of it all?"

He stepped back then, watching her face pale slightly.

Alicent tried to speak, but no words came.

Aegon smiled faintly.

"You see it too," he murmured.

“Don't you? You feel it. She'll destroy us both if she must. She'll kill us. Take everything that's ours, my crown, your sons. All of it."

He turned toward the mirror again, fastening his cloak over his shoulders, his reflection now wearing the faintest trace of triumph.

"And perhaps..." he added, almost idly, "perhaps it was always meant to be so. Perhaps none of this would have happened if you had never made me sit that damned throne in the first place."

Alicent's head snapped toward him, her breath catching. "What?"

Aegon met her eyes, his gaze cold and gleaming, every ounce of warmth gone.

"If you had not done what you asked of me," he said quietly, "you would still have three sons."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Alicent stood frozen, her face paling further, her lips parting without sound.

Aegon said nothing more.

He turned away, his sword at his hip, his armor glinting faintly as he moved toward the door.

The echo of his boots was heavy, deliberate.

When the door shut behind him, the chamber fell into utter stillness.

Alicent didn't move.

She only stood there, alone, staring blankly toward the space where her son had just been.

Her breath came shallow, her chest tight.

She could feel her pulse in her throat, a sharp and painful rhythm that would not quiet.

For a moment, she reached for the chair beside her, steadying herself, her fingers trembling against the carved wood.

Her mind was racing,

Aegon's words echoing again and again until she could no longer tell which were his and which were her own thoughts.

If I had never made him sit that throne...

The thought rooted deep, poisonous and cold.

Her eyes unfocused as she looked out toward the window, the city below bustling, unaware of the storm that brewed within its queen mother.

The weight of guilt pressed down, suffocating, until she could barely breathe.

Alicent's lips parted again, her voice a whisper that barely escaped her.

"What have I done?"

No answer came.

Only the hollow quiet of the chamber, and the sound of her own regret echoing softly against the marble walls.

The night at Harrenhal was heavy and cold.

A mist rolling low over the ruins, swallowing sound and torchlight alike.

Within the black stone halls, Daemon Targaryen sat before a table strewn with parchment and half-finished maps, a goblet of wine untouched beside his hand.

He had been tracing the route toward King's Landing with one finger, thinking of rivers, strongholds, and banners yet to rise, when the great doors burst open.

"My prince!" a voice shouted. "Your sword! Bring your sword!"

Daemon's brows furrowed. "Seven hells, what is it now?" he muttered, rising slowly from his chair.

Before the man could answer, Alys burst in from the adjoining corridor, skirts torn by haste.

Her hair was wild from the wind, her eyes gleaming like wet amber.

"Criston Cole," she gasped. "He's here. With men. The white cloaks. They mean to take your head."

For a heartbeat, Daemon stared at her.

Then, as if the words themselves were wine, he laughed.

Low, amused, dangerous.

"Cole?" he echoed. "Ser Criston Cole, come to finish what he could never start."

He reached for Dark Sister, the blade gleaming in the candlelight like a drawn shadow.

Outside, the clang of steel was already rising.

Men shouting, horses screaming, the clash of iron on iron echoing through Harrenhal's broken court.

Alys moved toward him with urgency.

"You'll not meet him bare-chested," she said, reaching for his armor.

Daemon stood still as she strapped each plate to him, the blackened steel, the dragon-scaled cuirass, the gauntlets that clinked when she tightened them.

She moved quickly, her breath uneven, hands steady despite the chaos outside.

When the last strap was secured, Alys reached for the gold cloak and fastened it around his shoulders.

The cloak shimmered against the firelight, the mark of the man who once commanded all the gold cloaks of King's Landing, the rogue prince reborn.

Daemon caught her wrist before she stepped away.

For a moment, neither spoke.

He studied her face, the wild beauty, the strange calm beneath the fear.

Then he bent, pressed a short kiss to her brow.

Her eyes met his as he drew back.

"Go," she said softly.

Her voice trembled, but her nod was resolute.

Daemon smiled.

That crooked, reckless smile that promised ruin to any who stood in his way.

Then he turned, Dark Sister in hand, and strode through the doors toward the echoing sounds of battle.

The corridors shook with the weight of running feet.

His men were already forming ranks, torches in hand, shouting his name, ready to die beneath his banner.

Daemon stepped into the open court, the air alive with the sound of swords and screaming men.

Above them all, the night burned with the light of fire and vengeance.

Rain began to fall.

Light at first, then heavier, hissing against armor and blood.

The mud turned black beneath their boots.

Daemon strode through it like a wraith, cloak sweeping behind him.

His men cheered as he passed, forming a semi-circle against the incoming onslaught, white cloaks gleaming through the fog.

At their head rode Ser Criston Cole, his white cloak already stained red at the hem.

His expression was that of a man who had seen too much, but still believed in duty above all else.

"Daemon Targaryen," Cole shouted above the clamor. "By the command of King Aegon, I demand your surrender!"

Daemon laughed, sharp and cold.

"Aegon commands what he cannot keep," he replied. "Tell your king I'll return his sword when I've put it through your gut."

Cole's eyes hardened. "Then may the gods judge you."

The two forces collided.

Steel met steel, and the courtyard erupted.

Swords flashed in arcs ofq

Spears splintered against shields.

The air filled with the reek of blood and rain and burning oil as torches fell from trembling hands.

Daemon moved through the chaos like something unholy, his blade an extension of his will.

Dark Sister sang, cutting through armor and flesh alike.

A man screamed as his arm flew from his body; another fell with his throat opened to the bone.

The gold cloaks, loyal to their prince, followed with savage ferocity.

Harrenhal's stones turned slick with blood as white and gold blurred together.

Cole fought near the center, his white cloak tattered, his sword glinting in the light of flame.

He cut down two men in a single sweep, his face grim beneath his helm.

He looked older now, weary, but still deadly.

"Daemon!" he roared. "Face me, coward!"

Daemon turned, wiping blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.

"Coward?" he repeated, smirking. "You've chased ghosts and corpses, Cole. Come see what it's like to meet the real thing."

They met in the center of the court.

The crowd fell back, leaving space for the two.

Cole swung first, a heavy downward blow meant to cleave through Daemon's helm.

Daemon sidestepped, letting the sword crash against his pauldron with a spark. He twisted, slashing low.

Cole blocked, sparks flying, the ring of steel echoing across the courtyard.

For several moments, it was nothing but the sound of swords.

Every strike a question, every parry an answer.

Cole fought with precision, the discipline of a knight.

Daemon fought with fury, wild, graceful, unpredictable.

"You were always too proud for your own good," Cole spat, blocking a strike that nearly split his throat.

"And you were always too boring," Daemon hissed, slamming his boot into Cole's chest and sending him stumbling back.

Blood spattered the ground between them. Rain poured harder now, washing crimson into the mud.

Cole came again, faster this time, fury overtaking form.

His sword slashed across Daemon's chest, cutting through leather but not flesh.

Daemon retaliated with a twist of his wrist, carving across Cole's shoulder, tearing through the cloak and deep into skin.

Cole grunted, but did not fall.

"For the realm," he muttered through his teeth, thrusting again.

Daemon caught the blade with his gauntlet, blood running down his arm where the steel bit through.

Then he drove Dark Sister into Cole's thigh, twisting it cruelly before yanking it free.

Cole cried out, stumbling to one knee.

Around them, the battle was breaking.

Gold cloaks pressed forward as the white cloaks faltered.

Men fled.

Horses screamed and reared, trampling their riders.

"Yield," Daemon said coldly, standing over Cole, the point of his blade pressed beneath the knight's chin.

Cole glared up at him, defiant despite the pain. "You'll burn for this.”

Daemon smiled faintly. "So I've been told."

He lowered the blade, not in mercy, but in mockery, and turned away, letting the man's pride finish the killing.

Cole made one last attempt, dragging himself to his feet, sword raised in trembling hands.

Daemon didn't even look back.

He pivoted on his heel and thrust Dark Sister backward through the air, straight into Cole's chest.

The knight froze.

A moment of silence.

Then he collapsed into the mud, the sword slipping from his fingers.

Daemon turned again, yanking Dark Sister free as the blood poured dark against the rain.

The courtyard was near silent now.

The remaining white cloaks, no more than a handful, threw down their swords.

Those still on horseback turned their reins and fled through the gates, spurring their mounts hard into the mist.

One had managed to grab onto Cole’s lifeless body, taking him back without Daemon getting near him.

Daemon stood among the ruin, the dying and the dead strewn about him.

His armor dripped red.

His breath came slow and even.

Alys appeared from the shadows of the keep, eyes wide, her hands trembling against her skirts.

She looked past him, at the field of corpses, then back to him.

"Is it done?" she asked softly.

Daemon nodded once. "For now."

She stepped closer, her voice low.

"And Criston?"

He glanced at the young man that rode his horse in fear, knowing he’d be taking Daemon’s message of Criston’s body to the usurper King.

"He's gone to beg forgiveness from gods he never believed in."

Alys looked at him for a long time, her lips parting slightly. "You truly are the blood of the dragon."

Daemon sheathed his sword.

"A dragon doesn't bleed," he said, eyes lifting toward the night sky. "He burns."

And beneath the ruined towers of Harrenhal, with firelight dancing in the mist and blood steaming in the rain, Daemon Targaryen stood victorious, a prince carved in shadow, and a storm yet to come.

…

The great hall was a place of uneasy harmony, if such a thing could exist among the supernatural.

Candlelight flickered across the stone walls, long wax tears spilling down silver holders.

Shadows leaned against the corners like loyal hounds, listening to the laughter, the clatter of plates, and the whispers that hummed beneath it all.

At the long table, dozens sat, creatures of all kinds, each more curious than the next.

Some tore at raw flesh, their teeth red and wet, the scent of iron thick in the air.

Others preferred real food.

Bread torn by hand, roasted roots, wild fruit and salted meats that crackled with fat.

It was a grotesque blend of hunger and civility, of decay and life somehow coexisting in the same breath.

Katerina sat near the center, her dark hair catching the soft gleam of candlelight.

To her right sat Aemond, quiet, silver head bowed slightly as he watched the plates being passed.

To her left, Eryth, the raven-eyed shifter whose laughter came easily, though it rarely reached his gaze.

At the end of the table sat the young girl Nyssa, perched like a curious bird beside Aemond, legs tucked beneath her, eyes darting from face to face with fascination.

For a time, no one spoke between them.

The hall was loud enough, voices rising and falling, bursts of laughter from one corner, a growl of irritation from another.

But soon Nyssa, ever bold, leaned toward Aemond, her chin propped on her small hand.

"You don't like the food, do you?" she asked, voice half-teasing.

Aemond turned his head slightly, one silver eyebrow arching. "You noticed."

She grinned. "You've been staring at it for a while. It's like you're trying to decide whether it's food or art."

Aemond's lips twitched. "I've seen worse art."

Nyssa giggled softly, the sound light and melodic. "You sound just like Eryth when he's pretending to enjoy a feast."

"Pretending?" Aemond murmured, leaning closer.

She nodded gravely.

"He once told me he eats to blend in. Says if he didn't, people would start thinking he's a spirit instead of a man."

Aemond hummed with faint amusement. "Perhaps he's both."

"Maybe," Nyssa said, eyes gleaming with childish wonder. "I think we all are, in some way. You too."

He looked down at her, surprised by the innocence of her tone. "And what am I, then?"

Nyssa tilted her head. "Half spirit, half storm. You look like one, anyway. The kind that doesn't pass quickly."

For the first time that evening, Aemond smiled, small, restrained, but real. "You're perceptive for your age.”

"I had to be," she said simply, stabbing a piece of fruit with her fork. "When people stop looking after you, you learn to look after yourself."

Something in her words settled heavily in him.

He saw it then, the same loneliness that had shaped him. The same quiet resilience that came from surviving rather than simply living.

"You remind me of someone," Aemond said quietly.

Nyssa looked up. "Someone you miss?"

"Someone I never truly knew," he answered.

The girl smiled softly, though she didn't press.

Their talk turned to easier things, sword forms, travelling routes, the difference between feeding on blood and energy.

Nyssa was endlessly curious, asking him about dragons, about flight, about what it felt like to be feared by mortals.

Aemond found himself answering her honestly, his tone softer than it usually was.

He even laughed once, a quiet thing, brief, as though his body wasn't accustomed to the sound.

When she spoke, her words were unfiltered and unguarded, something he hadn't experienced in years. It made him see her not just as a creature among many, but as something fragile.

A child who had seen too much.

He realized, as the night wore on and her chatter continued, that he saw her as something more than just another stray of their kind.

She was like a reflection of what he had lost, innocence, youth, unbroken trust.

Aemond glanced at her as she spoke about her first transformation, how terrified she had been, how the coven found her shivering and alone.

The memory made her laugh, but her voice trembled slightly at the edges.

He reached over, resting a hand on her shoulder briefly. "You're safe here," he said.

She looked up at him, eyes wide. "I know," she whispered. "I think... I think you make me feel that way."

He said nothing after that, only gave a nod and returned to his meal, though his chest ached with something that felt suspiciously like affection.

On Katerina's other side, Eryth was in full storytelling form.

His voice carried easily across the table, low and rich, with the kind of cadence that made even silence seem alive.

"That one there," he said, pointing toward a pale man with hair like straw.

"Used to be a fisherman from Lys. Claims he died at sea, came back as something that could breathe under it. And that one..” he gestured to a woman with eyes black as coal, "was once a dancer in Myr. Now her bones can fold like smoke."

Katerina chuckled faintly, though her eyes studied each of them as if trying to see the remnants of their old lives still clinging beneath the new.

Eryth leaned closer, his voice softening. "I could tell you stories all night, but you'd never sleep again."

"I doubt sleep would come easily either way," she replied, smiling faintly. "You've told me of all of them, yet not of yourself."

That caught him off guard.

His eyes flickered, and for a moment, the charm fell away.

"There's not much to tell," he said.

"I think there is," she said gently.

Eryth hesitated, then sighed.

"I was not born this way," he began.

"None of us are. I was a man once, a soldier. Too young to know what I was fighting for. We rode north of the Riverlands, thought ourselves brave. But war... it takes more than it gives."

He paused, tracing a line in the condensation on his cup.

"One night, our camp was ambushed. I remember arrows, hundreds of them. One found my throat. I bled into the snow. And when I opened my eyes, I was not on the ground anymore. I was above it. Looking down. Wings where my hands should've been. The others said it was a curse. I think it was mercy."

Katerina said nothing, only listened.

His voice trembled faintly, but he continued.

"For a long time, I couldn't shift back. I was a raven, watching the world I'd left behind. I saw my mother bury an empty coffin. I saw my friends burn villages in my name, thinking me martyred."

He gave a humorless laugh. "I wanted to scream, to tell them I was alive. But all I could do was caw."

Katerina's eyes softened. "And when you returned to yourself?"

He looked at her then, a faint smile curving his mouth.

"It was too late. My home was gone. My mother... she had died believing her son was a hero.”

He took a slow breath, shaking off the heaviness. "So, I made the skies my home. Sometimes it's easier to live above than within the world."

Katerina reached out, brushing her fingers against his arm. "You still mourn her."

"Every time I see the sun rise," he admitted quietly.

Then, after a beat, he chuckled and waved a hand. "But enough of my grim tales. Tell me yours, Lady Katerina. How long has it been since you turned?"

Aemond's head lifted slightly, his attention drawn by the question.

Katerina stared down at her hands.

"About twenty-five years," she said softly. "To be exact."

Eryth nodded. "Do you ever miss it? Being human, I mean?"

The question lingered between them like smoke.

Katerina's lips parted, but no words came at first.

Her eyes drifted toward the candles, their light fluttering like fragile hearts.

When she finally spoke, her voice trembled, each word heavy with memory.

"Sometimes," she whispered.

"I miss... the sound of my heartbeat. The warmth of sunlight that didn't burn. The way I used to laugh without restraint. I miss my family. My father's voice. My mother's touch. I miss... the simplicity of it all."

Eryth listened quietly, his expression somber.

"It must seem strange," he said gently. "Not to live the life you always wanted."

Katerina smiled faintly, though her eyes glistened.

"I always thought I would grow old and die one day. Beside my family. I thought that would be my peace."

She looked down. "But I suppose the gods had other plans. My fate was written elsewhere."

Silence followed.

Even the hall seemed to hush for a moment, the distant laughter and clatter fading beneath the weight of her words.

Across from her, Aemond sat still.

His hand had tightened around the stem of his cup.

He stared into the dark wine, seeing in its reflection not himself, but everything he had broken.

Her voice still lingered in his mind.

I always thought I would grow old and die beside my family.

It was his family that had taken that from her.

His blood that had spilled hers.

His crown that had cost her peace.

He drew a long breath, jaw tense, his chest constricting with something raw and wordless.

Regret.

Responsibility.

Guilt. All tangled like thorns inside him.

He thought of her as she was now, regal, calm, ethereal, and then of what she had once been.

A woman with warmth in her cheeks, a heartbeat, a mortal dream.

And he realized that though she would never say it aloud, though she had long accepted what she'd become... a part of her still mourned it every day.

He wanted to reach for her hand.

To tell her that he was sorry, not just for what had happened, but for what she had lost because of him. But the words refused to come.

Instead, he raised his cup and drank, his eyes fixed on her profile as she smiled faintly at Eryth's next jest, pretending she hadn't been crying.

It struck him then how cruel the world truly was, that the same gods who had given them eternity had stripped away everything that made eternity bearable.

And for the first time in a long while, Aemond Targaryen felt the weight of his blood. Heavy, damning, and red as the wine he could no longer taste.

…

The night air was still, carrying the scent of the forest beyond the window, where faint glimmers of mist rolled over the earth.

In their chamber, a single candle burned low, its light flickering across stone walls and catching the faint gleam of metal from Aemond's armor that hung near the door.

Katerina sat near the table, fingers tracing over the pages of a worn book, Blood and Bone.

The words were harsh, cold reminders of what she had become, lines about cursed transformations, eternal hunger, and the decay of human feeling.

Her eyes followed each word with quiet detachment, but her fingers trembled faintly as they moved across the brittle parchment.

Aemond sat at the edge of the bed behind her, head lowered, one hand clasped around his knee, the other hanging loosely.

His silver hair fell over his face, shadows cutting sharp lines across his features.

He had been silent for a long while, lost in thought, his eye fixed on nothing, seeing only ghosts.

When the words on the page became too much to bear, Katerina snapped the book shut.

The sound echoed softly in the chamber.

She stood and turned to him, her expression softening at the sight of his stillness.

He hadn't even moved at the sound.

"Aemond," she said gently, walking toward him. "You've not spoken since dinner. What troubles you?"

He exhaled slowly, but his voice, when it came, was low, almost reluctant.

"I heard what you said," he murmured. "To Eryth. About your life before this. About being... human."

Katerina tilted her head slightly. "You were listening."

"I was." His gaze lifted, meeting hers for the first time.

There was an ache in it, deep and distant.

"And I could not help but think that it was my family who made you what you are now."

She stopped before him, her eyes searching his. "Aemond…”

He shook his head faintly, cutting her off.

"You said the gods put your fate elsewhere. But it was no god. It was us. My mother. My grandsire. My brother's arrogance. My own sins. All of it built upon the ruin of others, and it cost you your soul."

There was silence.

The fire cracked faintly in the hearth.

Katerina sat beside him, her hand brushing against the side of his knee.

"Your family may have set the fire," she said softly, "but mine poured oil upon it."

He looked at her sharply.

"I killed your sister," she said, her tone steady though her hands trembled faintly.

"And your nephew. I did it knowing who they were. Knowing it would hurt you more than anyone. I thought vengeance would heal what I lost. But vengeance is a cruel, empty thing."

Aemond's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

She went on,

"You once told me that we were the same. And perhaps you were right. We are both shaped by loss, both forged by blood. There is no undoing that."

He turned his head away, his single eye glimmering faintly in the firelight.

"And yet," he said quietly, "you carry it better than I do.”

Katerina let out a soft breath, almost a laugh. "I doubt that."

He looked at her then, something unreadable passing through his expression.

Sorrow, affection, perhaps both.

"You speak of fate as if it were kind. But every choice, every death, it all feels like a punishment. For me. For you. For all of us."

Katerina shook her head. "Perhaps it is. But we cannot change what's been done."

Aemond stared ahead, fingers curling around the edge of the bed.

"No," he whispered, "but something is coming. I can feel it."

His tone had changed, a quiet dread threading through it.

Katerina studied him, her lips pressing together.

"I feel it too," she admitted. "Something bad was bound to happen. It always is, in our world."

They fell silent again, the air thick between them.

Then, Aemond's voice broke the stillness.

"If something happens," he said, "if we are separated..”

"We won't be," she interrupted.

He looked at her, a flicker of desperation in his eye.

"You can't promise that."

Katerina reached out, cupping his cheek, her fingers cool, yet faintly trembling.

"Then I'll promise this," she said softly. "I won't leave your side. Not willingly. Not even if the world burns."

Her words lingered like smoke between them.

Aemond's gaze softened, the hard edges of his face easing.

"You would burn for me?" he asked quietly.

She smiled faintly. "I would. I would let the world burn for you.”

He let out a quiet, broken sound, something between a laugh and a sigh, and turned his face slightly into her palm.

The gesture was small, but heavy with meaning.

Then he flinched.

Katerina drew her hand back immediately.

His skin had reddened beneath her touch, faintly scorched.

"I—I'm sorry," she stammered, guilt flashing across her features. "I didn't-?”

Aemond caught her wrist before she could pull away completely.

His touch was firm but gentle. "Don't," he said quietly. "Don't apologise."

Her eyes met his, wide and uncertain.

"If anything," he continued, his voice softer now, "I'd take your flames as a reward. A mark that you are real. That you are mine."

Katerina's breath caught.

He raised her hand, pressing his lips to her wrist, careful, deliberate, reverent.

She could feel the warmth of his breath, the faint brush of his scar.

For a moment, neither spoke.

The air around them felt heavy, alive, as if the candlelight itself leaned closer to listen.

Katerina finally whispered, "You shouldn't want this."

He looked at her. "And yet I do."

She could not answer.

She could only look at him, this man who had every reason to hate her, yet chose not to.

He reached out then, brushing a strand of her dark hair behind her ear.

"If the gods truly chose our fates," he murmured, "then perhaps they made a cruel mistake."

"Or perhaps," she said softly, "they knew exactly what they were doing."

They stayed like that for a long time, the world outside forgotten.

The flicker of the candlelight played over their faces, softening scars, hiding the blood-stained history that lingered between them.

When she leaned in, it was not for passion but for solace.

Her forehead rested against his, the two of them breathing the same quiet, steady air.

XXXIX

[averillaratargaryen]

XXXVII

"Only one can face the light."

Nyssa's voice carried through the stillness of the hall like a whisper from the old world, her dark eyes lifting toward Katerina as if she already knew the answer.

The dust hanging in the air shimmered faintly where the sunlight touched it, that single shaft of gold spilling through the cracked roof and onto the sigils drawn upon the stone floor.

Katerina's breath caught. "What do you mean?"

But Nyssa said nothing more.

She merely turned her gaze toward the light again, then back to Katerina, her expression calm, resolute.

Aemond, standing beside them, followed her look. "You think she's meant to do it?"

Nyssa inclined her head slightly. "She is the blood reborn. The daughter of Elaris. The light knows her."

Aemond frowned. "And if someone else steps in?"

Nyssa's lips twitched in a faint, almost taunting smile. "Then someone else learns the cost of defiance."

The room went silent again, save for the soft flicker of the candles.

Aemond tilted his head, the faintest glint of challenge in his eye.

"You speak as if you're certain. Perhaps I should see for myself."

Nyssa's brow arched. "Then go forward, prince of dragons. See what becomes of you."

Before Katerina could protest, Aemond took a step forward.

His boots echoed sharply on the floor as he moved toward the spill of light.

His hand rose, steady at first, reaching toward the glow.

The moment his skin touched the beam, the world seemed to erupt.

A blinding flare burst through the room, white and merciless.

Aemond let out a cry, not of fear, but of raw, searing pain.

He jerked back, clutching his hand, the skin glowing red as if scalded by molten metal.

The smell of burnt flesh laced the air.

Katerina rushed to him, her hands gripping his arm. "Aemond-!"

He gritted his teeth, eyes squeezed shut, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

When he finally looked at his hand, the burn marks were already fading, his immortal blood healing them, but the memory of the pain lingered in his breathless silence.

"It burns," he muttered, voice low, strained. "It felt as though it would melt me alive."

Nyssa stepped closer, her tone calm but firm. "Because you are not meant for it."

Katerina turned to her sharply. "You said-?”

"I said only one may face the light," Nyssa interrupted softly. "And that one is you."

The words seemed to echo in the air, reverberating in Katerina's chest.

She stared at the golden pool on the floor, her heart beginning to race. "You're certain?"

Nyssa nodded. "The light belongs to the bloodline of Elaris. No other can withstand its power."

Aemond still flexed his hand, the faint sting lingering. "You expect her to step into that? After seeing what it did to me?"

Nyssa's eyes flicked toward him. "The fire rejects those unchosen. But it will not harm her. It is not fire to her."

Katerina's eyes narrowed slightly. "And what is it then?"

Nyssa's lips parted, a whisper slipping through. "Truth."

The word sank deep into the room, into the silence between them.

Katerina looked back at the light, the beam stretching long across the stones, alive, humming faintly with energy.

She could feel it in her veins.

Not heat, but something older, something that recognised her.

Yet doubt clawed at her chest.

Fire never burned her, but this did not feel like fire. It felt like something watching her, calling her.

Her throat tightened. "And if I fail?"

Nyssa stepped forward, her gaze steady. "Then the light will consume what is false. But you are not false, My’ra Velan. You are the truth reborn. Trust that."

Aemond's hand brushed her arm, his voice low, urgent. "You don't have to do this."

Katerina turned to him, meeting his eye. "If I don't, then who will?"

He said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

He wanted to stop her, to pull her back, yet he knew it was useless.

The same stubborn fire that burned in Daemon lived in her tenfold.

So, with a slow breath, she stepped forward.

The beam of light trembled faintly as she neared, as though sensing her presence.

The air around it rippled like heat over water. Katerina hesitated at the edge, closing her eyes for a heartbeat.

"Trust it," Nyssa whispered.

Katerina's breath shuddered.

Then she stepped into the light.

For an instant, she braced herself for pain, for the searing agony that had struck Aemond, but instead, her body felt weightless.

The ground seemed to vanish beneath her feet. The warmth that spread through her wasn't burning, it was lifting, wrapping her in something both blinding and soft.

Her heart slowed.

Her breathing stilled.

The light surrounded her, weaving like silk around her skin.

Behind her, Nyssa grabbed Aemond's arm and pulled him back.

"Do not stand near it," she hissed. "It will reach for you too."

He resisted at first, but one look at the radiance pouring from Katerina's body silenced him.

It wasn't ordinary light, it pulsed, alive, almost breathing.

It cast no shadow, yet it filled the entire hall with its glow.

Nyssa pulled him behind one of the stone pillars. Together, they watched.

The light rose from the floor in waves, circling Katerina in spirals.

Her hair lifted with it, her cloak rippling though there was no wind.

"She's becoming one with it," Nyssa murmured, awe softening her tone.

Aemond's throat tightened. "What does that mean?"

But Nyssa didn't answer.

Her eyes were wide, reflecting the brilliance before them.

Katerina stood at the centre, motionless.

Her lips parted slightly, her eyes fluttering open, and they were no longer violet.

They were white, washed out, glowing faintly like twin stars.

For a heartbeat, she saw nothing but the brilliance around her, then came the pull.

It was like a thread tightening around her chest, drawing her upward, inward, everywhere at once.

She gasped, feeling something tear from within, not pain, but surrender.

The world vanished in a blinding surge.

And then, silence.

Her body remained standing, bathed in gold, but her soul was gone.

At first, there was nothing.

No sound, no breath, no sense of her body, only the weightless drift of her soul moving through an endless sea of gold.

The light around her was neither warm nor cold, it simply existed, pulsing softly like the heartbeat of the universe.

Katerina blinked, or thought she did, though her eyes were no longer eyes, and there, ahead of her, she saw it.

A light that was not like the rest.

It shimmered far away, distant and small, flickering faintly in the vastness.

Then came the whisper.

"Come forward, child."

The voice brushed through her mind like wind through silk.

Gentle, commanding, infinite.

It carried both tenderness and weight, the kind of voice that could soothe or shatter depending on how it chose to speak.

Katerina's lips parted, but no sound came.

There was no air to breathe here, no ground to step upon, yet somehow she moved.

Each step carried her closer through the luminous haze, her bare feet touching nothing, her body light as thought.

The glow ahead swelled.

The closer she came, the more the light grew, until it filled the horizon, until it was not a single point but a presence that stretched across eternity.

And then she saw her.

Elaris.

The Goddess of Light.

She stood suspended within the brilliance, her form shaped of flame yet too perfect to burn.

Her skin was living fire, soft and fluid, molten gold rippling through her like breath.

Her eyes blazed, not cruelly, but with a sorrowful knowing, and every flicker of her movement sent trails of light cascading around her like waves.

Katerina felt her knees weaken.

The sight was too much, too beautiful, too terrible.

She could feel the power thrumming from Elaris as though it were the rhythm of the world itself, creation and ruin woven together.

Elaris lifted her face toward her, and when she spoke again, her voice was both near and distant, echoing from everywhere at once.

"Come."

Katerina's heart, if it still beat, seemed to tighten.

She wanted to speak, to ask where she was, what this meant, but the words died before they reached her tongue.

The weight of reverence pressed on her, the instinctive awe that one feels when standing before something divine.

Elaris moved then, her hand rising slowly from her side.

The gesture was graceful, deliberate, an offering. Her fingers, made of pure light, reached outward through the haze that separated them.

"Come to me," she said.

The distance between them seemed endless, yet Katerina felt herself drawn closer with each breathless moment.

She hesitated, her hands trembling faintly at her sides.

"What... what are you?" she finally managed to whisper, though the sound was more a thought than a voice.

Elaris's expression softened, the glow in her eyes dimming slightly as though in mercy.

"I am what remains when darkness forgets itself. I am light, and life, and the flame that your blood remembers."

Katerina stared, uncomprehending. Her throat felt dry even in this place of light.

"Step forward," Elaris said again, her voice quieter now, almost coaxing. "You will not be harmed."

Katerina's breath shuddered.

She looked down at her own hands, at the faint, translucent glow beneath her skin.

Her fingers trembled.

Still, she took a step.

And another.

The air, if it could be called that, seemed to hum around her, vibrating with each motion she made. The closer she came, the stronger the pull became, until finally she stood before the Goddess herself.

Elaris's presence radiated warmth without heat, brightness without blindness.

Katerina's face tilted up toward her, her pulse echoing in her head like the distant roll of thunder.

The Goddess extended her hand again, waiting.

Katerina swallowed hard.

Her instincts screamed both to run and to kneel, to reach and to recoil.

She could feel her body trembling, fear and awe tangled so tightly together she could not tell them apart.

Elaris tilted her head slightly, her flame-like hair rippling in invisible wind.

"Do not fear me, my daughter," she said softly. "I will not hurt you."

The words struck something deep within Katerina.

That one word, daughter.

It filled her with both comfort and dread.

She hesitated once more, then slowly raised her hand.

Their fingertips met.

The instant they touched, a shiver rippled through Katerina's body.

A gasp escaped her lips, or what passed for lips in this place, but she felt nothing.

No pain, no burn, not even warmth.

Only emptiness.

It was as though her skin ceased to exist where Elaris's hand touched it.

The sensation, or lack thereof, stole her breath.

Elaris watched her closely, her fiery eyes soft with sorrow.

Her fingers lingered against Katerina's cheek, the gesture almost maternal, before drawing away.

"Nothing," Katerina whispered, her voice faint. "I feel... nothing."

Elaris's expression dimmed, her glow flickering. When she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of ages, the ache of knowing.

"It has been so long," she murmured, "since I felt such pain in one person."

The words fell like embers, glowing in the air between them.

Katerina stood frozen, her white eyes reflecting the goddess's light, two mirrors facing eternity.

For the first time, she understood that this was not a dream, nor a spell, but a meeting written in the blood of her creation.

For a long moment, the light between them pulsed like breath.

The air shimmered, humming softly, until Elaris spoke again, her voice a flame drawn low, almost wistful.

"I have waited many years to see you, child," the goddess said. "To finally speak with the one whom Lestat chose as his own."

Her burning eyes lingered on Katerina, reading the curve of her face as though every shadow beneath her eyes told a story.

"Now I understand why he did. I have seen into your memories, all of them. Every wound. Every fleeting joy."

Katerina's lips parted slightly. "You... you've seen my memories?"

Elaris inclined her head, the motion sending trails of light spilling down her shoulders like liquid fire.

"Close your eyes, daughter of Elaris. Let me show you what I have seen."

Katerina hesitated, then obeyed.

The world fell away.

At first, there was warmth, the memory of a cradle, soft hands, a lullaby hummed by Rhaenyra's voice.

Then the flicker of candlelight across silk and scales: her first dragon's egg, cradled between trembling fingers as her mother smiled down at her.

The smell of smoke, the laughter of her brothers echoing through the halls of Dragonstone.

Daemon's voice teaching her how to hold a blade, his laughter sharp and proud when she failed but tried again.

One memory bled into another, her first steps on the bridge above the sea, the gust of wind lifting her hair.

The world golden and endless before it turned to grey.

Then came the memory that made her breath hitch.

The courtyard.

Mud.

Rain falling hard as she ran too fast, her boots sliding, colliding with another figure.

She remembered the shock of cold earth, the splatter of mud, and when she opened her eyes, Aemond's face inches from hers, his single eye wide before both of them erupted into laughter.

It had been reckless, pure, the laughter of children untouched by war.

But laughter never lasted in their world.

The memories darkened.

Alicent's sharp tongue.

The whispers behind doors. The way Rhaenyra's name became poison in the air.

Katerina remembered the tension in every room she entered, the wary looks, the half-spoken insults.

She remembered Aegon's jealousy, the way he'd watch her and Aemond from the shadows, his expression twisted in ways she hadn't yet understood.

And then... the night of the confession.

Her breath caught as she saw it play again before her eyes.

Aegon's sneer, his drunken breath.

His words that still scraped at her bones. "You'll have to choose, brother. Me or her."

She remembered Aemond's silence, the way he'd clenched his jaw, and the hollow pain that had followed.

The sound of her own cry.

The darkness. Aegon's hands.

The scream that tore from her throat as he ended her life, leaving only cold silence.

She gasped.

The flashes vanished, the laughter, the screams, all of it, until she was standing once more in the light, the fire before her pulsing gently.

Her breaths came ragged and shallow, tears streaking her cheeks.

Elaris was watching her, her gaze heavy with something like sorrow.

"I have seen the pain that shaped you," the goddess said quietly. "Every fracture of your soul. And I ask you now, have you spent your life as what you are, child, only to seek vengeance?"

Katerina's throat tightened. She shook her head, eyes glistening.

"No," she whispered. "I didn't ask for any of this. I never wanted it."

Elaris sighed, and the sound was like the sea retreating against the shore, vast, mournful.

"He was selfish," she said, and her tone turned to flame. "Lestat. Selfish to keep you tethered when your soul already begged for rest. But that is what it means to be what you are."

Her gaze softened again, flickers of gold dancing across her face.

"To be supernatural is to be selfish. To take from life what life itself would never give you. And now, my child, you will have to learn that selfishness too."

Katerina blinked. "What are you saying?"

Elaris took a step closer, her body blazing brighter.

"You must be selfish enough to end your bloodline, once and for all."

The words struck like steel.

Katerina stared at her, confusion flickering to disbelief. "End my... what?"

"The coven," Elaris said simply.

"All that was made of my blood and your kind. They have lived almost a thousand years. Too long. The balance has broken. The world is tilted, child. There are too many who walk without heartbeat. Too many who forget the cost of eternity."

Katerina's hands trembled. "You... want me to kill them?"

"If that is what it takes." The goddess's voice was soft but unyielding, like fire burning through silk.

Katerina shook her head, stepping back, her voice trembling. "I can't. They're my people. I was made to protect them, not destroy them."

Elaris tilted her head, the light in her eyes dimming with pity.

"They all must die, one way or another. Whether by blade, by time, or by their own greed. The living deserve a world not drowned by the immortal."

Katerina's voice cracked. "You're asking me to be a monster."

Elaris smiled faintly. "You already are one, my child. But you may choose what kind."

She lifted her hand, and light poured from her palm, visions swirling in it: the faces of her coven, her kin, her brothers, the war spreading like a wound.

"You see this world? It rots beneath too many gods. Even mortals have begun to forget what it means to die. You think you are preserving them. I can say, you are preserving their curse."

Katerina's eyes welled again, though she fought it. "You don't understand. They're all I have left."

"Then love them enough to let them end," Elaris murmured.

Silence fell between them. The light crackled faintly.

Katerina turned her face away, staring into the endless white that surrounded them. "You speak as if it's easy."

"Nothing worth doing ever is," Elaris said.

Her tone softened, becoming almost kind. "Tell me, Katerina. Did you think to win this war? To rule a kingdom that would call you queen, even those who are not of your kind?"

Katerina was silent.

She stared into the firelight, jaw tight.

Elaris nodded slowly, as if she had expected no answer. "If you succeed, child, you will reign for centuries. You will watch mortals rise and crumble. Their children will forget you. And still you will stand, unchanging. Do you think that is mercy?"

Katerina's breath caught.

She wanted to protest, but the words stayed locked in her throat.

Elaris stepped closer.

"You would rule for many years, and people will ask, why does she not die? Why are there no heirs of her name? And you will have no answer but the truth: that you were never meant to live forever."

The goddess's flames softened, the brightness turning gold, almost human. "No one should live that long.”

Katerina swallowed hard, the weight of her heartbeat echoing in her chest, if it could even be called that.

For a moment she stood in the radiance, motionless.

Her voice came quiet, small, the faint tremor of someone who had carried too much for too long.

"But I haven't lived at all."

By the time the sun had lowered to the horizon, the towers of Harrenhal loomed ahead.

Black stone rising like broken teeth from the marsh.

The wind that swept through the ruin was colder than it should have been, carrying the scent of wet ash and the faint echo of old screams.

Daemon's soldiers moved quickly, spreading across the crumbled courtyard to set camp.

Some began clearing the great hall, hauling in timber for fires.

Others saw to the horses, their rough laughter echoing faintly through the hollows of the ruined keep.

Sparks flew as swords were sharpened and shields were mended; a low hum of preparation filled the air.

Daemon and Alys walked through it all side by side.

His red cloak trailed behind him, boots scraping against stone.

Alys, in her dark travelling cloak, kept pace easily, her eyes flicking from one fallen wall to the next as if reading ghosts.

"It's strange to see it so quiet," Daemon said at last. "When I last rode through here, Ser Simon Strong greeted me at the gates. He had a laugh that could wake the dead."

Alys smiled faintly. "He was kind to me. For a time."

Daemon huffed. "A good man, all things considered. Loyal. Too loyal perhaps."

He stopped, glancing around the courtyard.

"And then my dear nephew went and burned him in his own hall."

Alys's gaze drifted to the cracked stones beneath their feet.

"Yes," she said softly. "Aemond did that."

Daemon's expression darkened. "Seven hells. And yet you stayed his wife."

"I hadn't much choice," she replied.

There was no bitterness in her tone, only weary acceptance.

"He was the one the gods gave me, and I learned to live beside him rather than against him."

Daemon barked a quiet laugh.

"And to even marry him! Seven hells indeed."

He shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

"I understand why my daughter's done it, mind you. The boy's her match now given the same cursed blood, same coven of whatever you lot are. But you? You, I'll never understand."

Alys's mouth curved faintly, not offended. "You speak as if love ever cared for understanding."

Daemon gave her a sideways look. "Love? I wouldn't call what you two had that."

She shrugged, letting the wind lift her dark hair. "Nor would I."

That silenced him for a few steps.

They passed beneath the archway into what remained of the inner yard.

The men had begun lighting torches along the walls, and the dying light of the sunset caught on Daemon's silver hair, turning it to molten red.

Then, after a pause, Daemon muttered,

"Tell me something, witch. If you and Aemond were wed, and gods know what rites you followed, does that not make my daughter's marriage a fine mess? He's already bound to you."

Alys's smile turned sly. "Not bound. Not truly. Our union was never real in the eyes of our kind."

Daemon frowned. "And why's that?"

"Because he was immortal, and I was not," she said simply.

"Among us, a bond can only be forged between equals, both born of blood or both born of death. Anything else fades when one ceases to age." She looked ahead, voice softening. "Our vows dissolved the day he first fed."

Daemon snorted. "So two unmarried souls sharing a chamber. Who would've thought?"

Alys's eyes glimmered in the torchlight, amused. "You speak as though you disapprove."

"I speak as though I'm impressed," Daemon replied, smirking. "The gods know, you're both too damned strange for anyone else to endure."

They walked on into the flickering glow of the torches, the echo of his laughter swallowed by the vast, haunted halls of Harrenhal.

…

The halls of the Red Keep were quiet that morning.

Too quiet for the Queen Dowager's liking.

The kind of silence that did not hum with peace, but with absence.

Alicent had long grown used to the clatter of servants and guards, the constant shuffle of maesters delivering notes or parchments.

Yet today, all she could hear was the distant thud of boots, a soft wind pushing through the half-opened windows, and a strange sense of ending.

She found him in the courtyard, where the morning sun stretched long and golden across the cobblestones.

Daeron was there, standing beside his horse, fastening the last strap of his satchel.

His pale hair caught the light, and for a moment he looked far older than his years.

Not the quiet, obedient boy she had raised in Oldtown, but a man who had already decided his course.

"Daeron?" she called softly, her voice carrying the faintest tremor.

He turned, startled perhaps, but not guilty.

There was no rush to hide what he was doing.

"Mother," he said simply, inclining his head.

Her gaze fell to the packed bags, to the scrolls tucked beneath his arm, and the crest of Oldtown stitched into the leather of his cloak.

Her throat tightened. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving," Daeron replied, matter-of-factly. "I'm returning to Oldtown."

Alicent blinked, stunned.

"Leaving?"

She took a few steps forward, her voice sharp with disbelief. "You are not serious."

"I am," he said, calm, but distant in a way that frightened her more than anger ever could.

"Why?" she demanded. "Why would you abandon your family now of all times?"

Daeron sighed and adjusted the strap on his shoulder, his movements unhurried.

"Because, Mother, I wish for my life to go back to what it once was, before all of this."

Her eyes darted over him, as though searching for some trace of the boy she knew.

"Before all of this?" she repeated, incredulous.

"You mean before your brothers fought? Before the realm tore itself apart?"

"Before any of us forgot who we were," Daeron said quietly.

Alicent stepped closer, her voice lowering into something desperate.

"You cannot mean to go. Not when Aegon needs you. Not when your brother-?”

But Daeron cut her off, still without raising his voice.

"Aegon needs no one. He has his crown, his dragons, and his madness to keep him company."

"Daeron!"

He did not flinch.

"You say he needs me, yet every word from your mouth is to defend him. Even now. Even after everything."

Alicent stared at him, momentarily speechless.

The tone in his voice, the weight of it, was unfamiliar.

Anger, she realized.

True, quiet anger.

"You will not speak of your brother like that," she said, though her voice faltered.

Daeron gave a small, humorless laugh.

"Why not? I have held my tongue long enough."

He turned to face her fully, eyes hardening with a resolve she hadn't seen since he was a child learning to wield a sword.

"You dismiss every move he makes, Mother. Even when he acts like a downright dog."

The words hit her like a slap.

She blinked, stunned, mouth parting slightly but finding no words.

"What did you say?"

He took a step toward her, his tone still measured but edged with the truth he could no longer bury.

"You heard me. You speak of Aegon as if he were some wounded child to be pitied, but you know as well as I do that he made his choices. He bathed the realm in fire and blood, and still you defend him."

"Because he is my son!" Alicent snapped.

Daeron met her eyes evenly. "So are we!”

That silence between them lingered, heavy and suffocating.

For a moment, she looked as though she might cry, but Alicent Hightower had never been a woman who allowed tears to fall easily.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her hand trembling faintly at her side.

"You speak of Aemond," she said finally, her voice softer but wary.

Daeron nodded once. "I do. Because he has every right to go against Aegon."

Alicent's brows furrowed in disbelief. "Every right?"

"Yes," Daeron said, unwavering.

"You forget what Aegon did. You forget that he killed her, Katerina, right before him. What would you have done if you had watched someone you love die at your brother's hands?"

Alicent's chest rose and fell, but she said nothing.

"At least now," Daeron continued, "Aemond can defend himself. And her. Perhaps he should have done so long ago."

"Daeron," she began, stepping toward him again, "you do not understand what-!”

"I understand more than you think," he interrupted gently.

"I understand that we are tearing each other apart while the rest of the realm watches. And I will not stand beside either of them, not to kill my own blood."

Alicent's lip quivered. "You would abandon me, then?"

"I am not abandoning you," Daeron said, almost tenderly. "I am saving myself."

The courtyard was filled with the restless clatter of hooves as one of his knights led forward a second horse, its reins glinting in the sunlight.

Daeron turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder at it, then back at his mother.

"Mother," he said, his voice soft now, almost pleading.

"Let me go. I have no taste for thrones or war. I am not Aegon. I am not Aemond. I am simply your son, and I wish to live, not fight."

Alicent shook her head, her composure cracking.

"I command that you stay."

Daeron's smile was faint, sad. "You can command the realm, but not me."

He stepped closer, his expression gentling as he reached for her hand.

She didn't pull away, though her palm trembled in his.

"You have given enough to this family, Mother. You've bled for all of us. But I cannot be another son lost to your duty."

Alicent's eyes glistened, but she blinked hard, forcing the tears away. "You would leave your brothers to destroy one another?"

"I would leave them to make their own choices," he said. "Perhaps, in time, they'll see what it's cost."

She looked at him long and hard, her breath shallow, her lips parting as though she might speak, but no words came.

Daeron leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"You raised me to have sense," he murmured. "And now you curse me for using it."

"Daeron," she whispered, her voice cracking on his name.

He stepped back before he could falter.

Turning to his horse, he mounted with practiced ease.

The guards at the gate stood silent, unsure whether to move or stay.

The world seemed to slow, the flutter of banners, the sigh of wind through the stones, even the faint echo of the city beyond the walls.

Alicent stood there, still and small against the vast courtyard as Daeron looked down at her one last time.

"I wish you peace, Mother," he said. "Truly."

And then, with a tug of the reins, he turned the horse and rode through the gate.

Alicent remained where she stood, her hand clutching the pendant at her throat, watching as her youngest son vanished down the road, the glint of his armor fading into dust and sunlight.

For the first time in years, the Red Keep felt empty.

The room was steeped in quiet.

The kind of silence that hums faintly, like the world itself is holding its breath.

Only the faint crackle of candlelight broke it, soft and rhythmic, flickering shadows over the old stone walls.

Dust still clung to the air, dancing lazily through the gold-orange glow, catching against the faint threads of smoke that curled from the torches.

Katerina lay on the bed in the center of the chamber.

Her body was still, her chest rising and falling so faintly that one might have mistaken her for dead.

The pale fabric of the sheets framed her form like a shroud, her hair spilling out across the pillow in long silvered waves, her lips parted as though caught between breaths.

Aemond sat at her side, elbows on his knees, one hand curled against the edge of the bedframe.

His fingers tapped once, twice, before going still.

Across from him sat Nyssa, small, sharp-eyed, her legs tucked beneath her, her gaze fixed upon Katerina's face with an eerie kind of patience.

Neither spoke.

For a long while, they simply watched.

It was Aemond who broke the silence first.

His voice was low, steady but carrying the undercurrent of unease that had been growing since Katerina had fallen.

"How long has it been?"

Nyssa turned slightly, her brows furrowing. "Long enough for you to lose count, I imagine."

He gave her a sideways glance, unimpressed.

"An hour. Maybe more." He straightened slightly, eyes flickering to Katerina's unmoving hand. "She should have woken by now."

Nyssa said nothing at first.

She simply tilted her head, studying the still figure.

The firelight painted Katerina's face in soft gold, her lashes trembling faintly as if caught in some unseen dream.

"She's not hurt," Nyssa murmured finally.

Aemond frowned. "You sound certain."

"I am."

"How?"

The girl's eyes lifted to his, pale and gleaming in the dim light. "Because no mother would hurt her child."

Aemond stilled.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

He leaned back in the chair, gaze turning distant.

The flicker of the torchlight caught against the sapphire that replaced his missing eye, and for a moment, it gleamed like living flame.

“She is the mother Elaris’ daughter,” Nyssa interrupted softly. “The light will not destroy her. It will show her what she’s meant to be.”

Then, quietly, he said, "It's not impossible."

Nyssa looked at him curiously. "You say that as though you know."

Aemond's jaw tightened.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers resuming their quiet tapping against the wood of the bed.

"You needn't worry about me, girl."

"I'm not worrying," she said softly. "Just... relating."

That drew his eye back to her.

There was a flicker of interest in it now, faint, cautious. "Relating?"

Nyssa nodded, her gaze returning to Katerina's face.

"My mother disowned me," she said simply. "Said I was a monster."

Aemond's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Because I became what I am," she answered. "A hybrid. Half wolf, half vampire."

Aemond regarded her for a long moment, his curiosity overcoming his reticence.

"And that is reason enough to cast you out?"

Nyssa gave a small, almost bitter smile.

"To them, it is. Vampires and wolves are enemies. Always have been. To be one is betrayal of both. A sin against nature, they say."

He let out a quiet scoff. "Being one or the other is sin enough."

That earned a small laugh from her, soft, surprised. "So you think as I do."

"I think," Aemond replied dryly, "that the world finds new ways to name sin every time it's convenient."

Nyssa tilted her head, studying him anew. "And what does the world call you?"

Aemond hesitated, then smirked faintly. "Many things. Most not kind."

"Monster?"

He gave a slight nod. "Among others."

For a moment, the girl said nothing.

She simply looked down, tracing a pattern along the old bedpost with her fingers.

"Then we have that in common," she murmured.

He eyed her carefully. "Your mother truly turned you away?"

Nyssa's expression softened, not with sadness exactly, but something older, deeper.

"She did not see me as her child anymore," she said.

"She said my eyes were no longer my own. That my soul had gone to rot."

Her voice faltered for a moment, then steadied. "She told me that if I ever returned, she would slit my throat herself."

Aemond's fingers stilled against the table.

His expression gave little away, but his chest tightened, something unspoken stirring deep in him.

"What kind of mother," he said after a long pause, "casts out her own blood?"

Nyssa gave a small shrug, the motion too casual to be sincere.

"The kind that fears what she doesn't understand."

He looked back at Katerina, her stillness somehow heavier now in the silence.

"Then she was a fool."

Nyssa's smile grew faint but genuine. "Perhaps. But I was not the only one."

She turned her gaze to him again, the corners of her lips curving just slightly.

"At least now, I'm not an outcast alone."

Aemond blinked, his expression shifting subtly as realization dawned.

She meant him.

He gave a low, almost reluctant chuckle. "You are bold to compare yourself to me."

"You think yourself above me?" she teased gently.

"I think myself... different."

Nyssa arched a brow. "Different is another word for lonely."

That silenced him.

For a moment, neither spoke again.

Only the faint hiss of the candle filled the room, and the quiet rhythm of Katerina's breathing.

Nyssa's eyes softened as she studied him. "You care for her deeply."

Aemond glanced up, his expression hardening again. "Is it so obvious?"

"Pain always is," she replied.

He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. "You speak as if you've lived long enough to know such things."

"I have," she said. "Longer than I should have, perhaps."

He turned toward her fully then, his single violet eye narrowing. "And what keeps you alive?"

Nyssa looked at Katerina again. "The hope that one day, I won't be."

Aemond's gaze lingered on her face.

The sharp honesty of her words, the calm in them that came only from years of quiet suffering.

In her, he saw a reflection of something he recognized.

The curse of those who live too long and love too deeply.

He said nothing more.

Minutes slipped into an hour.

The candles burned lower, their wax dripping in slow rivers down their sides.

Nyssa had begun to hum softly under her breath, a low melodic sound, something haunting and wordless.

Aemond sat unmoving, his gaze fixed on Katerina's hand.

Every so often, he thought he saw it twitch, the faintest motion, but each time he leaned forward, it stilled again, leaving him wondering if it was merely a trick of the light.

It began with the faintest twitch.

Aemond almost didn't see it at first.

The smallest movement of Katerina's fingers, so subtle it could've been a trick of the flame.

But then it came again, a sudden jerk, the pulse beneath her skin quickening.

He leaned forward, the chair creaking softly beneath him.

"...Katerina?" he whispered.

Her fingers twitched again.

Then her lips.

The motion spread through her body.

A ripple, as though her soul were clawing its way back from someplace far, far away.

Aemond's breath caught in his throat.

He reached forward before he even realised it, instinct moving him faster than thought.

His hand cupped her cheek, desperate to feel her warmth, to reassure himself she was truly there.

But the moment his skin touched hers, he hissed and pulled back sharply.

A sting.

A shock of heat not like fire, but something alive.

It burned through his palm, searing and alive, his veins igniting with white light for the briefest heartbeat before it faded.

Aemond grimaced, clutching his hand to his chest, the skin faintly reddened where he'd touched her.

"What-?”

"Don't!" Nyssa's voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent.

She was on her feet in a heartbeat, stepping in front of him, one arm held protectively out as if to shield him.

"You mustn't touch her!"

Aemond's brow furrowed, his breath rough. "She's waking-?”

Nyssa shook her head. "Not yet. She's still between worlds."

Aemond blinked, trying to make sense of her words. "Between-?”

"She's transitioning back to reality," Nyssa said, her tone low, almost reverent.

"Right now, she is neither here nor there. Not body nor spirit. What you touch isn't her true self."

He frowned, watching Katerina's body twitch once more, her skin faintly glowing under the candlelight, a sheen of warmth radiating from her that was almost unnatural.

Nyssa's gaze softened but her voice stayed steady.

"You have to remember..."

She paused, her eyes flickering toward the woman on the bed. "Katerina is fire."

The words hit him harder than he expected.

He looked down at his hand, the faint red mark still pulsing with heat.

She was fire.

He'd always known it.

But never before had the truth felt so literal.

So divine.

Katerina's movements grew faster, her head twitching from side to side, a faint sound escaping her lips, like the ghost of a breath trying to become a scream.

Aemond could do nothing but stand there, watching helplessly, his body poised to move yet restrained by fear and awe.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, she went still.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Aemond froze, eyes wide. "Katerina?"

No response.

Her chest did not rise.

Her hand lay limp against the bed, the faint glow on her skin fading away into pale stillness.

Aemond felt something in his chest drop.

Heavy, cold.

He took a half-step forward, ready to grab her again no matter the burn, when her eyes snapped open.

She gasped, sitting up sharply as though breaking the surface of deep water.

Her chest heaved, air rushing back into her lungs in ragged bursts.

Her hair clung to her damp skin, wild and dark, her eyes wide and glowing faintly in the dim light.

"Aemond.”

His name tore from her throat like a prayer.

Aemond's breath broke in relief.

He moved toward her slowly this time, voice low and careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter her fragile state.

"I'm here," he murmured, his tone a balm. "Katerina... I'm right here."

Her gaze darted around the room, disoriented, wild, until she found him.

The instant her eyes locked onto his, she froze.

Her lips trembled.

The panic in her chest began to still, though tears welled in her eyes without warning.

She looked small then, fragile in a way he'd never seen.

Her usual flame, that sharp, steady power that burned behind her gaze, flickered low, like a candle guttering in the wind.

Aemond hesitated before reaching out again, his movements measured.

"It's all right," he whispered. "You're safe."

When she didn't flinch, he slowly brought his hand to rest against the bed beside her, close but not touching.

He watched the tears slide down her cheeks, glistening like molten glass in the low light.

Her voice broke as she tried to speak. "I... I saw her."

Aemond's head tilted slightly. "Who?"

Her eyes, still shining faintly from the lingering energy of the light, met his, full of wonder, fear, and sorrow all at once.

"Elaris," she breathed. "I saw Elaris."

XXXVIII

[averillaratargaryen]

XXXVI

The ground beneath their boots shifted from soil to stone, the narrow path winding through an ancient valley where the light seemed unwilling to stay.

The air carried a metallic scent, not of death, but of memory, and each gust of wind whispered in a tongue long forgotten by mortals.

Aemond's hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, though Katerina knew he would not need it here.

Still, instinct held its own power, his dragon blood could sense what the eyes could not.

The young man who guided them moved lightly over the path, his steps soundless even on gravel. His hair was black as coal dust, cut short at the back, his skin pale but strangely ageless.

Though his frame was lean, something about him carried the calm of an ancient creature, his movements deliberate, graceful, and knowing.

Katerina watched the way he walked, as if he had always known she would come.

When the silence stretched too long, she spoke. "You've not told me your name."

The boy glanced over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest smile. "Names change often in our kind," he said, his voice melodic, almost teasing.

"But the one given to me last was Eryth."

"Eryth," she repeated softly, the name fitting on her tongue like an echo. "And you knew who I was before I said it."

He nodded once, his dark eyes brightening in the half-light. "We all did."

Katerina's brows knit. "How?"

Eryth's gaze flicked ahead again, to the shadowed shapes moving in the distance. "I listen," he said simply. “I read what the wind carries. I watch what bleeds into the roots. The soil remembers your footsteps long before you arrive."

Katerina tilted her head. "Then you've been watching me?"

"Since before you were born." His tone was neither boastful nor apologetic, only certain.

"The blood of Elaris hums across continents, My'ra velan . When it stirs again, every creature of her making feels the tremor."

She was silent for a moment, her eyes tracing his back as they walked.

"You said yourself. Who else knew?"

Eryth smiled faintly but did not look back this time. "Those who listen closely enough," he said. "And those who were waiting."

Behind them, Aemond followed, his steps slower. His eyes moved through the village that unfolded gradually from the mist.

A vast expanse of tents, huts, and firepits stretching across the valley floor.

It was unlike any settlement he had seen, both primitive and hauntingly elegant.

Each structure seemed grown, not built, wood and bone and woven vines forming shapes that curved upward like ribs of great beasts.

Smoke drifted lazily above the fires, carrying a scent that was neither human nor entirely natural.

The people noticed them quickly.

Heads turned.

Conversations hushed.

All eyes, glowing, shifting, strange, followed their path.

Aemond felt it first. The difference.

Wolves lounged near the outer fires, their human forms marked by golden eyes and faint scars that shimmered beneath their skin.

The witches gathered in clusters, their hair streaked with silver dust, murmuring words that made the flames twist and dance.

Vampires lingered at the edges of shade, their movements too smooth, their gazes too fixed.

And then there were the others.

The half-breeds.

They bore the marks of two worlds, their features unsettlingly varied.

Some had eyes like molten amber, others too dark to see their pupils.

Some smiled with too many teeth.

None of them looked at Aemond kindly.

He felt their suspicion in the air, thick and sharp as iron.

"They don't take kindly to outsiders," Eryth said, glancing briefly over his shoulder.

Aemond's lip curved faintly. "I had gathered that."

Katerina ignored the stares, her posture unflinching.

Yet she could feel the tension around them, like the low hum of a storm about to break.

As they moved deeper into the village, Aemond noticed how divided it was.

Each faction kept to its own, wolves near the shadows of the trees, witches by the fires, vampires in the cold dark beyond.

Even here, among their own kind, unity seemed more legend than truth.

Aemond's gaze drifted, catching flashes of eyes and whispers, until something, someone, made him pause.

Across the clearing, a young girl stood half-hidden behind a post.

Her hair was dark as a raven's wing, her eyes black.

Not red like Katerina's kin, not golden like the wolves, but pure black, fathomless and calm. And her face...

He froze.

There was something in her features, the curve of her jaw, the tilt of her eyes, that mirrored his own.

She smiled at him shyly.

A soft, knowing smile that shouldn't have reached his heart but did.

Aemond inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

The girl giggled, a sound like wind chimes, light and brief, before a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the crowd.

She disappeared, swallowed by the bodies and shadows.

He stared for a moment longer, the echo of her laugh lingering.

"Something wrong?" Katerina asked, turning slightly as she noticed his delay.

Aemond shook his head. "Nothing," he said quietly. "Just... nothing."

Eryth had stopped ahead, at the edge of a clearing.

A single structure stood there, taller than the others, built from woven roots and carved wood, its shape reminiscent of a heart split open.

Smoke trailed from the narrow opening at the top.

Symbols were etched across the entrance in looping runes that glowed faintly with crimson light.

Katerina frowned. "What is this place?"

Eryth turned to face them fully now.

The expression that had once been playful was gone, replaced by something older, almost reverent.

"This is the Hall of Thorns."

"The seat of your council?" Aemond asked, his tone wary.

Eryth's gaze flickered to him, eyes glinting. "You might call it that," he said.

"But it is more than a council. It is where the blood itself speaks."

He stepped closer to Katerina, lowering his voice. "You will go in without me."

Katerina raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because it is forbidden," Eryth said simply. "The blood of Elaris may pass freely, but my kind may not follow where the old power sleeps."

"Your kind?" Aemond asked.

For a moment, the boy hesitated.

Then his eyes changed.

What had been dark turned to ink-black, the pupils vanishing entirely.

His shoulders hunched slightly, not in fear, but in transformation.

Feathers erupted along his arms, sleek and glossy, trailing upward until his face seemed to blur with motion.

His bones reshaped with a faint crack, and within a heartbeat, where the boy had stood now perched a raven, black and gleaming in the pale light.

He flapped once, taking flight with a shriek that cut through the silence.

Aemond and Katerina both tilted their heads up, following his ascent until he landed upon the high branch of an ancient tree above the Hall.

From there, the raven stared down at them, his beak slightly parted, his eyes bright with thought.

Katerina exhaled softly, shaking her head in astonishment. "So that's how he knew."

Aemond smirked faintly. "Spying suits him."

Katerina turned to him, eyes soft but sharp beneath her lashes.

"He wasn't spying," she said quietly.

"He was listening. The ravens carry messages across worlds. If the Elarin have used them for generations, then perhaps he has known my blood since it first stirred."

The raven croaked, a sound like a whisper in the wind, before settling its wings.

Katerina looked back toward the entrance of the Hall.

The faint crimson glow pulsed like a heartbeat. She could feel it now, the pull, the whisper that wasn't sound but memory.

It was as if the air itself recognised her, tugging her forward.

…

The air inside was thick with stillness, not silence, but the kind that felt alive, as though the very dust could breathe.

The faint glow from the doorway dimmed behind them, leaving the chamber bathed in muted gold and shadows.

The walls curved inward like the ribs of some ancient creature, their surfaces veined with dried sap and timeworn symbols.

The Hall was enormous, though not grand.

It had the weight of age, the kind that made the bones ache.

Dust hung in the air like mist, shimmering faintly in the light that filtered through cracks in the roof.

Piles of parchment and stacks of brittle, leather-bound tomes were scattered across wooden tables warped by centuries.

Cobwebs draped like lace over the corners of shelves, and the faint scent of ash lingered, as if fires had burned here once but never properly died.

Katerina's boots made soft echoes as she walked forward.

Every sound, every shift of air, seemed magnified within those walls.

Aemond followed close behind, his single eye adjusting quickly to the gloom.

"This place..." he murmured, his voice low. "It feels older than death."

Katerina nodded faintly.

"It is. These walls have seen hundreds of reigns, mortal and immortal alike."

Her words carried reverence and unease in equal measure.

They moved slowly, taking in the sight before them.

The long table in the centre of the room was buried beneath a chaos of books, scrolls, and open pages.

Some of the writing was smeared or faded, others burned at the edges.

Strange runes crawled across parchment in ink so dark it seemed to pulse.

Among them lay fragments of wax seals, shards of glass, and the blackened remains of candles.

Aemond reached for one of the scrolls, careful not to tear it.

The texture was dry and brittle beneath his fingertips.

He unfurled it partway, the ink catching the dim light, curling lines and symbols that seemed to move when he tried to focus on them.

He frowned. "This isn't Valyrian," he muttered.

Katerina moved closer to glance over his shoulder. "No," she said softly. "It's Elphoric."

Aemond hummed, tapping his fingers against the edge of the table, his eye narrowing as he scanned the indecipherable text.

He tilted his head slightly, the way he did when trying to decipher something unfamiliar, patient, calculating.

"These are records," he said after a pause. "but it should not exist anymore."

Katerina didn't answer.

She wasn't looking at the table anymore.

Her attention had drifted to the far end of the Hall, to something half-hidden in shadow.

A single frame, tall and rectangular, leaning against the wall.

A painting.

Aemond followed her gaze, curiosity pricking beneath his skin.

He straightened, brushed the dust from his fingers, and stepped after her.

The closer they came, the clearer it became that this was no ordinary portrait.

The paint itself seemed alive, the colours shifting faintly as though reacting to their presence.

Katerina stopped before it, her breath catching.

The painting depicted a circle of figures, robed, faceless silhouettes, gathered around a great fire that burned not with orange flame, but deep crimson.

The sky behind them was black as obsidian, streaked with silver.

In the centre of the flames was a figure, clearer than the rest.

A woman.

Her face was partly obscured by smoke, but her eyes burned through, a radiant, impossible gold that pierced through time.

Around her, the shadows bowed.

Aemond tilted his head, his voice quiet. "What does it mean?"

Katerina's lips parted, but no words came at first. She stared, transfixed, as though the painting itself whispered to her.

"I don't know," she said finally, her voice almost a whisper. "There is much here I still don't understand."

Her tone carried more than uncertainty, there was fear beneath it, faint but real.

Aemond studied her face in the dim light.

He could see the tension in her jaw, the flicker of unease behind her eyes.

His hand twitched, the urge to reach for her almost overpowering, but he restrained himself.

Instead, he stepped beside her, his gaze lingering on the painted flames. "You're troubled."

Katerina looked up at him, meeting his eye. She didn't deny it. "We don't have time," she said softly.

"Aegon is already moving, and the coven... they'll want answers. There's so much to learn, and so little time to prepare."

Aemond nodded, his expression steady. "Then we start here."

He turned back toward the table, gesturing toward the scattered parchment. "If there are answers, they're written somewhere in this mess."

Katerina followed, her eyes tracing the piles of brittle pages.

She reached down, carefully lifting one from the pile.

The texture of the paper was strange, thicker than usual, faintly ridged.

She realised, with a shiver, that it wasn't paper at all. It was pressed skin.

She turned it over slowly, scanning the words inked in deep crimson.

The language was familiar, curving symbols, sharp edges.

The same ancient tongue Lestat had once taught her fragments of, though only in passing.

Aemond came up behind her, his presence a warm shadow. "You can read it?"

She nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as she traced the words. "Some of it."

"What does it say?"

Katerina exhaled, her lips moving as she translated under her breath.

"It speaks of the covenant of blood... of the first bond between the daughter of Elaris and her chosen consort..."

Her voice trailed off as her eyes caught on a name near the bottom. A familiar one.

"...Lestat."

Before either of them could speak again, a sound broke through the stillness.

A faint thud. Then another.

Both turned sharply, Aemond's hand going instinctively to the hilt of his blade.

The sound wasn't threatening, but soft, light footsteps approaching from the far side of the Hall.

And then she appeared.

The girl.

The same one Aemond had seen outside, the one with the black eyes.

She stepped from behind one of the pillars, her movements delicate, unhurried.

She looked younger up close, perhaps no more than seventeen in mortal years, but her presence was anything but human.

The air around her seemed to shimmer faintly, as though light bent away from her skin.

Her gaze met Aemond's first, recognition flickering in her smile. Then she turned to Katerina, her voice soft and melodic.

"Hello."

The girl's smile deepened, the corners of her mouth curving with something almost childlike, and yet her eyes carried centuries.

She stepped forward, the faintest sound of her bare feet brushing against the dusted floor.

"My name is Nyssa."

The name fell like a note of music, bright and strange amid the heavy air.

Aemond glanced at Katerina, but she said nothing. She was still watching the girl, trying to read her.

Nyssa smiled again, wider this time. "Welcome home," she said simply.

And though her tone was soft, something in the way she said it, the weight behind her words, made Katerina's stomach twist.

The dawn was thin, the light pale and cold, stretching over the moors like a reluctant promise.

The road bent ahead in long winding curves, mud damp from the mist that refused to lift.

The sound of hooves against stone echoed faintly through the still air as Daemon and Alys rode side by side, their cloaks heavy with dew.

They had been on the move since before first light.

The men behind them marched quietly, too weary to speak, the rhythm of their steps a muted heartbeat along the path.

Daemon's eyes stayed forward, his expression carved in resolve.

"We'll reach Harrenhal by noon," he said, breaking the long silence.

His voice was rough, but steady.

Alys nodded, her hood drawn up against the wind. "Then we rest there, if the gods allow it."

Daemon gave a soft snort. "The gods haven't done much for us lately."

Her lips curved faintly. "And yet they haven't stopped you either."

For a while, they said nothing more, the world narrowing to the creak of saddles and the murmur of wind through grass.

The land stretched open and empty, save for the occasional crow perched along the fences, watching their progress with dark, unblinking eyes.

It wasn't until they rounded a bend that Daemon noticed the figure ahead, a lone man walking along the road.

He was small, thin, carrying a bundle of papers tucked under one arm.

His clothes were worn but clean, his boots scuffed from miles of travel.

Daemon slowed his horse, narrowing his eyes. "Just a traveller," he muttered.

Alys nodded lightly. "Leave him. He poses no threat."

Daemon didn't argue, letting his pace slow further as they drew near.

But when they passed the man, the traveller looked up, and in that single instant, everything shifted.

Recognition struck like a blade.

The young man's face paled, his mouth parting in disbelief.

His eyes widened as though he'd seen a ghost. "P–Prince Daemon?" he stammered, voice trembling.

Daemon froze, his reins tightening in his grip.

Alys turned sharply toward the man, her brows furrowing as she studied him.

Then something flickered in her memory.

"He's from King's Landing," she said quietly. "A paperboy. I've seen him before. He sold the Hand's decrees to the crowds."

Daemon's expression darkened. "Then he knows exactly who I am."

The boy must have read the thought in his eyes, because he stumbled back a step, then turned and bolted, running down the road in the opposite direction, his papers spilling from his arms like a trail of white wings.

Daemon cursed under his breath, spurring his horse forward, but before he could move, Alys reached out, her hand gripping his forearm.

"Don't."

He glanced at her sharply.

"If he reaches the capital, he'll tell them. He'll tell them everything. That I'm alive, that we ride for Harrenhal."

Alys didn't flinch. "Good."

The word struck him off guard. He stared at her, his frown deepening. "Good?"

Her eyes met his, calm, unwavering.

"Let him tell them. Let the message spread. Let them know their greatest failure still breathes."

Daemon's jaw clenched. "You'd have me risk our plans so some frightened boy can sing my name in the streets?"

Alys shook her head slowly.

"You don't see it, do you? Fear is a weapon sharper than any blade. You've haunted their nightmares for years, Daemon.”

“They burned half the realm trying to kill you, and yet here you are, riding for them again, stronger than before."

He studied her, the tension in his shoulders unmoving.

"And what happens when that boy tells Aegon? When he learns I march with an army?"

"Then he'll panic," Alys said simply.

"He'll turn his attention to the west, to you, and not to Katerina. It will buy her time to do what must be done."

Daemon's eyes narrowed, but he didn't interrupt.

Alys continued, her voice low and certain. "Besides, they already believe themselves safe. They sit behind walls and dragons, thinking the realm bends to their will.”

“Let them hear your name again and remember what real power sounds like. Let them know they failed to kill their monster."

For a moment, Daemon was silent.

The wind whistled through the grass, tugging at his cloak.

Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something close.

"You'd use their fear against them," he said quietly.

"I'd use their arrogance," Alys corrected.

"Fear is only dangerous when you run from it. You, Daemon, were never one to run."

He let out a quiet breath that might've been a laugh. "You speak as though you've known me all my life."

Alys gave him a sidelong look, the faintest glint of amusement in her eyes. "Maybe I have."

Their horses slowed to a stop, the army behind them halting in turn.

The boy had vanished beyond the bend, the last of his scattered papers fluttering in the breeze.

Daemon looked down the road where he'd fled, then back at Alys.

"You think this will work?"

"I don't think," she said, her tone soft but sure.

"I know."

He studied her in silence, the early light cutting sharp across her face.

For a brief moment, the world seemed to still, only the rustle of wind between them, only the hum of shared understanding.

Then Daemon nodded once. "So be it."

Alys inclined her head, her expression unreadable, though something flickered behind her eyes.

A glint of respect, perhaps, or something deeper.

Daemon turned his horse back toward the road, his voice calm again. "Come then, witch. If we're to strike fear into their hearts, let's be there before noon."

Alys smiled faintly beneath her hood. "Lead the way, prince of ghosts."

And as they rode on, side by side, the sunlight broke through the mist at last , falling across them like fire on steel.

They didn't speak again, but when their eyes met briefly, it was enough.

A look between them, brief, deliberate, unspoken, a promise of what was still to come.

And though neither would say it aloud, they both knew the same truth.

The war had already begun.

…

The sun had begun its descent, sinking into a haze of crimson and gold.

The sky stretched wide and bruised above the open road, the light clinging stubbornly to the hills before fading into the long shadows of evening.

The boy ran.

His breath came in ragged bursts, his boots slapping against the dirt path, the bundle of papers he'd once carried long abandoned behind him.

Sweat trickled down his temples, stinging his eyes, but he did not slow.

Every rustle of the wind behind him made his heart leap, every shadow stretching across the road felt like claws reaching to drag him back.

He had seen a ghost.

No, worse than a ghost.

He had seen Daemon Targaryen.

The name pounded in his head with each step. Daemon.

Alive.

Riding with an army.

He could still see the man's pale hair, the faint gleam of silver beneath the morning mist, those unmistakable violet eyes.

The boy stumbled, caught his footing again, and pressed on.

The city couldn't be far.

If he could just reach the main road..

"Hold there!"

The command cut through the air like a whip.

He froze.

Ahead, shadows moved, half a dozen riders emerging from behind the trees, their armour catching what little sunlight remained.

The sigil on their breastplates gleamed faintly red and gold.

The royal guard of King's Landing.

At their head rode Ser Criston Cole.

His dark hair was streaked with grey now, though the lines on his face only sharpened the authority in his expression.

He reined his horse to a halt a few feet away, looking down at the trembling boy.

"What are you doing out here, lad?" Cole asked, his voice stern but not unkind.

"It's dangerous to travel these roads alone."

The boy opened his mouth, words tumbling over one another. "Ser, I-! you must listen-! I saw-!"

"Easy now."

Cole dismounted in one smooth motion, the weight of his cloak falling around him.

"You're shaking. Have you been attacked?"

The boy shook his head violently. "N-no, not attacked, i saw someone!"

Cole frowned, his brows knitting. "Who?"

The boy hesitated, his chest heaving. "Prince-! Prince Daemon."

For a heartbeat, silence.

Only the soft whicker of horses and the whisper of the wind through the grass.

Cole stared at him, the name sinking slowly in, before he let out a small, incredulous laugh. "You're mistaken, boy. Prince Daemon Targaryen is dead."

The boy shook his head again, his voice rising. "No! No, I saw him! He-! he was on the road with a woman, and soldiers, marching for Harrenhal-!he spoke to me!"

Cole turned away briefly, rubbing his temple, exhaling through his nose as though the nonsense of youth had worn him thin.

But the boy stepped forward, desperate, eyes wide.

"I swear it, Ser! I swear on the Seven!"

Cole looked back at him sharply, his patience thinning.

"Do you even understand the weight of what you're saying? The King has declared him gone these ten years. His death brought peace to half the realm. To spread such lies-?”

"I'm not lying!" the boy shouted suddenly, voice cracking with fear. "He's alive! I saw him with my own eyes! The Rogue Prince, he's alive!"

The outburst echoed across the road, startling the horses.

Cole's men shifted uneasily, glancing between their commander and the boy.

Cole's jaw tightened. "Watch your tone," he warned.

But the boy didn't stop.

"He's alive," he repeated, tears now streaking down his face.

"I swear it, Ser, I swear. He looked at me, he spoke to me, and I ran. I ran all the way here to tell you-!”

Cole held up a hand, silencing him.

For a moment, the knight said nothing, only stared at the boy.

Then, slowly, his smirk returned, faint, skeptical. "Daemon Targaryen," he said quietly, as though testing the name.

"The Rogue Prince, risen from the dead."

The boy nodded, his voice trembling. "Yes."

Cole chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Impossible."

But when his eyes lifted again to the boy's face, the laughter died.

The boy's terror was too raw, too real.

His hands shook where they clutched his torn shirt, his breath hitched like he'd outrun death itself.

Cole's smile faded completely.

"You're certain?" he asked finally.

The boy swallowed hard, nodding. "As certain as I am standing before you, ser. It was him."

Cole's gaze lingered on him, sharp and unblinking.

He saw no deceit there, only dread.

Behind him, one of the guards shifted uneasily. "If it's true," the man said under his breath, "then the King will want to know at once."

Cole didn't answer.

His eyes had drifted toward the horizon, toward the fading sun and the distant hills that swallowed the road ahead.

For the first time in years, he felt it, that cold, sinking weight in his gut that no war, no crown, no oath could ease.

Daemon Targaryen. Alive.

The thought itself was poison.

He could already see it.

The panic in the council chamber, Aegon's rage, Alicent's trembling prayers.

The name would spread through the castle like fire through dry grass, burning every fragile peace they'd managed to hold.

If Daemon truly lived, then nothing, not the crown, not the faith, not the city itself, would stand unscathed.

The wind carried the faint scent of smoke from the west.

Cole stared into it for a long moment, his jaw tight, the reins creaking under his grip.

Perhaps this was how it always began, not with the clash of swords, but with a single whispered name.

Daemon.

And with that name, he knew, the castle would not stand quite much longer.

The air inside the hall had grown heavier, the candle-smoke curling like thin ghosts toward the ceiling.

Katerina and Aemond stood in wary silence as the young girl.

Nyssa, she had named herself, remained near the doorway, the faint light behind her turning her outline to silver.

Aemond's gaze was sharp as a blade, the faint tilt of his head betraying suspicion rather than fear. He moved toward her slowly, his steps echoing against the stone floor.

"What are you?" he asked.

His voice was calm but edged, the tone of a man who had seen enough strange things to distrust them all.

Nyssa's lips curved faintly, an expression between a smile and a secret.

"Just as you are," she said softly. "An outsider."

Her eyes flickered toward him, dark as wet obsidian. "My blood is of sea and salt. And of the wolf that howls beneath the tide."

Aemond frowned, uncertain of her meaning, but before he could speak, Katerina stepped forward. Something in that phrasing, sea and salt, tugged at her memory, deep and old, like the echo of a forgotten song.

"Sea and salt," she repeated quietly, her head tilting. Then, more directly: "You are a Velaryon?"

The name hung in the air like a ripple across still water.

Nyssa's smile softened.

She nodded once.

Aemond let out a low breath and turned sharply to Katerina.

"Impossible," he said.

"We knew them all, every branch, every kin that bore the sea-dragon's blood. There were no others left."

His disbelief was not anger but confusion; the idea itself offended reason.

But Nyssa only shrugged, her voice light. "That is because they did not wish to know me."

Her words carried neither bitterness nor grief, only fact.

Katerina's eyes lingered on the girl.

There was something about her face, not in resemblance to Corlys Velaryon exactly, but the quiet pride in her bearing, the ocean's calm behind her gaze.

"You're saying you're a bastard," Katerina said.

Nyssa nodded. "One who lived beneath the tide more than above it."

The candle nearest them guttered, the flame stretching, bending toward the draft that slipped through the cracks of the hall.

Katerina stepped closer, her voice quieting. "Let me see."

Nyssa hesitated only a moment before extending her hand.

Katerina took it.

Her skin was cool, too cool, for warmth to linger, and her pulse thrummed faintly beneath the skin, more rhythmic than human.

Katerina closed her eyes, focusing, feeling the pulse move not only through Nyssa but through the air between them, through the stone beneath their feet.

The hall seemed to change shape around her, sounds deepened, colours dimmed.

She saw flashes, a storm at sea, the crash of waves against a broken ship, the outline of a girl pulled under and a strange glow beneath the surface, golden and red as molten coral.

Then, silence.

When Katerina opened her eyes, her expression had softened.

Her hand loosened its grip, and she looked upon the girl not with suspicion, but understanding.

"Lord Corlys' bastard," she murmured.

Nyssa blinked, startled for the first time.

Aemond exhaled, stepping back slightly.

He had long since learned not to question what Katerina saw, still, he found himself shaking his head.

"I suppose I should stop being surprised," he muttered.

Katerina glanced back at him, a faint trace of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "You should."

Aemond's smirk was faint, but there, fleeting and gone again.

He turned his gaze back to Nyssa.

"And how," he asked, "did you become what you are?"

Nyssa's expression faltered.

She looked away, her eyes catching the dim light of the hall.

"I fell," she said quietly.

"Into the deep pits of the sea, during a storm. They said the gods dragged me down. I woke with salt in my veins and fangs in my mouth."

Her voice trembled only slightly. "I never knew who my maker was. Nor of my family. I had only the coven. They said I could follow or die."

Aemond studied her with that cold, analytical stillness that Katerina had come to recognise. "And you chose to follow."

Nyssa looked up at him, something almost amused in her eyes. "Wouldn't you?"

He didn't answer.

Katerina moved past them both, pacing slowly through the scattered parchments once more.

She could feel the faint hum of energy in the air, the living pulse of her people's magic.

It thrummed like a heartbeat beneath the floor, steady and ancient.

"Your coven," she said finally. "They dwell here, hidden. Yet they know who I am."

Nyssa's voice came soft from behind her.

"We know of you, yes. But not all believe. There are some who whisper that the blood of Elaris was lost long ago. That what remains is only a myth to frighten children."

Katerina turned to her, a faint smirk ghosting her lips. "And you? Do you believe?"

Nyssa's eyes gleamed. "I believe I'm standing before her."

The words hung in the air, heavy and certain.

Katerina said nothing.

Instead, she turned back toward the long table, her eyes drifting over the books and the fragments of text.

She reached down and brushed dust from a parchment, her finger tracing the edges of a symbol drawn in dried blood.

A spiral, flanked by twin circles of runes.

Nyssa moved closer, her steps soundless.

"That one," she said softly. "You should read it."

Katerina lifted the parchment carefully, scanning the lines.

The script was tight and curved, the ink nearly black.

The words flowed like water.

Before she could begin to translate aloud, Nyssa spoke again, her tone quieter, as if she feared the walls might listen.

"It speaks of a ritual."

Katerina's eyes flicked toward her. "A ritual?"

Nyssa nodded, stepping closer, her fingers hovering above the page but not touching it. "A rite to summon the blood you seek. It is old magic. Dangerous magic."

Katerina tilted her head, her brow creasing. "To summon?"

"To face," Nyssa corrected. "It calls what is lost back to you, not to life, but to truth."

Katerina frowned slightly, glancing between Nyssa and the parchment. "You've read it before?"

"Not all," the girl said, "but enough to know what it asks. It is not a spell of words. It is a path of light."

Katerina's eyes narrowed. "And what does that mean?"

Nyssa turned her gaze toward the doorway, where the faintest sliver of sun had begun to creep across the floor, thin as a blade.

She stared at it for a moment, as though watching something only she could see.

Then she looked back to Katerina, her expression serene, her tone quiet but certain.

"You must walk into the light," she said, "in order to have your answer."

The silence that followed was almost holy.

The faint hum in the air grew stronger, as though the stones themselves were listening.

Katerina glanced toward Aemond, whose expression was unreadable, though his jaw had tightened.

She turned back to the girl, to Nyssa, who stood bathed in that thin shaft of sunlight, her hair catching the glow like molten glass.

XXXVII

[averillaratargaryen]

XXXV

A week had passed since their wedding beneath the Dragonstone sun, seven days since the union of blood and fire.

The sea had been calm that morning, almost reverent, as though the gods themselves had paused to watch the joining of two dragons.

But peace, as ever, was short-lived.

In the days that followed, the halls of Dragonstone became a war room.

Maps were spread across tables like battlefields waiting to be filled, and every corridor hummed with planning.

Daemon was the first to rise each morning, restless and determined.

He spent hours poring over routes and terrain, tracing paths across parchment with the tip of his dagger, speaking of how King's Landing could be cornered if its men were drawn west.

Katerina often stood beside him, her hands braced against the edge of the table, her expression unreadable.

They had spoken briefly, quietly, of what must come next.

He would take the Riverlands and the western strongholds, ambushing Aegon's men as they marched from the capital.

She and Aemond, meanwhile, would sail across the Narrow Sea to the lands of her kin, to warn her coven before the fires of war reached them.

Aemond had agreed, though every part of him rebelled at the thought of leaving his brother behind alive.

Still, he followed her, not as soldier, not as prince, but as husband.

As the days passed, the sea winds turned colder, sharper.

The ravens from King's Landing grew fewer, but their words were darker.

It was said that Aegon was raising legions under the banners of the gold dragon, rallying every loyal house to his cause.

His armies had begun to move, not yet toward Dragonstone, but would follow towards the East, toward Essos. Toward the unknown.

By the sixth day, Alys spoke little and watched the skies too often.

Daemon's temper had worsened, his voice echoing down the stone halls in shouts that carried the weight of ghosts and years of vengeance.

And then, as dawn rose on the seventh day, the tides shifted.

Katerina and Aemond stood upon the dock, the sea before them vast and glimmering, the salt air thick with foreboding.

The ship rocked gently, ropes creaking, its sails already set for the East.

Alys had come to see them off, silent, watchful, a knowing look in her eyes.

Daemon, too, had stood apart, the wind catching at his cloak, his gaze heavy but proud.

"Go," he had said simply. "Warn them. Protect them. I will handle the rest."

Now, a week after the blood-bound vows had sealed their fates, the pair had crossed the Narrow Sea.

The air was warmer here, the light different, and the world seemed to breathe in a tongue older than Westeros itself.

They were far from home, yet closer than ever to the storm that awaited them both.

…

The first light of Essos crept through the cracks of the shutters, painting the small cottage in shades of gold and rose.

Dust drifted lazily in the air, the faint scent of sea salt and woodsmoke clinging to the room.

Beyond the open window, the waves could still be heard in the distance, slow and steady, brushing against the shore of Lys, the island where they had stopped to rest after days of sailing.

Inside, all was still.

Aemond lay with one arm draped loosely around Katerina's waist, his face half-buried in her hair.

Her silver-gold strands spilled across the pillow, catching the morning light like threads of flame. The air between them was warm, thick with the quiet rhythm of shared breath.

For the first time in what felt like years, they had slept without the echo of war in their dreams.

Katerina stirred first.

Her fingers brushed his wrist gently, feeling the rise and fall of his pulse beneath her touch before she turned within the cradle of his arms.

His eye opened slowly, pale blue and softened by the morning haze, and for a moment he simply looked at her, silent and unguarded.

"You're awake," he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep.

"I should be," she said quietly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "We still have to travel further north."

He groaned in protest, his arm tightening around her waist as if to keep her from leaving the bed.

"You mean to start planning the moment you open your eyes?"

Katerina leaned her head against his chest, listening to the slow beat of his heart.

"If we don't, we'll lose the light. Alys said the coven is inland, near the valley that splits from the Lhorulu River. We'll have to cross through the forest before nightfall."

Aemond sighed, letting his head fall back against the pillow with an audible thud.

"Of course she did," he muttered. "Alys would choose a place surrounded by trees and fog. Convenient for witches and ghosts."

Katerina chuckled softly, then sat up, her hair tumbling over her shoulders as she reached for the small satchel at the edge of the bed.

The blanket slipped down her back, revealing the faint red marks he had left there, evidence of love and fury all tangled into one.

"You can grumble later," she said, rummaging through the bag. "We need to move before the market crowds the roads."

"Hmm," came Aemond's lazy reply.

He had rolled onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Let the markets crowd. They'll clear once they see two Targaryens walking through them."

Katerina found the letter at last, the parchment slightly crumpled from the sea air.

She unfolded it carefully, her eyes scanning Alys's neat handwriting.

Directions drawn in ink, brief notes about allies that might still linger nearby, and a reminder.

Do not linger by the rivers. The shadows there listen.

She swallowed softly, then glanced toward him. "We follow this route until dusk. Alys said we'd find our people by the next moonrise."

Aemond cracked open an eye. "And after that?"

"After that," she said, lowering the letter, "we make sure they're safe. That's all that matters."

He watched her for a moment, his gaze tracing the way her hair caught the light, the determination set in her jaw.

Then, quietly, he said, "You sound just like her."

Katerina turned, arching a brow. "Like who?"

"Your mother," he said simply.

The words caught her off guard, not painful, but heavy.

She tucked the letter away, the silence stretching between them like a fragile thread.

Aemond lifted himself up on one elbow, his expression softening.

"Come back to bed," he murmured.

Katerina gave a breath of laughter, shaking her head. "We don't have time for this."

"Then make time," he said, reaching for her wrist. His fingers slipped easily around it, his touch familiar, his pull gentle but insistent.

"Aemond," she sighed, trying to resist, though the warmth in his voice betrayed his seriousness as much as his teasing did.

He tugged her back toward him until she stumbled onto the mattress once more.

Her hair fell forward, brushing his face, and his hands found their way around her waist, pulling her against him.

His eyes closed, his nose buried in the crook of her neck.

"Five minutes," he said against her skin.

She felt his smile even as he spoke, the corner of his lips curving where they pressed against her collarbone.

Katerina rolled her eyes but didn't move. "You said that yesterday," she murmured.

"And I meant it then, too," he replied, voice low, almost boyish.

She sighed, her fingers absently tracing the edge of his jaw, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.

The world outside their little cottage went on, the chatter of distant traders, the gulls, the rush of the tide.

But here, in this room, time felt slower.

Five minutes, she thought. Perhaps five wouldn't hurt.

…

The march from the Riverlands had been long and bitter, the air damp with mist and the smell of churned soil.

It was the sort of cold that clung to the bones, not sharp enough to wound, but heavy enough to tire a man.

Daemon led the front of the column, his dark cloak snapping in the wind, his boots caked with the same mud as the men he commanded.

Behind him trailed a host of hardened soldiers, a mix of riverlords and former crownland men, all sworn to him by oath and fear alike.

He did not fool himself into thinking it loyalty.

It was persuasion, carefully woven by his daughter's gifts and Aemond's tongue.

Katerina's mind had touched theirs through the blood ritual she performed before their departure.

Aemond had merely whispered conviction into their ears, feeding them promises of victory, of freedom from Aegon's reckless rule.

And so, they marched for Daemon.

They marched for a cause that was half vengeance, half survival.

Alys walked beside him, her steps light despite the uneven ground.

She wore a cloak of deep forest green, its hood drawn low against the wind.

Her eyes seemed to catch every flicker in the trees, every sound beyond the road.

Though she carried no sword, there was something in her poise that told Daemon she was every bit as dangerous as the men who did.

They had been walking since dawn, through forests stripped bare and rivers swollen with spring rain.

The sky had begun to bleed into dusk, a sullen blue-gray that promised storm clouds before the night was through.

Behind them, the line of soldiers began to thin. The sound of boots against mud slowed, replaced by the occasional cough, the rasp of a dry throat.

"Prince Daemon!" someone called out from the middle ranks. "One down!"

Daemon halted, his patience already worn thin. He turned sharply, his cloak flaring. "What do you mean, 'down'?"

The soldier pointed toward a cluster of men gathered around a slumped figure. "He just fell, my Prince. One moment walking, the next-?

Daemon's jaw clenched.

He strode back down the line, the soldiers parting quickly as he passed.

The man on the ground was young, barely past twenty, his skin pale, lips cracked, breath shallow.

Alys knelt beside him, her fingers brushing the man's neck before pressing against his wrist. "He's not dead," she murmured. "Not yet."

She reached for her waterskin, tipping it gently to the man's lips, though he hardly stirred.

The liquid ran down his chin.

Daemon crouched beside her, his expression hard. "What is it?"

"Dehydration," Alys said simply. "And hunger, I'd wager. You've pushed them too hard, too fast."

"They're soldiers," he muttered.

"They're men," she corrected, glancing up at him. "Not dragons."

Her gaze flicked toward the horizon, the dim line of trees giving way to darker shapes in the distance.

"We should rest, Daemon. Let them eat, drink, breathe. You'll lose more before Harrenhal if you don't."

He looked up the road again, the path vanishing into fog.

He could feel the weight of time pressing against him.

Every hour they stopped, Aegon's men drew closer to the East.

Every delay was another risk, another inch of ground lost.

"We've already wasted enough time," he said under his breath.

Alys rose to her feet, brushing dirt from her knees.

"Then consider this an investment," she said coolly.

"A few hours of rest now will keep your men alive long enough to see your conquest through. Otherwise, you'll reach Harrenhal with a corpse for an army."

Daemon's lips pressed into a thin line.

She wasn't wrong, she rarely was, but it still grated on him to hear reason when his blood demanded motion.

He looked up again.

The sun had already dipped below the hills, leaving the sky bruised and bleeding.

The light was fading fast, and in the distance, a faint glow shimmered, torchlight, perhaps, or the reflection of a village hearth.

Alys followed his stare, her expression unreadable.

"There's shelter not far ahead. I saw it earlier, a tavern by the crossroad. It will do for the night."

Daemon exhaled, his breath visible in the cooling air.

"A tavern," he said dryly. "My men will drink themselves blind."

"Then perhaps they'll sleep easier," she said, her tone sharp but quiet. "Let them have their comfort, Daemon. You of all men should know how little of it there is in war."

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he straightened, brushing the mud from his gloves. "Fine," he relented. "We rest. Only until dawn."

Alys nodded, the faintest glimmer of triumph in her eyes. "I'll see to the wounded."

He gave a low hum of acknowledgment and turned, his voice carrying down the line. "Set up camp! Food, water, fire, move!"

The soldiers obeyed with visible relief, dropping their packs, some even laughing softly under their breath.

They were exhausted, half-starved, but they still moved with purpose. Fires began to crackle along the roadside as darkness thickened around them.

Alys lingered beside the fallen man until his breathing evened.

Then she rose, her cloak sweeping around her as she followed Daemon up the slope toward the faint light in the distance.

Ahead, the outline of a tavern came into view, small, weathered, and half-swallowed by vines. Smoke curled from its chimney, promising warmth within.

Daemon glanced toward her as they approached, his tone low but edged with irony. "If we're lucky, perhaps they'll have wine."

Alys smiled faintly. "If we're lucky," she said, "they'll have bread."

He let out a short laugh, tired, dark, genuine. "You always did set your hopes too low."

"And you, too high," she countered, brushing past him to push open the door.

The scent of smoke and ale greeted them, the faint murmur of strangers' voices carrying from within. For tonight, at least, war could wait.

-

The forest began as any other with the smell of pine and soil, the hush of morning still thick between the trunks.

But the deeper Katerina and Aemond moved inland, the more it began to shift.

The air no longer carried the softness of dawn.

It grew heavy, metallic, humming faintly as though the ground itself breathed beneath their boots.

The path narrowed, roots twisting over one another like veins, slick with dew.

The trees towered above them now, old and strange, their bark streaked in silver, their leaves a dark green that shimmered faintly when touched by light.

The canopy was so thick it swallowed the sky.

Katerina slowed, her gaze lifting to the branches as though she could hear something neither wind nor bird had made. "Do you feel that?"

Aemond's hand hovered near the hilt of his sword. "Feel what?"

She closed her eyes briefly. "The air. It's alive."

He frowned. "Alive?"

Her boots sank slightly in the moss, her tone hushed.

"It hums. It always hums when I'm near them. My coven's energy, it seeps into the earth when they perform the old rites. Even after they've moved on, the forest remembers."

Aemond turned in a slow circle, his one eye scanning the endless maze of trunks. "It feels wrong to me."

"Wrong?"

"Too still," he murmured. "Too watchful."

She smiled faintly at that. "You can sense it too then. Only, what you call stillness, I call a heartbeat."

Aemond tilted his head, his voice low. "A heartbeat beneath our feet?"

"Yes."

She pressed a hand against the nearest trunk, her palm resting flat on the rough bark.

"It's a pulse under the soil. My mother used to say that when magic is strong, it does not die, it sleeps. The forest is never quiet; it listens."

Aemond took a slow breath.

The air had grown colder without warning, and his breath misted faintly. "Well, it's listening too closely for my liking."

She gave him a sidelong glance. "You're uneasy."

"Instinct," he said simply.

"The dragon in me doesn't like it here. My blood prickles every time the wind changes. It's as if something unseen keeps circling us."

Katerina crouched to inspect the ground where the mud looked freshly disturbed.

A set of faint impressions ran through it, long, narrow tracks that dragged deeper than human boots should.

Her fingers brushed the edge of one print, cool water pooling in its curve.

"Perhaps it isn't unseen," she murmured.

Aemond came to stand beside her, studying the tracks. "What made that?"

"Not man," she said softly. "The claw marks are too long."

"Beast?"

"Perhaps. But not one of this age."

He gave a low chuckle, though it lacked humour. "Of course not. You never do things simply."

Katerina rose, brushing her hand against her cloak.

"The coven kept protectors in these woods. Creatures bound to their spells. It could be remnants of them. Or it could be something new."

He arched a brow. "Something new doesn't sound comforting."

"It rarely is," she said, though her voice held an odd reverence.

"Magic changes the land, Aemond. It roots into what it touches. These trees, this soil, they've all been shaped by it. Even the light bends different here."

He followed her gaze upward. Indeed, the light looked fractured, threads of gold that slanted down through mist, too bright for such a shadowed place.

"Feels like walking through a dream," he muttered.

Katerina glanced at him, a soft smile ghosting across her lips. "Then stay awake."

They walked on.

The silence pressed close, broken only by the creak of leather and the distant drip of water.

After a while, Aemond reached forward, catching a branch that had snagged her cloak.

"You're walking faster than before."

"I know where we are now," she replied. "We're close."

"To your coven?"

Her voice lowered. "To their border. The magic grows thicker the nearer we come."

Aemond's jaw tensed. "You said they would welcome you."

"They will. They just won't welcome you."

He gave her a half-smirk. "I expected as much."

"It isn't personal," she said gently. "You're an intruder to their eyes, a man half vampire, half wolf. They will see your blood as chaos."

"And yet you married chaos," he said, the humour creeping back into his voice.

Katerina's eyes flicked to him. "I married understanding. There's a difference."

He fell quiet at that, his expression unreadable as they continued down the winding path.

As the day stretched thinner, the forest deepened into shadow.

The air grew thicker still, not just cold now but humming, as if it held a low, continuous note beneath every sound.

Aemond's fingers twitched at his side; the prickle beneath his skin turned into a steady burn that crept up his neck.

Finally, he stopped. "Something's following us."

Katerina paused ahead of him, her cloak shifting with the faint wind. "I know."

"You know?" he said sharply.

"I've known for some time." She looked over her shoulder, her gaze calm. "If it meant us harm, it would have already shown itself."

He didn't look convinced. "Then why keep it hidden?"

"Because it's curious," she said softly. "The coven's guardians are like that. They observe first."

He exhaled through his nose, scanning the treeline. "It's doing a fine job of it."

A distant rustle answered him, not close, not far. Just enough to make him turn sharply.

Katerina's voice cut through the tension. "If you keep reaching for your sword every time the wind moves, you'll tire before we arrive."

He glanced at her, his eye glinting with irritation and reluctant amusement. "You find this amusing?"

"I find it familiar," she replied. "Once, I was the one who feared these woods."

"And now?"

"Now they fear me."

Aemond's smirk returned faintly. "I'll hold you to that."

As they pressed forward, they came upon an abandoned cart, half sunk into the earth beside the path.

The wood was warped, the wheels rotted, but the marks in the mud were too clean, fresh grooves from something heavy dragged not long ago.

Aemond crouched beside it, his fingers tracing the edge of one track. "This isn't old."

"No," Katerina said, stepping closer. "Someone's been through here."

He straightened, his expression tightening. "Your coven?"

"Perhaps," she said, though her tone held doubt. "Or perhaps those sent to find them."

The air shifted then, a faint tremor through the trees, like the forest itself exhaled. Both of them stilled.

Katerina lifted her head, eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?"

Aemond's voice was low, measured. "No. But I felt it."

"What did it feel like?"

He hesitated. "Like a warning."

She looked past him into the trees.

The mist had thickened again, coiling around the trunks, the light dimming to a dull amber.

"Then we keep moving."

"Are you certain?" he asked. "If the coven knows we're coming-?”

"They already do," she said simply.

"And if it isn't them, then whoever follows us will find out soon enough that we're not easy prey."

He tilted his head, a flicker of admiration softening his features. "There's the Katerina I know."

She glanced back at him, eyes steady. "The one you married or the one you fear?"

"Both," he admitted.

They walked again, side by side now.

The forest seemed to breathe around them, a living cathedral of shadow and sound.

Every few moments

Aemond's hand brushed the hilt of his sword; every few moments Katerina's fingers brushed the air, as though feeling the invisible threads that wove through the place.

Finally, they reached a small clearing where the trees gave way to an expanse of moss and shallow pools that reflected the last of the fading light. Katerina stopped there, kneeling to touch the water's surface.

"It's here," she whispered. "This is where the path splits. One road leads to the old village, the other to the heart of the coven."

Aemond crouched beside her, studying the two trails that forked ahead. "Which one do we take?"

She looked up at him, her eyes faintly luminous in the dim. "The one that calls to me."

He gave a slow nod, though unease lingered in his voice. "And if it calls to something else instead?"

"Then we'll find out together," she said, standing and brushing the damp from her fingers.

He rose with her, the sound of his boots soft against the moss. "You trust these woods more than you trust people."

"I trust what I can feel," she answered.

"And what do you feel now?"

She paused, glancing toward the path where the mist thickened, curling like fingers. "A pulse beneath the soil," she said softly.

Aemond looked down, his boot pressing lightly into the earth.

"And I," he murmured, "a prickle beneath the skin."

They exchanged a glance, hers calm and knowing, his sharp and wary.

Then she took a step forward, and he followed her into the fog.

Behind them, unseen, the forest shifted? leaves whispering in a language older than either of them, as if it had recognised its lost daughter returning home.

…

The rain had passed, leaving the stone walls of the tavern slick and gleaming under torchlight.

Smoke from the dying hearth below drifted through the floorboards, mingling with the scent of damp wool and steel.

Upstairs, the men had gone quiet, only a few snores and the creak of settling wood remained.

Daemon stood by the window, fingers hooked around the heavy curtain, drawing it shut.

The faint sound of dripping outside followed him into the dark.

Alys sat at the edge of the bed, unbraiding her hair with slow, careful fingers, her eyes half-lidded in thought.

When the curtain snapped closed, she looked up.

"You look like you've been dragged through fire," she said softly. "You should get some rest before you drop."

He gave a faint, humourless smile. "Rest doesn't come easy these days."

"You're not the only one," she murmured.

Daemon crossed to the bed, boots thudding softly on the worn planks.

His shirt clung to him, damp from rain and sweat, his silver hair loose and disordered around his shoulders.

He looked more ghost than man, and yet the firelight painted his eyes alive.

When Alys shifted as if to rise, he put a gentle hand to her shoulder, pressing her back down.

"Don't bother," he said. "I've no need to be fussed over. Just... sit."

Her brows lifted slightly, but she did as he asked.

"You don't have to play the soldier with me. Sit or lie, it makes no difference, but you look ready to collapse."

"I'll admit I'm not feeling my best," he muttered, lowering himself to the bed beside her.

"Something's off. Heart's been hammering since dusk, as if I'd run a mile uphill."

Alys studied him quietly for a moment, then slid closer, her palm finding the centre of his chest.

His skin was fever-warm under her hand, the beat beneath erratic and strong.

"You're overheated," she said, voice low.

"And your pulse jumps like a startled bird. When did you last close your eyes properly?"

He snorted. "Before the march began, perhaps. Or longer."

She shook her head faintly. "That's all this is, exhaustion taking its toll. Your body's trying to drag you into stillness, but you keep fighting it."

"Perhaps."

He let his head fall back, eyes on the ceiling. "Or perhaps it's something worse."

"You always expect the worst," she said gently. "You carry worry like a second heart."

"Don't start reading me, witch."

"I don't have to read you," she replied. "It's written across your face. You're thinking of her again."

He didn't answer, but his jaw tightened.

"You fear for her," Alys continued quietly. "And it's that fear that's making your heart misbehave."

Daemon exhaled through his nose, his voice low. "She's capable of looking after herself."

"Of course she is," Alys agreed, keeping her hand where it was.

"But that doesn't stop you from feeling what you feel. She's your blood. That kind of bond doesn't break, no matter how far apart you are."

He said nothing for a long while.

The air between them thickened with quiet understanding.

Then finally, he muttered, "I've spent years pretending I don't care for much of anything. Seems the gods still like to prove me wrong."

Alys's lips curved faintly. "They do that often."

Daemon's chest rose beneath her hand, his breath deepening. "And what of you? Do they prove you wrong too?"

"On occasion."

Their eyes met, a brief moment of mutual weariness that felt almost like kinship.

Then she moved to draw her hand back, but he caught her wrist, fingers wrapping gently around it.

His skin was warm, his touch steady despite the tremor that ran through his body.

"Don't go wandering off," he said quietly, not a command but a plea. "I've had enough ghosts leaving me for one lifetime."

Her expression softened. "You're not haunted by ghosts, Daemon. You're haunted by memory."

He gave a tired laugh. "Is there a difference?"

"Only in what you choose to see," she said.

She shifted, sitting straighter, and rested her other hand lightly atop his.

"Close your eyes," she told him. "You'll feel better if you let yourself rest, even for a little while."

He obeyed for a moment, lids fluttering, but his mind refused to still. "You always sound so certain," he murmured.

"So calm."

"That's because one of us has to be."

He opened his eyes again, glancing up at her. "You think you carry less worry than I?"

"I carry mine differently," she said. "It doesn't weigh me down, it keeps me sharp."

He studied her face in the torchlight, the faint lines of fatigue around her eyes, the strength hidden beneath her calm. "You've seen too much for someone who hides behind riddles."

"Riddles are the only truths people listen to," she said simply.

He smiled faintly, then turned his gaze to the ceiling. "If she's safe, I'll count that as enough."

"She is," Alys said quietly, watching his expression soften. "She's reached where she was meant to. I felt it."

Daemon didn't bother to question how. At this point, he believed her instincts more than his own. "Then I can breathe again."

"You should," she said. "And you should rest here. The men can manage without you for a few hours."

He groaned softly, half amused. "You sound like my late wife."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

He turned his head toward her, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. "You intend to sit there all night?"

"I'll find another place to sleep once you've closed your eyes."

"No need for that," he said, his tone dropping lower, almost coaxing. "There's room enough here. The night's cold, and I'd rather not be left alone with my thoughts."

Alys hesitated, his hand still warm around her wrist. "Daemon..."

He looked up at her, his gaze unusually open, stripped of its usual arrogance.

"Stay here," he said softly, though the words came out more like a confession than a request.

"Just for the night. I could use the company of someone who isn't sharpening a blade in his sleep."

Her breath caught slightly. "You think I'd be any better company?"

"I think," he said, voice rough, "that silence shared is easier than silence alone."

She studied him a moment, the corner of her mouth twitching in faint amusement before she sighed. "You're impossible."

"I've been told."

Her eyes lingered on him, the way his fingers brushed absent circles against the inside of her wrist, the faint tremor still there under his calm. He wasn't trying to seduce her.

The air between them hummed with something quieter, something closer to human need than lust.

Finally, she relented, easing back onto the bed beside him. "Fine," she said softly.

"But if you start talking in your sleep, I'm leaving."

"Then I'll keep my dreams quiet," he murmured.

His lips twitched, that faint trace of humour returning for a heartbeat before fading again.

She adjusted the blanket slightly, settling beside him, her shoulder barely brushing his.

The rhythm of his breathing slowed, his eyelids heavy now.

Alys leaned back against the headboard, eyes still open, keeping watch while his fell shut.

The faint light from the hearth cast shifting gold patterns over them both.

For a long while neither spoke, the silence between them was not awkward but alive, the kind that wrapped around two people who understood each other's brokenness without needing to name it.

Daemon stirred once, muttering something under his breath.

Alys reached out instinctively, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead.

He stilled at the touch.

"Go to sleep," she whispered. "Your heart's calmer now."

He hummed a low acknowledgment, voice blurred by drowsiness. "You'll stay?"

Her lips curved faintly. "I'll be here," she said.

Satisfied, he let go of her wrist at last, and his breathing deepened into a steady rhythm.

Alys watched him for a while longer before she let herself lie down too, her arm still resting loosely across the space between them.

The tavern had gone silent outside, no footsteps, no murmurs, just the distant hiss of rain resuming against the windowpanes.

Alys closed her eyes, her thoughts caught somewhere between rest and reflection.

Beside her, Daemon slept at last, his face slack and peaceful for the first time in weeks.

For all his reputation as a dragon, fierce, dangerous, untouchable, in that moment he was only a man worn thin by love and war, clinging to the fragile warmth of another's presence.

And as the night deepened, neither of them stirred.

The fire guttered low, the wind whispered through the cracks, and the world outside their door continued to burn while, just for a few hours, the two of them pretended it did not exist.

…

The trees thinned, the fog curling away as the forest opened into a clearing steeped in shadows and old magic.

What lay ahead was not a village by any mortal sense.

The air itself seemed stitched with whispers, the ground pulsing faintly underfoot, veins of crimson light running like buried rivers beneath the soil.

Here the coven lived, unseen, unaged, untouched.

Katerina could feel it long before she saw the figures.

The hum of power beneath her skin grew sharper, the world around her vibrating with familiarity. Her people.

Her blood.

Aemond felt it too, though differently.

For him, it wasn't a hum but a weight pressing down on his chest, his instincts flaring with unease.

The wind carried the smell of iron and something older, the scent of blood steeped in centuries.

He leaned close enough to murmur, "They're near."

Katerina nodded.

Her golden hair gleamed faintly in the dim light, the faintest curve of amusement on her lips.

"I know. They've been watching since we crossed the ridge."

"Watching," Aemond muttered. "Or hunting?"

"Sometimes they are the same."

They took another step forward, boots sinking into the damp ground, and that was when the shapes began to emerge.

Dozens of them, stepping from between the trees. Silent at first.

Then the hiss of breath, the flicker of eyes too bright to be human.

Their faces were pale, some marred with streaks of ash, others painted in deep reds.

The light caught the faint gleam of fangs.

Katerina stopped, her hand rising slightly before Aemond could reach for his sword.

The crowd of vampires closed in a half-circle around them.

None spoke at first.

They only stared, a dozen pairs of eyes glinting in the dull light.

The silence grew thick.

Then one stepped forward, tall, lean, his eyes black as coal.

"Sîra lior ven nethal?" he demanded, voice sharp.

Aemond's brow furrowed. "What in the gods' names-?”

Katerina held a hand out.

"They speak Elphoric," she said under her breath. "The old tongue of our kind."

She turned back to the speaker, her own voice low but steady.

"Vrenos ar tal, saer'na. Nethal'kara ne jor."

(We come in peace, brother. No harm meant.)

Murmurs rose instantly.

More figures emerged from the trees, women with long hair like ink, men with silver eyes gleaming.

One of them hissed something that made the others tense.

Aemond didn't understand the words, but he recognised the tone.

Threat.

Their leader spat on the ground before him. "Ithr'an dos halon!" he snarled, his fangs bared.

(He smells wrong!)

Another answered him, voice sharp and cutting. "Thal vrenos shae! Halora elen!"

(He is not one of us! Half-breed!)

The word cut through the air like a lash. Aemond's hand moved before thought could stop him, sword drawn, steel flashing.

The hiss that went up was immediate, several of the vampires lunged forward, fangs gleaming.

Katerina stepped in front of him, the air cracking with sudden force as her voice thundered.

"Silas vrenor! Tael varen!"

(Enough! Stand down!)

The command rippled through the clearing, sharp and resonant.

For a moment, even the wind stilled.

But not all obeyed.

One young vampire, brash, wild-eyed, darted forward, his claws unsheathing, aimed straight for Aemond's throat.

Aemond moved with preternatural speed, catching him mid-lunge.

The impact cracked through the clearing as the half-breed slammed his attacker into the ground, teeth bared, the faint gleam of fangs visible now in his own mouth.

Gasps rippled.

He wasn't a vampire. Not fully.

The sight of his hybrid strength startled them, fear and fury mixing like oil and flame.

Snarls erupted, fangs bared in unison.

Katerina moved between them again, her voice rising above the chaos.

"Sael'ar! Sael'ar'thae! Taren elen nosh!"

(Be still! You will not touch him!)

They didn't listen

The noise built.

Hissing, shouting, the air thick with the vibration of too many voices speaking over one another.

"Halora! Halora!" they cried. (Half-breed! Monster!)

"Hein nosh karen veth'ra!" (He brings ruin!)

Katerina tried once more, louder now. "Elarin'the! S'athros!" (Calm yourselves! Enough!)

But the words were swallowed by their frenzy.

Something in her snapped.

The ground trembled beneath their feet as she raised her hand.

Her eyes darkened, not with bloodlust, but with sheer power.

A low hum began to fill the air, swelling into a piercing vibration that set every creature in the clearing to clutching their heads.

A ringing sound, high and unbearable, cut through their minds like knives.

They faltered, knees bending, hands clawing at their skulls, cries of pain echoing through the trees.

Aemond stood still behind her, jaw tight as the force of her magic pressed against his senses.

The power rolled off her in waves, raw, ancient, uncontrollable.

"Lir'ath no shaen..." she whispered, her voice weaving through the air like a chant. (Silence your rage...)

The sound ceased.

The forest went still again, save for the ragged breathing of those kneeling before her, disoriented, shaken.

Katerina lowered her hand.

The glow in her eyes faded back to gold.

When she spoke next, her tone was calm, not a shout, but a declaration.

"Elarin venos ethe'ra. Katerina Targaryen. El'saera Elaris, vel thae re'lor."

(I am born of your blood. Katerina Targaryen. Daughter reborn of the line of Elaris.)

Her words fell into the hush like stones into still water.

Ripples spread.

Murmurs began, uncertain, disbelieving, some fearful.

"Elaris...?" one whispered.

"The blood returns...?" said another.

From the back of the crowd, a figure began to move forward.

Young, with raven-dark hair and eyes like deep amber.

His clothes were simple, travel-worn, stained with earth.

But his face bore reverence.

He stopped only when he stood before her, gaze lowered.

Then, slowly, he dropped to one knee.

"Sael'vren, elari'tha... my'ra velan."

(My queen, daughter of my blood, you have returned.)

A hush fell so complete it might have swallowed breath itself.

One by one, the others began to follow.

Whispers turned to murmurs, murmurs to voices, until the clearing filled with the sound of dozens of voices repeating it, a chant rising and falling like waves.

"My'ra velan.”

Katerina stood motionless, eyes widening as the sight unfolded before her.

They knelt, every last one of them, the defiance gone, replaced by awe and trembling reverence.

Aemond stood behind her, his sword still in hand but lowered, his gaze flicking between them and her.

For a moment, even he seemed unsure what to do.

Katerina's lips parted, her breath catching.

The sound of their unified voices echoed through the forest like a hymn.

Her eyes flickered with disbelief.

She looked over the faces before her, young and old, pale and dark, scarred and beautiful.

Some bowed their heads completely; others stared up at her, eyes wet, as though witnessing prophecy made flesh.

Slowly, she exhaled.

Aemond stepped closer, close enough that she could hear the whisper of his breath. "What are they saying?," he murmured.

Katerina's gaze remained fixed ahead. "They call me their Queen."

A figure rose.

Once again, the young man who had first knelt spoke, his eyes shining with fervour.

"Elaris'tha venor." (The daughter of light has returned.)

The crowd murmured the phrase after him, a ripple of devotion coursing through the ranks.

Aemond's hand brushed the small of her back, an anchor amidst the reverence surrounding her. "What will you tell them?"

Katerina turned her head slightly, golden eyes gleaming.

"The truth," she said softly.

"That the blood of Elaris does not return for worship, it returns for war."

The young man's eyes widened.

"War, my queen?" he asked, in the common tongue this time, his accent sharp, ancient.

She looked down at him, her expression calm but cold.

"War brought by men who fear what they cannot kill. And they will come for you. For all of you.”

Whispers rippled through the crowd again, this time, not of awe, but of anger.

Katerina's gaze swept across them all.

"You have hidden long enough," she said.

"Your silence has kept you safe, but it has also kept you weak. My brother means to burn these lands, to burn you. But he will learn what happens when fire meets fire."

The young man lowered his head once more. "Then we stand with you, my queen."

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

The words "my queen" still felt strange in her ears, heavy, undeserved.

Yet as she looked around at their faces, she knew she could not deny what her blood commanded.

She lifted her chin.

"Then rise," she said, her voice echoing through the clearing.

"Rise, all of you. We have much to prepare for."

They obeyed, one by one, rising from their knees, eyes fixed on her.

Aemond stepped forward to stand beside her, and though a few still looked at him with suspicion, none dared speak.

The young vampire, the first who had knelt, turned toward the others and called out in Elphoric, his voice clear and resonant.

"Elarin venos thae'ra.”

(The Blood calls us home.)

The crowd repeated it, their voices weaving through the trees like wind.

Katerina stood at their centre, her cloak stirring with the faint breeze, eyes burning like molten gold in the gloom.

For a fleeting moment, she felt it, not the chaos of power, but its balance.

The pulse of her ancestors beneath the soil, the thrum of her people's faith vibrating through her veins.

Aemond's hand brushed hers, just for a second.

It was enough.

They had found the coven, and now, the war had found its army.

XXXVI

[averillaratargaryen]

XXXIV

The sea winds rattled the windows of Dragonstone's hall, carrying the sharp cry of gulls and the scent of salt.

Candles flickered against stone, their small flames fighting the drafts that pressed against the old walls.

The council table, worn, scarred, and bearing the faint stains of wax and old blood, was lit only half, the rest of the room steeped in shadow.

Katerina sat at its head, her posture stiff, her eyes shadowed as if the grey morning had already touched her spirit.

Daemon leaned against the carved edge of the table, restless fingers drumming the wood.

Across from them, Aemond's pale gaze was fixed on the candle nearest him, the flame mirrored in his one good eye.

He had barely spoken since he entered, his silence heavy with anticipation, or perhaps dread.

Then came the sound of soft, deliberate steps.

Alys drifted into the hall with the poise of one who belonged everywhere yet was claimed by nowhere.

Her dark gown whispered along the stone floor, and in her hands she carried no scroll, no raven's message, only the weight of what she had heard.

"The whispers have returned," she said simply, her voice slicing through the silence.

Daemon straightened, his restless tapping halting mid-beat.

Katerina's eyes flickered, lifting at once to Alys as though she had been waiting for those words.

Aemond leaned back, shoulders tensing, his hand twitching against the table.

"What whispers?" Daemon demanded, tone sharp, though beneath it lay something brittle.

Alys's lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Of war. Of Aegon."

She let her gaze move between them, lingering for a fraction on Katerina.

"He knows of the coven. Word says he is preparing to march, even to cross the Narrow Sea if he must. He cares nothing for whether he finds your people or not, he means to burn the land itself, until every hiding place is ash."

The hall darkened at her words.

It wasn't the sky, the storm had not yet broken, but the weight of silence settling over them.

Katerina rose, her chair scraping harshly against the floor.

Her eyes glimmered with something sharp, dangerous.

"Then we must reach them first," she said, her voice low but commanding. "Warn them. Disperse them before his fire can fall. If they scatter, he will have nothing to destroy."

Aemond's hand slammed against the table before he even realised he had moved.

His voice cut hard through her words: "You do not understand my brother."

"You're powerful," he said bluntly. "More than most. More than enough to make even Aegon hesitate."

His lips curled faintly, not in mockery but something almost like admiration.

"But power alone doesn't fight dragons. Steel doesn't cut fire. And it is no fair fight, Katerina, for you to go against him without one of your own."

Katerina blinked at him, caught by the rare steadiness in his tone.

But before she could answer, Aemond cut in again, voice tight and trembling with his own anger.

"You think she should ride?"

His eye darted between them, the faintest flicker of something, fear, perhaps, breaking through his fury.

"Do you not see? This is exactly what he wants. To draw her out, to force her into battle. To set her against him so he can destroy her."

Daemon rounded on him, lip curling.

"And what would you have her do? Hide behind your silence while Aegon burns her people to cinders? She is not weak. She does not need your protection."

Aemond stepped forward, his voice dropping lower, quieter, as if the softness would carry his desperation better than a shout. "I do not want her protection. I want her alive."

Katerina's eyes softened for a moment, but the steel remained.

"Alive?" she echoed.

"And what is life in a cage, Aemond? I have been locked away before. Watched as my family was slaughtered, my blood spilled. I will not stand idle while your brother writes more of the same."

Her words cracked something in the air.

Daemon exhaled slowly, his hand brushing the scarred wood of the table.

His voice, when it came again, was lower, heavier. "I won't deny your strength. I'd sooner put my faith in you than in half the armies of Westeros. But against a man with a dragon, power is not enough. You'd need fire of your own to match his."

Katerina turned on him, her expression hard.

"So what then? You would have me wait until a dragon bends willingly at my feet? Time is not ours to command."

Daemon's stare was unwavering. "Then we make time. Because if you ride into his fire as you are, you may not come back."

The hall was still save for their breaths, jagged and uneven.

Alys, quiet as a shadow, finally spoke, her voice cutting through the tension.

"Both of you are right. She is dangerous, and danger is the only thing that might stay Aegon's hand.”

“But Daemon speaks truth, fire must answer fire. If she goes without it..."

Her gaze slid to Katerina, sharp as a blade drawn thin. "It may be her undoing. So we must think strategically.”

Katerina's lips pressed tight. She felt their eyes upon her.

Alys sat back in her chair, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, her expression unreadable.

"Danger does not wait. And Aegon will not wait. If he is truly ready to scorch Essos for her scent, then your silence will not stop him. But she" she tipped her chin toward Katerina"she might."

Aemond's, burning with fear hidden under fury, Daemon's, sharp with the weight of strategy; Alys's, inscrutable but knowing.

"I am not afraid of him," she said at last, her voice low, deliberate. "I will not hide. I am not the danger he seeks. I am the danger that finds him."

Her words rang like a vow, dark and absolute.

For a moment, none spoke.

Katerina's breathing was steady, though her pulse thundered in her throat.

Aemond's hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles bleached bone white. Daemon's teeth ground.

"No," Aemond said finally, the single word carrying the weight of his refusal.

"No. You are not a weapon for him to chase. You are not a shield to stand in his flame."

He stepped forward, voice dropping lower, almost pleading though anger laced it still. "You are not his to fight."

"I am not his," Katerina agreed softly.

She stepped closer, her eyes burning into his, sharp as a blade drawn between them.

"But I am not yours either. I am mine. And if anyone can stop him, it is me."

The silence after rang loud, as though the stones themselves held their breath.

And though neither Aemond nor Daemon answered her then, each of them felt the truth of it, she would not be turned from this path.

…

The sea winds still clung to Dragonstone, restless and cold, but within the gardens the air was quieter, though no less heavy.

The stones underfoot bore moss and the faint cracks of age, and wild roses, untended, half-wild things, climbed the ruined walls, their red blooms darkening in the twilight.

Aemond stood alone among them.

The council chamber's fire and fury still rang in his ears.

Katerina's defiance, Daemon's sharp words,

Alys's cutting truths. But none of it settled in him. It churned like a storm refusing to break.

He leaned against the cool stone, drawing in slow breaths, but even the salt air brought no calm.

His fingers brushed the inside of his cloak, searching for something he had carried longer than he cared to admit.

Slowly, he drew it out a small pendant, silver and simple, worn smooth by years of handling. His mother's.

Alicent's gift had been pressed into his hand long ago, back when his eye still bled, back when the boy he was had still sought comfort in small tokens.

She had told him it would protect him, that the Seven would look kindly upon him if he carried a piece of faith with him always.

Now, standing beneath the fading sky, he turned the pendant over in his hand, staring at it as though it might burn a hole through his palm.

It was his mother's, the woman who had borne him, who had stood by Aegon, who had turned a blind eye when Aemond's pain was laid bare.

Her love had been real, yes, but it had always bent toward duty.

To the crown.

To her firstborn.

To the realm's idea of order.

The pendant was heavy now. Heavier than it had ever been.

His other hand tightened into a fist at his side. His mother.

His brother.

His blood.

And then there was her.

Katerina's face flared against his thoughts like a flame refusing to die.

The sharpness in her eyes when she declared she would burn brighter than Aegon.

The tremor in her voice when she spoke of cages, of slaughter, of being made to watch while her family bled.

The way she had stood, proud and unyielding, while the others doubted and scorned.

She had not begged for protection. She had not asked for pity.

She had claimed her power and dared them all to deny it.

And gods help him, he loved her for it.

He hated her for it, too.

For the way she threw herself into fire without thought of the ash it would leave him with.

For the way she could look him in the eye and vow danger while his heart beat only with the thought of keeping her safe.

He squeezed the pendant until the edges cut into his palm.

Blood or love. Mother or flame.

The choice pressed down on him with the weight of the world.

He wanted both.

He had always wanted both.

To be the son his mother could look at without disappointment, and to be the man Katerina could trust with her fury.

But no such balance existed.

He lifted the pendant higher, the dying light glinting on its silver face.

Once, it had meant guidance.

Now, it was a question.

Would he remain bound to the woman who had birthed him, whose faith and loyalty chained him still to Aegon's throne?

Or would he bind himself to the woman he loved, the one who carried danger in her veins, who could very well bring ruin to them all, and yet, without whom, he could not bear to exist?

The answer came not as clarity, but as ache.

He thought of Joffrey's body falling, the sound of steel cleaving flesh.

He thought of Katerina's trembling, her eyes twitching with black veins, the way he had pulled her back from slaughter by reminding her of an innocent child's gaze.

He thought of her whisper in the chamber when rage gave way to heat. You've ruined me.

And his own words back. You're going to ruin me too.

Aemond bowed his head, the pendant still clutched tight.

He would choose her. He had already chosen her. Every path, every ruin, every scar upon his body told him so.

The realisation carved him open.

It meant turning from his mother.

It meant facing his brother's wrath, Otto's cold scheming, the faith that had bound his bloodline to the crown.

It meant bearing the title of traitor, perhaps, if only in whispers.

But it also meant living.

Living with her.

Loving her as fiercely as he was cursed to do, binding her flame to his cold steel until the world itself broke trying to part them.

He opened his hand.

The pendant gleamed faintly in the twilight. For the first time, it looked small.

Fragile.

Something of the past, not of the man he was now.

Aemond slid it back into his pocket, but this time it did not rest close to his heart.

He turned his face to the sea, his hair tugged by the evening wind, his eye burning bright as a dragon's ember.

He would not lose her again.

No matter what it cost him.

The gardens of Dragonstone were hushed save for the wind that carried salt and storm from the restless sea.

Aemond stood with his back to the world, still as a carved figure against the grey horizon.

His hand lingered over the silver pendant tucked away inside his cloak, the talisman that burned more as burden than blessing.

His mind churned in silence.

He did not hear the gulls screaming overhead.

He did not hear the waves gnawing at the rocks. He barely heard his own breaths, ragged with the weight of decision.

But another did.

From the archway at the garden's edge, Alys paused.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, her body stilled.

There he was, taut shoulders, solitary figure, the posture of a man being ripped apart from within.

She had come seeking the cool air to clear her thoughts, but her steps halted as though the stones themselves anchored her.

She did not speak. She did not need to.

Alys could hear the storm inside him.

His thoughts pulsed like drums, spilling raw and unguarded into the silence.

Mother.

Brother.

Duty.

Blood.

Then, cutting through like fire, Katerina.

Over and over.

Aemond knew she was there, the faint scrape of her slippers across stone, the shift in the air, but he did not turn.

He did not wish to see her gaze.

Not when his own thoughts betrayed him so nakedly.

So he let her linger, let her presence press against his back like another shadow, and remained lost in himself.

Moments stretched, brittle with unspoken weight.

It was Daemon who broke them.

His boots echoed against stone as he came up behind her, the faint metallic clink of a sword at his hip.

He stopped just short of her shoulder, gaze narrowing as he followed the direction of her stare.

There, the boy, Aemond, the kin not his own but tangled irrevocably with the blood of his daughter.

Daemon's lip twitched, though no smirk followed. His voice was low, pitched only for Alys. "Brooding, is he?"

Alys's eyes did not shift from Aemond. "Thinking," she murmured. "And in that thinking, tearing himself apart."

Daemon tilted his head, the corner of his mouth hard. "I know it well. That feeling. Not wanting to lose her. Not knowing how to hold on."

His tone was sharper than sympathy, but there was a strange sincerity tucked within, as though the words cost him.

Alys breathed slowly, considering, then said.

"Then you know also that he cannot be expected to choose easily. To love her as he does means to lose everything else. His mother. His brother. His name, his legacy. It is not as simple as you paint it."

Daemon's eyes flickered, narrowing as he studied Aemond's rigid frame in the distance.

"And you think it was simple for her?"

His voice sharpened, cutting like the edge of a drawn blade.

"She's lost everything. Everyone. And at some point, by your own damned whispers, she will lose me too. She will not make it out unscarred. Nor will he. They will end the same, Alys, hollowed by loss. But if they have each other..."

His hand clenched at his side, the words grinding from his teeth. "If they have each other, then it will not be for nothing."

Alys's lips parted, but no words came.

Her eyes lingered on Aemond, who still did not move, though she knew he heard them both. Every syllable.

He did not flinch, but the storm in his thoughts roared louder now, crashing against itself.

She has lost... I may lose her... I must choose.

Silence swelled again.

Daemon looked sidelong at Alys, his voice lower, grimmer. "He's listening."

"I know," she replied simply. Her dark eyes softened a fraction. "And he knows that I agree with you."

Aemond's shoulders shifted, barely, but enough.

Daemon turned back to him, his jaw tightening. He had not meant for the boy to hear what had slipped from his mouth.

He had spoken truth, not kindness, and truth could cut deeper than any blade.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering, "Seven hells."

Alys finally glanced at him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. "Do not."

Daemon's brows arched, his expression sharp with disbelief. "Do not what?"

"Do not go to him." Her voice was quiet, steady.

Daemon's mouth curled faintly, but his laugh was humorless.

"Do you think me such a fool? To spill his blood here and now? As much as I'd relish it..."

His voice dropped into a growl, his eyes flicking toward Aemond again.

"I would not do what would drive her to madness. If there's one lesson I've learned, it is that breaking the ones she loves breaks her faster than any blade."

Alys studied him, her gaze cool but discerning. She searched his face for truth and found it, sharp-edged but sincere.

Slowly, Daemon reached down, prying her hand from his arm. He did so gently, though his grip was iron, his decision resolute.

"Do not worry, witch," he said softly, though there was a crackle of steel beneath. "I will not kill him."

He paused, eyes dark as he stared ahead. "Not today."

With that, he stepped past her. His boots carried him forward, across the stones, toward the solitary figure framed by the dying light of the sky.

Alys remained behind, her gaze following him, then shifting back to Aemond.

Her lips parted as though to speak, though she knew no words were needed.

He could feel it, her agreement with Daemon, her quiet insistence that he must stop tearing himself in two.

That Katerina was strong, that he could not bind himself to fear of losing her but rather bind himself to fighting beside her.

The truth pressed against him like the sea's weight.

Alys stayed still, watching as Daemon closed the space between them.

She saw the way Aemond's spine stiffened, how his head lifted slightly though he did not yet turn.

The garden's silence had fractured. The storm was about to break.

The sky was bleeding into dusk, streaks of iron-grey and ember fading into the restless sea.

Aemond had not moved from his place among the roses, their thorns catching against his cloak, their petals falling like drops of blood around his boots.

His eye stayed fixed on the horizon, but his thoughts burned inward, tangled and restless.

The crunch of boots against stone broke the silence.

He did not turn.

He had known Daemon would come the moment Alys withdrew her hand from him.

The old rogue was many things, but subtle was not among them.

Daemon came into view only as a blur of dark leather and silver hair, striding until he stopped just at Aemond's side.

For a moment, he stood there, arms folded, gaze cast out over the sea as if weighing whether to speak at all.

Then, with a grunt, he lowered himself onto the stone bench beside him.

The space between them was narrow, but it might as well have been a chasm.

Neither spoke. The silence dragged long, taut as a drawn bowstring.

Finally, Aemond's voice cut through, low and edged. "I heard all of it."

Daemon's head tilted slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. "I know."

"You meant for me to."

A shrug. "Perhaps."

His gaze stayed on the horizon, eyes narrowing as if the sea itself might answer for him.

"But you cannot claim it is not the truth."

Aemond's jaw worked, teeth grinding as his fingers flexed against his knee.

"Truth?" he spat softly.

"You think it so simple. That she has lost, therefore I must lose. That I should accept it as if it were the only path left to me."

Daemon finally turned his head, studying the younger man with something like amusement, though there was no warmth in it.

Daemon finally turned his head, studying the younger man with something like amusement, though there was no warmth in it.

"It is not acceptance I preach. It is recognition. We are not men born to peaceful endings, boy. Not you. Not me. Not her. Death will find us all, but what matters is what we do while the gods let us breathe."

Aemond's eye flared, his lips tightening as though holding back words sharp enough to wound.

He looked away again, his chest rising with the force of what he swallowed down.

The silence pressed until it broke in a whisper, ragged and raw.

"I wished..." His voice caught, the word rough against his throat.

He shut his eye, forcing it out again.

"I wished for a life with her. One not filled with war and loss. A life of... ordinary things. Riding together. Reading in the same room. Hearing her laugh without fear. I wanted to wed her."

The last words came soft but solid, a confession torn from marrow.

His fingers tightened around the pendant still in his palm, the edges biting into skin.

Daemon exhaled through his nose, sharp as a laugh but stripped of mirth. "So do it."

Aemond's head snapped toward him, confusion flickering across his face. His lips parted, but nothing came.

Daemon smirked faintly, though his tone was matter-of-fact.

"You sit here brooding as though the gods hold the leash. They do not. If you want her, claim her. Wed her. Bind her to you as she is already bound in spirit. What in all seven hells stops you?"

Aemond blinked, the simplicity of it clashing with the labyrinth of fear inside him. "You cannot mean it-?”

"Oh, I mean it." Daemon leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, voice low but firm.

"You think waiting for peace will grant you that life?”

“Look around you. There will be no peace. Not in our lifetimes. Each day is another battle, another ghost. If you waste time waiting for quiet, you will find yourself in a grave with regrets for company."

His eye narrowed, piercing Daemon's profile. "And you? You would give your blessing so easily?"

Daemon chuckled, the sound dry.

"Blessing? Do not insult me. I'd have sooner seen her wed to any lord in Essos before my own blood. But..."

His voice softened, grudging but genuine.

"She loves you. I have eyes, boy. She would bleed the world dry and still look for you in the ruin. That is not something I step in the way of. Even if it burns me."

Aemond swallowed, throat tight.

His chest ached with the weight of it, a pull between disbelief and the faintest stir of hope.

He had expected venom from Daemon, disdain. Not this reluctant concession, sharp as any truth yet curiously liberating.

His voice was quieter now, almost unsure. "You would have her give herself to me, when you despise me?"

Daemon finally turned fully toward him, meeting his eye with a look unflinching.

"What I think of you matters less than what she does. And she has already chosen. I may not like it, but I am no fool.”

“I have seen love in many forms. What she feels for you is not fragile. It is fire. And fire cannot be denied."

The words landed heavy, yet steady.

Aemond's fingers loosened their grip on the pendant, letting it rest against his palm instead of carving his skin.

His chest rose and fell, the air a little freer in his lungs.

Still, doubt lingered. "I have betrayed her once. She may not forgive me again."

Daemon's lips twitched, half a smirk, half a grimace. "Then make certain she has no reason to doubt again.”

“Stand beside her. Fight with her. Give her your hand and your name, and let the rest of the world burn if it must. Do that, and she will forgive anything."

Aemond stared at him, the words like iron hammered against the walls of his mind.

He had thought Daemon his rival, his constant shadow of scorn.

But here, in the waning light, he found something else. Not approval, but clarity.

The silence that followed was not empty.

It was weighted with the understanding neither wished to voice, that love was as much war as any battle, and that to claim it was to bleed for it.

Finally, Aemond let the pendant slip back into his pocket.

He sat straighter, the storm inside him less a chaos and more a course.

His voice was quiet, but firm. "If I wed her, there is no turning back. Not for her. Not for me."

Daemon smirked, rising from the bench with a sharp crack of his joints. "There never was, boy."

He looked down at him, eyes glinting faintly with something between amusement and respect. "Do it. Or don't. But stop haunting these gardens like a widow when your bride yet breathes."

With that, he turned, cloak snapping in the sea wind as he strode back toward the archway.

Aemond remained, staring at the horizon.

But this time, his hand rested steady against his chest, no longer weighed by indecision but by something heavier still, resolve.

Daeron found his brother pacing in the council chamber long after the lords had departed.

Aegon's crown tilted slightly on his brow, the smell of wine thick in the air, and his boots echoed sharply against the stone floor as he muttered to himself about banners, fleets, and fire.

"You've lost your wits," Daeron said flatly, stepping into the chamber.

Aegon spun, eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"I said you've lost your wits," Daeron repeated, voice louder, steadier.

"I've just heard what you declared to the council. War on the covens, war across the sea. Do you even hear yourself? This will end in disaster."

Aegon's lip curled, his steps quick and jerking. "And what would you have me do, brother? Sit idle while she bleeds this city dry? While our people cower in their homes?”

“No. I'll hunt her, I'll drag her from her hiding place, and when the cities burn, the people will know who to blame. Katerina. Not me."

Daeron's jaw tightened. He strode forward until the table separated them.

"Have you been outside, Aegon? Have you seen the streets? She got rid of it all. The filth, the hunger, the decay. She did in weeks what you could not in years. And no doubt, if you push her further, she will rid us of you too."

Aegon slammed his fist on the table. "She is a curse! A stain that should have stayed buried. And I will not have her shadow darken my reign. You think I fear her? I have a dragon. I have an army. I have a crown!"

Daeron's eyes flashed.

"You also have a kingdom that is rotting, a mother who can barely rise from her bed, and a brother who will not forgive you. But yes, by all means, clutch that crown tighter. See how far it carries you when you've turned every soul in Westeros against you."

Aegon's teeth bared, his face flushed. "You speak like them, the traitors, the weaklings. Do you forget you are my blood?"

"And do you forget I am Aemond’s?"

Daeron shot back, stepping around the table until he stood directly before him.

His hand fell to the sword at his hip, fingers brushing the hilt. "Our brother is as much family to me as you are. More, perhaps. And I will not raise steel against him or Katerina."

Aegon's nostrils flared. "You dare-?”

Daeron drew his sword in one smooth motion, not to strike, but to lower it.

The blade clattered against the stone floor as he let it fall at Aegon's feet.

His voice was firm, unwavering.

"I will not fight. Not against her. Not against Aemond. Not against children, not against women, not against innocents who have no part in your war. If you want their blood, take it yourself."

The chamber stilled, heavy with the sound of Aegon's ragged breathing.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, torn between fury and disbelief.

Daeron stepped back, his eyes never leaving his brother's.

"You call this strength, but it is nothing but madness. If you think yourself a king, prove it by building, not destroying. But I will not die for your paranoia. Not when the gods themselves would curse such a war."

Aegon sneered, though his voice cracked with frustration. "Then you are no brother of mine."

Daeron turned on his heel, the echo of his boots following him out of the chamber. "If that is what it takes to keep my soul, then so be it."

…

The keep had grown hushed with the fall of night.

The torches along the hallways burned low, their flames hissing in the salt-heavy wind that crept through the cracks of stone.

Most had retreated to their chambers, leaving Dragonstone to a silence broken only by the faraway groan of the sea against its black cliffs.

Katerina's chamber was lit by a single candelabra. Shadows sprawled long across the walls, reaching over the table where she leaned, fingers trailing absently along the ink-marked rivers and jagged coastlines of Westeros.

The map was smaller than the one Daemon had laid across the council table, but its details were sharp enough to hold her focus.

Daemon's voice still echoed in her thoughts, a foothold at Harrenhal, and from there the Riverlands will bend.

His plan was bold, bloody, and typical of him.

She bit her lip, tracing the Riverlands with a fingertip before letting her gaze drift further east. Across the painted sea to Essos.

To the shadow of her coven, waiting, vulnerable. A second thought pressed upon her, perhaps Daemon could secure Harrenhal, while she sailed across the Narrow Sea, warning and shielding her own.

Her chest ached with the weight of choice. Duty stretched her between two worlds.

The door creaked, a low groan of hinges. Katerina glanced up, startled, then softened when she saw who stood in the threshold.

Aemond lingered there, tall and straight as a blade, his single eye fixed on her.

He said nothing at first, simply watching, the pale curve of her face bent over the map, the furrow in her brow, the faint glow of candlelight in her hair.

She seemed so lost in thought, so unlike the creature of fire and fury the city had whispered of.

At last he cleared his throat.

Her head lifted, and at once her lips curved. A tired but genuine smile. "Oh, Aemond."

The simple way she said his name stirred something restless in him.

He stepped forward, boots soft against the rugs laid across stone.

She returned her gaze to the map as he approached, her hand resting against the Reach.

"Daemon spoke of Harrenhal," she murmured, not raising her eyes.

"Of binding the Riverlands to our cause. I thought it wise... though I wonder if I should take ship east, to Essos. My coven must be warned, and hidden. I would not see them burned."

Aemond drew up beside her, his hands clasped behind his back.

He studied the map, studied her.

"If Daemon takes Harrenhal, he risks stretching his lines thin. The Riverlords are fickle, they bend, but they break just as easily.”

“Better to anchor strength at Harrenhal, aye, but only once the Vale or the North are pledged. Otherwise, it is an empty hold, nothing more."

Her eyes flicked to him, thoughtful.

She nodded slowly, her finger tapping the Vale. "Perhaps you are right. It is a fortress, yes, but a hollow one if the lords desert. Best to shore up loyalty first."

Silence fell again, but it was different now, not heavy, but threaded with something quiet between them.

When she looked at him again, she caught a glint in his eye, not sharp but strangely vulnerable, as though words pressed against his lips, fighting for breath.

He inhaled slowly, then exhaled, his jaw tightening before the words found voice.

"I would speak with you," he said at last, the softness of it at odds with the steel in his tone.

His hand brushed the edge of the map, then withdrew, as if steadying himself. "Not here. Will you come with me?"

Her brows arched faintly, curiosity lighting her face. "And where would you take me?"

Aemond's lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "A surprise."

For a heartbeat, she studied him, searching the set of his mouth, the flicker in his eye.

Then a small laugh escaped her, hushed but warm. She pushed back from the table, the map forgotten for now.

"Very well," she said, slipping her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers with quiet surety.

The chamber door shut behind them as they stepped into the shadows of Dragonstone's corridors, the candlelight dwindling into silence.

…

The stone steps spiraled endlessly upward, the torchlight dimming with every turn, until at last they reached the narrow door at the highest floor of Dragonstone.

Aemond pushed it open, and the night air swept in, cold, briny, and vast.

The balcony stretched outward like the prow of a ship, carved from black stone, its jagged edge a sharp silhouette against the endless sea.

Above them the sky yawned open, ink-dark and scattered with stars.

The moon hung low, pale and luminous, its light spilling across the waters and painting the waves in silver.

Below, the roar of the tide was a steady hymn, crashing against the cliffs.

No guards lingered here.

No sound of men, no plotting voices, no wars to weigh upon them.

Just the two of them, a prince and a princess the world could not forget, standing beneath the heavens.

Katerina stepped to the edge, her fingers brushing the cold stone railing.

Her hair shifted with the sea-wind, catching fragments of moonlight.

She breathed deep, eyes lifted skyward, and for a moment she seemed untethered, as though she belonged to that starlit expanse rather than the world of men.

"I’m surprised we are here" she said softly, glancing back at him.

“Why?” Aemond tilts his head, a slight glimmer of confusion in his eye.

“Daemon would never let me up here this high. He was always afraid I would fall” Katerina chuckled.

Aemond nods understandably.

"It is the highest balcony of Dragonstone," he replied, his voice low but certain.

He lingered near the doorway at first, watching her with an expression caught between awe and unease.

"Few ever climb this far. Too many steps. Too much silence. But I..."

He trailed off, shaking his head faintly.

"But you?" she pressed gently.

"I wanted you here," he finished, his one eye fixed on hers, the candle-glow of the keep long forgotten.

Katerina tilted her head, smiling faintly, though her gaze lingered on him with curiosity.

She had grown used to his silences, to the way he weighed his words like weapons, but something in him tonight was different.

There was a tension about him, not anger but something heavier, like the taut string of a bow.

For a while, they simply stood side by side, the quiet of the sea filling the space between them.

Aemond was the first to break it. "Do you know," he began slowly, "how long I spent imagining what it would be like, if you lived?"

Her eyes flicked to him, wide and startled. He rarely spoke so openly. "And what did you imagine?"

He inhaled, his jaw tightening.

"That you'd be here. That you'd walk these halls. That I'd hear your laughter in them again. That I'd see you grow older, stronger, until no one could touch you."

His gaze slid down, fixed on the stone railing beneath his hands.

"I imagined everything except what truly came to pass."

Katerina's lips parted, words caught in her throat. Slowly, she turned to face him fully. "Aemond..."

"I love you," he said suddenly, fiercely.

His voice was sharp, almost too sharp, as if the words had cut him on their way out.

He turned his head then, his single eye burning, silver hair tousled by the wind.

"I love you more than I have loved anything, anyone. And I have tried to bury it. I tried to bury you with it. But it would not die."

Her breath caught.

She stood frozen, heart hammering as the weight of his confession pressed down upon her.

She had known, gods, she had always known, but to hear it said so plainly...

Katerina swallowed hard, her own defenses fracturing. Her voice trembled when she answered. "I love you too."

Aemond blinked, his expression faltering, as if he hadn't expected to hear it back.

His lips parted, then closed again, his throat bobbing with the force of what he held back.

Katerina stepped closer, her voice firmer now, steadier with each word.

"I love you, Aemond. Through your fury, through your cruelty, through every mistake we have made, I never stopped. Not when I hated you.”

“Not when I tried to kill you. Not when I turned my back. Love doesn't vanish simply because we wish it to."

His breath shuddered.

He reached for her then, fingers brushing the back of her hand, tentative as though she were made of glass.

She did not flinch away.

They stood in silence, their confessions lingering in the salt-heavy air, until at last Aemond's voice broke through again, softer, trembling on the edge of something deeper.

"You and I," he whispered, "have a truer call to heed."

Katerina's brows drew together, her lips parting. "What?" she asked, not harshly, but with confusion, her tone soft as the sea breeze.

Aemond's eye found hers, unblinking, fierce with resolve. "Wed me."

The words seemed to cleave the night in two.

Aemond's face was tight at first, as though bracing for rejection, but in his uncovered eye flickered a light both fierce and terrified, the trembling hope of a man laying his heart bare for the first time.

Katerina's eyes widened, then softened, the sharpness in them folding into something unguarded, her lips parting though no sound came.

In that silence, every bruise and scar between them seemed to fade, and what remained was the raw truth that had always bound them.

Their gazes locked, and in the depth of that stare bloomed the unspoken confession that no matter how many lives they lived, or how many worlds they tore themselves through, they would find one another again and again.

Katerina's breath came uneven, her fingers trembling against the stone rail.

She could not speak, her voice caught in her throat, but she could not look away from him either.

Aemond took a step closer, his voice hushed, urgent. "We will wed in the tradition of our house. In fire and blood. And then we will leave this cursed rock. We will travel together to Essos. We will find your coven. We will make them ours."

He leaned in, his eye never leaving hers, his voice lowering to a plea. "Come with me."

She stared at him, stunned into silence, her lips trembling but no words forming.

He tilted his head slightly, the faintest crease in his brow, his mouth softening into something almost fragile.

The steel of him cracked open, and for once he looked not like a warrior, but a man.

Still she said nothing, but her silence was not rejection.

It was awe, fear, love all knotted together in her chest.

Her hand lifted slowly, almost of its own accord, to his cheek.

His skin was cool beneath her palm, his jaw clenched tight.

Aemond leaned into her touch as though starved of it, his eye closing for a moment, lashes trembling.

Then, without a word, she closed the distance between them.

Her lips met his in a kiss,

not fierce, not desperate, but soft.

A kiss that answered the plea in his eyes, that carried the weight of acceptance.

His hand cupped the back of her head at once, pulling her deeper into it, their foreheads pressing together when they broke for breath.

Aemond's lips brushed her ear, whispering hoarsely, “I love you.”

And for the first time in so long, Katerina allowed herself to be loved.

“I love you, in every universe” he whispered.

The stars blazed overhead.

The sea roared its approval.

And on the highest balcony of Dragonstone, with no one to see but the gods, their betrothal was sealed in fire, blood, and a kiss.

Two days passed, and when the morning broke over Dragonstone, the sky was bright but veiled with drifting clouds.

By midday, the sun hung high and merciless, turning the jagged rocks and dark walls of the castle into blazing stone.

The sea crashed below in endless rhythm, its spray carried high on the wind, salt clinging to hair and skin.

It was here, on the cliffside beyond the castle gates, that the rite was prepared.

Not within walls, not in secrecy, but outside, beneath the gaze of sky and sea, where nothing could hide from the gods, neither the new nor the forgotten.

There was no music.

No banners unfurled.

No crowd to bear witness.

Only four souls stood at the cliff's edge, the sunlight painting them stark against the black stone.

Alys bore the ceremonial dagger, its Valyrian steel glinting silver-white in the sun.

She was composed, almost priestess-like, her face unreadable.

Daemon stood near, his arms folded, his cloak snapping in the stiff breeze, eyes narrowed against the sunlight.

He had seen many vows in his life, yet there was something unsettling about this one, as though the island itself held its breath.

And then came the two to be bound.

Aemond and Katerina walked side by side across the stones.

They came as they were, blood of dragon, fire of dragon.

The midday sun blazed above them, turning Katerina's silver hair to molten gold, making Aemond's pale hair shimmer like steel.

The wind whipped strands loose, carried their scents of salt and ash.

They did not look to Daemon, nor to Alys.

Their eyes stayed fixed ahead, toward the firepit that had been built at the cliff's edge.

The flames inside it burned high, fed with oil and wood, a column of smoke trailing into the bright sky.

Against the brilliance of day, the fire was less shadowed mystery and more defiant beacon, a challenge to gods and men alike.

Alys raised the dagger, and the rite began.

Aemond was first.

His hand extended without hesitation.

The steel kissed his palm, opening flesh, and his blood fell heavy and dark into the waiting fire.

The flames hissed and spat, bright sparks spiraling upward, almost swallowed by the midday glare.

Then came Katerina.

She did not flinch when the blade touched her hand, and her blood joined his, falling into the same flame.

The fire leapt higher, golden tongues devouring the offering, the smoke curling briefly into shapes.

Wings, scales, something vast and fleeting before dissolving into air.

Their hands were pressed together, palm to palm, blood mingling hot and slick between them. The cut flesh met with cut flesh, red binding red.

The sun caught their joined hands and lit them like molten bronze.

They stood facing one another, the fire blazing beside them, the sea crashing below, the wind tugging at their hair and cloaks.

Their eyes locked, steady and unblinking, Aemond's burning with unyielding hunger, Katerina's reflecting fire and sorrow both, yet steadied with resolve.

They knelt as one before the flames.

Blood dripped from their joined hands onto the stones, marking the rock with dark stains that the tide below would never reach.

The fire hissed louder, sparks spinning skyward, as though the flames themselves had accepted what had been offered.

From the altar stone, Alys lifted the chalice. Into it she let their mingled blood fall, deep red pooling and glinting under the sun.

The chalice was passed first to Aemond, who lifted it to his lips and drank without hesitation, the taste of iron sharp on his tongue.

He handed it then to Katerina, who raised it and drank just as steady, her gaze never leaving his. In that moment, their blood was not only bound but consumed, fire in their veins, oath in their marrow.

Daemon's gaze flickered briefly, a flash of awe, pride, and unease mingling, though his face remained hard.

Alys lingered by the fire, her lips parted faintly, as if she alone recognized the omen in the twisting smoke.

When Aemond and Katerina rose, the blood dried between their fingers.

They did not let go.

Their foreheads leaned close, and their lips met in a kiss that was slow but fierce, full of iron and salt and fire.

The sea thundered below, and the sunlight struck their faces so bright it seemed to brand them in gold.

No vows were spoken. Their silence was vow enough.

It was done.

No bells tolled.

No singers raised their voices.

No feast awaited them.

Only fire, sea, and sky bore witness.

But it was enough.

Alys lowered the dagger, placing it on the stone altar with hands that trembled faintly though her face betrayed nothing.

Daemon stood silent, his shadow long on the stones, his expression unreadable.

And the two who had been bound walked away hand in hand, their bloodied palms hidden between them, their eyes fixed not on those who had watched, but on the horizon ahead.

The bond was sealed, truer and older than crowns.

XXXV

[averillaratargaryen]

XXXIII

The keep was quiet that night, the kind of silence that sat heavy, broken only by the faint rush of the sea below Dragonstone and the occasional moan of stone shifting with the wind.

Torches hissed low in their sconces along the hall, their flames licking shadows up the walls in restless movement.

Katerina padded barefoot across the cold stone, her pale silk gown brushing softly against her legs as she made her way back from the privy.

The hour was late, the moon high and hidden behind clouds, and her body ached for her bed.

She thought only of slipping under the blankets and closing her eyes to escape, if only for a few hours, the weight pressing on her chest.

Turning the corner, she stopped short.

Aemond.

He stood just ahead, his figure cutting sharp lines in the dim firelight, his single eye catching hers as if the shadows themselves could not conceal him.

For a moment neither spoke, neither moved. It was as if the hall narrowed, the whole world shrinking to the space between them.

Katerina broke first. She let her gaze fall, sliding past him as though he were merely another stone along her path, and brushed by without a word.

Aemond's jaw tightened.

His body tensed with the familiar frustration he had swallowed since her return, each silence she offered him gnawing deeper than the cruelest insult.

He turned, his boots quick against the stone.

"You're avoiding me," he said, his voice low but edged, following after her.

"I am not," she replied calmly, not looking back. "I am going to bed. It is late."

The words were smooth, almost dismissive, as though she might shrug him off like the passing night air.

She reached her chamber, fingers curling around the iron handle, but before she could slip inside, his hand shot out.

His fingers wrapped firmly around her wrist.

"Katerina," he hissed, and in one motion he pulled her into the chamber with him, shutting the heavy door behind them.

The silence inside was thicker, broken only by the faint hiss of the fire still burning in the hearth.

Shadows stretched long, curling across the walls, and the tension between them thickened the air like smoke.

Her eyes flicked down to his grip on her wrist, then up to his face. Calm, almost eerily so. "Why do you follow me?" she asked, her tone level.

"Why do you avoid me?" His words came sharper, his chest rising and falling with the restraint of anger barely contained.

"I told you, I do not." She slipped her wrist from his grasp, though he did not resist her pulling free.

"You do," he pressed.

"Every day since you returned. Every chance you have, you look away, or walk past, or vanish before I speak. Do you think me blind to it? Do you think I do not notice?"

Her lips pressed together, her calmness like a mask. "You are mistaken."

His laugh came short, mirthless. "Mistaken?"

He took a step closer, his eye burning into her. "I am not mistaken, Katerina. I see it. I feel it. You keep me at arm's length, and I am tired of it."

She inhaled slowly, her gaze slipping past him to the fire. "Then perhaps you should stop reaching."

The words landed heavy, though her tone remained calm, as if she were stating a simple fact.

But he saw the flicker in her eyes, the faint tightness of her jaw, and he knew she was holding something back.

He stepped closer still, closing the space between them.

His voice softened, not in calm but in desperation.

"I have already spent years without you. Years believing you dead. Do not take what time we have left and waste it. Not now. Not when every day is borrowed."

Her chest tightened. Still, she said nothing, her lips parting but no words coming.

"You feel it too," he pressed, his tone raw.

"You know as well as I do, our time is not endless. Our names are not hidden. The coven will come. War will come. They are your people, Katerina, and you know it. You know what they will demand of you."

Her throat worked, but she kept her silence.

Aemond's voice broke into a plea. "Do not push me aside. Do not lock me out. Let me in, Katerina. Let me be there for you. Whatever comes, let us face it together. If you shut me out now, we will never survive what is to come."

She closed her eyes briefly, guilt lancing through her chest like a dagger. She could not meet his gaze.

"What do you want me to say?" she whispered finally, her voice frayed.

"Anything!" he burst, the word cracked with desperation. His chest heaved, his restraint snapping.

"Say anything, so long as it is truth. Speak to me, damn it!"

Her eyes flicked to his, wide and shining.

"Why do you wish it of me?" she whispered. "Why do you wish to hear me?"

He opened his mouth, but she cut herself off with a sudden torrent. Words poured from her, guilt she had buried clawing its way out.

"Because I ruined you," she said, her voice breaking.

"I did this to you. I turned you into what you are. I made you something more unnatural. A hybrid. I cursed you, Aemond. I cursed you with my blood."

His breath stilled.

Her chest heaved, her words rushing now, unstoppable. "Do you not see? I destroyed you. I stole what you were, and I gave you only more monstrosity in return. Every time I look at you, all I see is what I've done, and I-!"

Her voice cracked, and she shook her head. "I don't deserve your forgiveness. Not now. Not ever."

Aemond stood motionless, his eye fixed on her, reading her in silence.

It struck him then, she had not avoided him out of hate, but out of guilt. Her silence was not rejection, but punishment she inflicted on herself.

And in that moment, his anger softened.

He stepped forward.

She was still rambling, her voice trembling, her words spilling fast. "I am sorry. I am so sorry. I-! I thought if I stayed away, perhaps it would spare you from me. But it cannot. It never can."

Her voice broke into quiet sobs, her face turned away, but he lifted his hand.

His palm cupped her cheek, firm but gentle, his thumb brushing against her skin as he turned her head toward him.

Her eyes met his, wide, wet, glistening.

"Enough," he whispered.

And before she could speak again, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers.

The kiss was desperate, fierce, but not born of rage.

It was longing, pent-up and aching, years of silence unraveling in a single moment. His lips moved against hers as though he could pour every truth into her, every plea, every wound and every forgiveness.

Her hands trembled at first, pressed against his chest as if to push him away, but the resistance melted.

Her fingers curled into his tunic, pulling him closer. Her lips parted against his, the taste of salt from her tears mingling with the heat of his breath.

It was not gentle, not restrained. It was a collision of need and grief, a kiss that reassured and consumed in the same breath.

He kissed her as though he had found her after being lost in a desert, and she kissed him as though she were drowning and he was the air she had been denied.

His hand slipped to the back of her neck, holding her as if afraid she would vanish again. Her hands clutched at him desperately, anchoring herself in the storm of it.

When at last they parted, breathless, their foreheads rested together, their chests heaving in unison.

And for the first time since her return, Katerina did not look away.

Their lips broke apart slowly, reluctant, as though parting might shatter the fragile tether that had drawn them back together.

Their foreheads lingered, pressed together, both breathing hard. The sound of their breaths filled the chamber, mingling with the low hiss of the hearth fire.

Aemond did not let go.

His hand remained firm against her cheek, his thumb brushing away the dampness of her tears.

His other hand rose, cupping the opposite side of her face, until her head was held fully in his grasp, as though she were something precious he could not risk dropping.

His eye searched hers, not fierce, not desperate, but steady.

Steadier than she had ever seen him. His voice, when it came, was low, gentle, each word deliberate.

"I do not care what you've made me," he said, his thumb stroking against her cheekbone.

"Hybrid. Monster. Curse. Whatever name the world gives it, I do not care. As long as you are beside me, Katerina... nothing else matters."

Her lips parted slightly, her breath trembling. She wanted to look away, but his hands held her still, forcing her to meet his eye.

"I have wronged you. I have wronged your blood. Joffrey. Luke. And you-!" Aemond dreaded having to speak on it again.

"I did not save you, that first time Aegon had killed you. I stood there, silent, when I should have burned the hall to ash to spare you."

His jaw clenched, his eye flickering with a grief that never left him. "I will carry that shame until I die."

Katerina swallowed, her own tears welling fresh.

"And you" his voice faltered, softening, "you wronged mine. Helaena. Jaehaerys. Their blood on your hands, their screams in your wake."

Her breath caught sharply, but he shook his head, his grip on her face firm, grounding her.

"And so," he whispered, "if I do not accept your apology, what would that make me? A hypocrite. A man clinging to grief only to justify his own sins. And if you do not accept mine, what would that make you? No different than I."

His thumb brushed against her lips, silencing her.

"We are the same, Katerina. Fire and blood. Wrongs and sins bound in the same flesh. We can never undo it. We can never make it right. But together..."

His voice strengthened, though it trembled with emotion. "Together, perhaps we can decide what comes next. Together, perhaps we can stop repeating the same ruin."

Her eyes glistened as she stared at him. His words cut deep, not as a weapon but as a balm, stinging only because they were true.

He lifted her head slightly with his hands, forcing her gaze upward, her chin tipped so that she met his eye directly.

"I love you," he said at last, the words spilling like a vow torn straight from his soul.

His lips barely moved, but the words filled the room as though carried by fire. "I love you. And whatever happens from now, we must decide together."

Her breath shuddered. She opened her mouth, but no words came. The silence stretched, heavy with all that lingered unsaid.

Finally, her voice broke through, soft but trembling. "Together," she whispered. "But Aemond... how do we build when all we have left are ashes?"

His lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile, though his eye shone with tears. "Ashes are all Targaryens ever had," he said. "From fire, we begin again."

She let out a faint, broken laugh, shaking her head. "You make it sound simple."

"It isn't," he admitted. "It will never be. But neither of us is simple. Neither of us was born for peace."

He tilted his head, studying her as if she were the only thing in the world worth seeing. "Tell me you do not love me, and I will walk away. Tell me you feel nothing, and I will never ask again."

Her lips quivered. Her silence was answer enough, and he saw it in the way her throat worked, the way her lashes trembled with unshed tears.

"Katerina," he pressed, his voice low, coaxing. "Tell me."

Her lips parted, a whisper escaping before she could cage it. "I can't."

Her voice cracked, her tears spilled.

Aemond's lips curved, not in mockery but in aching understanding.

His hands stayed firm on her face. "Then love me," he murmured, leaning closer, their foreheads almost touching again.

"Love me, and do not leave me. I would rather your hate than your silence."

She closed her eyes tightly, her tears slipping free.

"You don't understand. I love you. I do. But I hate it."

He brows furrowed, confused as to what she meant.

"My hate is only love poisoned. I hate how much I trusted you. I hate how much I need you. I hate..." Her voice broke, sobs shaking her chest. "I hate that I love you still."

Aemond's breath shuddered.

He let his forehead rest against hers fully, his lips brushing against her trembling mouth.

"And I hate that you think I do not love you enough," he whispered. "Because I do. I always have. Even when I shouldn't. Even when it broke me."

Her sob turned into a laugh, bitter and broken, as she whispered against his lips, "Then we are both broken."

"Then let us be broken together," he answered, his voice steady, his hands holding her as though he could piece her back together by touch alone.

Their lips met again, slower this time, deeper.

A kiss not of desperation, but of recognition. It was softer, though no less intense, the weight of their grief pressing into the movement of their mouths, the tremble of her lips, the firm insistence of his.

It was a kiss of confession, of surrender, of two ruined souls binding themselves in the only way they knew how.

When they broke apart, both were breathless, but neither moved far. Their faces lingered close, breaths mingling.

"Say it again," she whispered.

"I love you," he answered instantly, his voice firm. "I love you, Katerina. And whatever comes, fire, blood, war, gods, we face it together."

Her hands, trembling, rose to cover his where they still cupped her face.

She nodded once, slowly, her tears streaking down her cheeks. "Then together it will be," she whispered back.

The fire in the hearth snapped and hissed, throwing sparks into the air as though sealing their vow.

For a long while they stayed like that, his hands framing her face, their eyes locked, no walls left between them.

The silence no longer weighed heavy.

It was no longer avoidance, no longer guilt.

It was peace, fragile and fleeting, but peace nonetheless.

The next afternoon, the Red Keep's council chamber was thick with heat despite the cold winds outside. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching on dust motes that hung in the air above the long oak table.

Aegon sat at its head, his fingers drumming idly on the arm of his chair, his expression as sharp as the edge of a blade.

Alicent sat at his right, pale and weary, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Otto lingered beside her, posture stiff, his calculating eyes sweeping over the gathered lords.

The heavy creak of the door pulled all heads toward it.

The Grand Maester shuffled in, clutching a tome so old its leather binding was cracked and powdered with dust.

He bowed his head briefly before setting the book down with a hollow thud that echoed across the chamber.

"Well?" Aegon leaned forward, his tone clipped. "Did you find what I asked of you?"

The Maester nodded, adjusting his spectacles as he eased into a seat.

He opened the tome, the yellowed pages groaning at the weight of years, and placed one long finger against the script.

"My King," he began, his voice low but steady, "I have scoured the archives, even those kept hidden from common eyes. The supernaturals, as you call them, are not of Westeros. Not entirely. Their roots lie in the east, in Essos."

"Small covens scattered across mountains and valleys, some worshipped, some hunted, but all bound to the same origin."

He paused, his gaze flicking briefly to Alicent.

"The goddess Elaris. She who birthed the first of their kind, who split her essence into lineages that endure even now. It is from her that Katerina was made."

At the sound of her name, Alicent's lips pressed together.

The Maester continued, his hand smoothing the page.

"They are not many, compared to the realms of men, but they are enduring. Strong. And you were correct, Your Grace, they dwell in Essos, not here. Their numbers are said to include men, women, and..." his voice faltered, "...children."

Aegon leaned back in his chair, a thin smile tugging at his lips. "Good," he said simply, lifting his cup and taking a slow sip of wine.

"Then it begins there. We will bring fire and death to their covens until Katerina understands I am not to be trifled with. She will know her kind has no sanctuary, not across the sea, not anywhere."

The Maester cleared his throat. "Sire... forgive my boldness, but if you were to attack in such a way, it would not be warriors alone you cut down. You would slaughter children in the hundreds, perhaps thousands. Their innocents would burn with their guilty."

The chamber stilled. Alicent's hand twitched in her lap. She spoke softly, but her voice carried. "There must be another way."

"No." Aegon's reply came swift, sharp. He leaned forward, his eye flashing. "The gods themselves will forgive me, they will thank me. I will rid the world of what they clearly detest. Creatures. Monsters."

Alicent's voice rose, pleading, "Do not let your anger blind you. These children are not Katerina. They had no hand in her doing, nor in any of this. To cut them down would be-!"

"Innocent?" Aegon barked a bitter laugh, slamming his cup down so hard wine splashed the table.

"Do you think them innocent when they bow to her? When they see her as saviour? If they rise for her, then they are not children, they are soldiers, and soldiers will die."

His gaze swept the table, daring anyone to contradict him.

The lords shifted uncomfortably.

Tyland Lannister coughed into his hand but said nothing. Ser Arryk cast his gaze down, tracing the grain of the table with his eyes.

Alicent pressed on, though her voice trembled. "She is furious, Aegon. Joffrey's death alone has her blood aflame. If she learns you mean to strike at her coven, she will not hesitate, she will kill you."

"I have a dragon," Aegon snapped, shrugging as though it were answer enough.

Alicent's eyes blazed. "And she is more powerful than any dragon. Do you truly not see that? You court death itself, and you drag all of us into it with you."

For a moment, silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. Aegon looked slowly around the chamber.

The faces he saw, the Maester, Tyland, Ser Arryk, even Otto, were pale, quiet, weighted with unease. Too many eyes lowered. Too many mouths shut tight.

He shook his head slowly, a smile without joy spreading across his lips.

"You are all cowards," he said, his voice low but seething. "But I am not. If she thinks herself untouchable, if she believes herself above the wrath of House Targaryen, then let her learn. Let them all learn. I am as fearsome as any of them."

His words echoed off the stone, final, sealing the chamber in dread.

...

The chamber was thick with memory.

Dust clung to the high beams, cobwebs threaded between sconces that had not seen flame in years.

The painted table lay at the heart, worn smooth by countless hands, its colours faded, but the shapes of the Seven Kingdoms still stretched wide beneath its surface.

Once, Rhaenyra had stood in this room, her voice ringing out against her half-brother, her fingers pressed to the map as she declared her claim.

Now her daughter stood in her place, the same black hair and violet eyes, but colder, sharpened by grief and fury.

Daemon lingered at the edge of the table, his hand brushing away the dust with the side of his palm, as though clearing away the years themselves.

His expression was hard, his mouth a thin line, yet his eyes burned as though lit from within.

"You are powerful enough to end this," he said at last, his voice low, steady, every syllable weighted. His gaze fixed on her.

"All it would take is one night with your strength unleashed. The Red Keep would fall, the usurper's line with it. Aegon would be nothing but ash beneath your hand."

Katerina's lips pressed into a tight line. She had not lifted her eyes from the painted flames of Dragonstone on the table's edge.

The firelight from the braziers caught her profile, gilding her cheekbones with faint orange glow.

"You think it so simple," she murmured. "But it is not. Every time I call on that part of me, every time I use what I was given, it grows harder to control. You ask me to burn a castle, but what of the innocents inside? What of the coven?"

"Do you not see? If I make myself known that way, if I lay waste as you want me to, they will come for me. For all of us. My people will pay the price."

Her voice shook, not with weakness but with anger barely restrained.

She finally turned her eyes to him, dark and glinting. "You would have me be the doom of my own kin."

Daemon stepped closer, his boots scuffing against stone. "And what would you have instead? Peace?" His tone was sharp, almost mocking.

"Peace is a lie. Your mother sought peace, with Aegon, with the realm, with lords who bent their knee with smiles and sharpened knives hidden behind their backs. And where did it leave her?"

His hand slammed against the table, rattling the dust and making the old wood groan. "Dead. Burned. Betrayed. And all because she would not listen when I told her the truth. Peace with men like Aegon is death."

Katerina flinched at the sound, but her chin lifted in defiance. "I am not her."

"No," Daemon said, softer now, almost fond, though it carried the edge of steel. "You are not. You are stronger. Which is why you must do what she would not. Which is why you must end this, once and for all."

"Not for me. Not even for vengeance. For your coven. For their safety. The only way to keep them safe is to remove the crown that hunts them."

Her lips parted, but no words came. She looked back down at the map, the faded ink of Westeros sprawling wide.

Daemon swept the dust away more roughly this time, scattering decades into the air.

His fingers traced the outline of the crownlands, the jagged coast where King's Landing lay.

"Look here. The walls are high, but no stone can stand against what you carry in your veins. You could topple it before dawn."

She shook her head. "And lose myself in the fire? You would ask me to trade my humanity for your war."

His laugh was bitter, echoing off the chamber walls. "Humanity? That is what you cling to? Humanity will not save you, Katerina. Humanity will have you buried beside your brother."

Her shoulders stiffened at Joffrey's name, her breath sharp. He saw it.

He saw how the grief clawed her, how her nails pressed into her palm to keep from shaking. He pressed harder, voice dropping into something close to a plea.

"Do not be as she was," he said, his voice low, almost breaking. "Do not walk her path, because I promise you, it ends in death. For you, for them, for everyone you mean to protect. If you want them safe, then Aegon must die. And it must be by your hand."

The silence stretched. The fire popped, spitting sparks.

At last, Daemon reached for the carved stones that sat along the table's edge, markers long unused.

He plucked one, dusting it off with his sleeve, and set it down with a hard click against the table.

The stone landed over the map of the riverlands, its worn carving marking Harrenhal.

"We need a place to gather," he said, his voice steadier now, more calculating, sliding back into strategy as though slipping on old armour.

"A foothold large enough to hold a host. Here." His finger tapped the stone.

"Harrenhal. It is vast. Defensible. From there we cut off the west, tighten the noose around King's Landing. With dragons above and fire at their backs, they will choke on their own walls."

Katerina's eyes lifted slowly, following his finger. The map blurred, her vision caught between the lines of strategy and the flames in her mind.

Daemon's hand swept south, toward the crownlands. "We surround King's Landing with dragons, with strength they cannot match. We close every road, sever every ally. And by moon turn, have every green head mounted on a spike for all the realm to see."

Her lips parted, a breath escaping. She did not move, did not speak. Her gaze flicked from the stone at Harrenhal to his face.

"I cannot bond to a dragon," she said finally, her voice quieter than before. "That time has passed. I am not as my mother was. And Aemond... he has lost Vhagar. He cannot ride now that he is what I made him. That leaves only Aegon with his beast."

Daemon straightened, his shoulders stiff with defiance. "Then I will have Caraxes again. He is mine, bound by blood and fire, and he will not deny me."

"He will return, and I will make sure of it." His eyes burned as he spoke, a man convinced that even the gods would not dare to gainsay him.

Katerina studied him, the curve of his jaw, the fire in his eyes, the stubborn pride that mirrored her own.

At last she shifted, stepping closer to the table.

Her gaze fell to the map, the rivers, the jagged coastline. Harrenhal's name glared up at her from beneath Daemon's stone.

She did not touch it. But her eyes lingered there, and then on him.

Silence stretched between them.

Daemon leaned in slightly, his lips curling into the faintest smirk, as though he could already taste victory. "You see it now. You know it is the only way."

She tilted her head, her lips twitching into a ghost of a smile. Not agreement, not yet. But not denial either.

Their eyes locked, father and daughter, both forged in fire, both too stubborn to yield.

Neither spoke the words aloud. But in the flicker of her eyes, in the faint curl of her lips, he saw it, the seed of assent.

The hunger that matched his own.

And when she smirked back, faint and dangerous, the chamber seemed to darken around them, the painted flames on the table glowing as though they knew the blood they had just promised.

...

The balcony overhung the broken bones of Dragonstone's eastern cliffs, a finger of stone thrust into the gray sea.

Moonlight pooled on the flagstones and the spray hissed faintly against rock, a distant percussion beneath the hush of night.

The castle behind them slept; only the braziers in the battlements burned low, sending lazy orange breaths up into the chill.

Alys stood alone at the parapet, hands folded against the cold, her silhouette a small, steady thing against the white roar of the waves.

She watched nothing and everything, the sea, the sky, the dark line where Westeros ended, as though listening for a shape to resolve itself in the foam.

Aemond came up the corridor with the silence of a man who had learned to move without announcing himself.

He paused a few paces behind her, watching the way the moon caught at the edge of her face.

The light was indifferent, laying bare the exhaustion there: the faint gray of sleeplessness, the hollows beneath her eyes, the way her mouth kept working around thoughts she would not let herself speak.

He folded his hands behind his back and, after a long moment, said, "You are very deep today."

Alys did not turn at first. Her voice came low, almost like a practiced thing.

"They say a storm will come with no thunder. It arrives as dread first, an animal at the edge of the mind. You can feel the hair on its back even when the skies are still clear."

Aemond's patience was thinner than it had been in the days before Katerina's absence.

He stepped closer until the feel of his breath might have been enough to ruffle the hem of her cloak

"Speak plainly," he told her. "Or do not speak at all. Riddles are for ravens and children."

Alys turned then, and the moon slid across her face like a second, more private tide. "Plainly, then," she said. "Aegon knows where they shelter."

The words landed between them like a thrown stone.

For a heartbeat Aemond thought the whole parapet had gone still, the ocean's pulse muffled, the braziers' breath paused.

"How?" he asked shortly. "Ravens, spies? Malachai listening from some inn? Or has the king simply been prying the air and found what it whispers?"

Alys's lips quirked. "You think too small. Malachai hears things, yes, he hears what the city says and what the walls pretend not to. Ravens bring news. But not all things are carried on bodies or feathers."

She leaned on the stone, palms splayed, and looked at the sky for a long beat. "What I hear, I hear in the wind."

Aemond frowned. He had seen Alys work her odd magics before, the subtle threads by which she bent a rumor and unpicked a curb's lie, but this was not the place for good humor.

He let the frown drop into something harder. "What is that meant to be, Alys, a line of poetry or an answer? If Aegon knows, we move. If Aegon knows and waits, we are dead."

She watched him as a mother watches a son on a precipice. There was compassion there, but it was worn thin by experience.

"Aegon knows more than the direction of the wind," she said at last. "He knows how to listen to people who need to be listened to. He knows the layout of the court, the cracks in the stone that a newer foot might miss."

"Your brother will piece together what you and I keep hidden if he has the patience. And Aegon has patience like a hunter."

He ground his teeth.

The word hunter felt poor and small next to the thing they both meant. "Then what do you want us to do? If the king comes robed in the law, he will have the city behind him."

Alys smiled without amusement. "I want you to think, Aemond. You cannot be a thing of no choice any longer."

Her voice was quiet and precise as a surgeon's. "If Aegon knows, if he crawls toward the truth with the cunning of a man who believes in his right to root and fell, there will come a day when he will place Katerina at the end of a rope or a wheel or a blade and say her blood is justice."

"You will be forced to decide, and that decision will not be between two people. It will be between two bodies of war."

He stepped closer until he occupied the private light that fell on Alys.

The air between them was warm with the echo of old fires and new grief. "I know what you would say," he said coldly. "You would have me choose Katerina."

She did not blink. "I would have you choose well."

He laughed then, a sound brittle with fatigue. "You do not get to dress this in charity. Katerina is everything I have. I will pick her until my last breath. Do you think I could stand to watch Aegon move a sword toward her throat? Do you think I would not answer with teeth and bone?"

Alys's expression did not change.

She had seen his promises made and kept before, and she knew how easily they could be both noble and ruinous.

"If you choose Katerina," she said, slow as pouring oil, "you choose war. You choose to stand against a throne that calls itself right. You choose to see your mother, your brothers, the men who feed and praise you, all become enemies."

"You choose to make them the ones who will rot on the pyres of your making, or to watch them be undone by Katerina when they do not die as you wish. You choose fire. You choose the ruin of your house if you are not careful."

He tightened his hands behind his back. "And if I do not choose her?"

"Then she will choose you." Alys's voice went nearly to a whisper, but the words carried like a bell.

"She will not wait to be burned without burning others. If you do nothing, Katerina will become the instrument of her own revenge on those who harmed her. She will not temper herself for you."

"She will strip the world down until nothing remains that can look at her without horror. Do you think you can keep her from becoming that by standing aside?"

Aemond's jaw worked.

He pictured the Red Keep in flames, the faces of men he had loved twisted by smoke and ash, he pictured Katerina's eyes, pale firestrings, the shape of her lips when she had said the words that sent Joffrey into the dark.

The world had already shifted beneath his feet; the only choice was where he would plant his feet when it fell further.

Alys stepped closer, the distance between them collapsing to the breath of a promise. The ocean hissed below, merciless.

"You will have to kill them, Aemond," she said quietly. "You will have to look your mother in her godless face and decide whether you will keep the family whole in shame, or break it so that it cannot harm the world. If you spare them and Katerina lives, they will burn."

"If you burn them to make the world safer, you will kill your own history. No one can die twice, but the consequences of either choice will haunt you the rest of your life."

He stared at her as though she had thrown a stone through his chest.

He did not move, he did not speak.

The wind tugged at his hair, and for a minute his shape seemed small against the vast sea and the endless sky.

He thought of his mother's hands, the steadiness with which she had steered a house through calmer days; of Aegon's cruel, quiet certainty, of the way Daeron's face had gone soft when he spoke of Katerina.

Of his brother's diary and the secrets bound within, of the dagger and the bracelet and the child's laugh that had been a thread in his life.

"I will choose her," he said at last, and the words were a blade and a benediction. "I would choose her even if the price were my name. I would choose her if it asked me to undo myself."

Alys closed her eyes for a beat, then opened them to him.

There was something like pity folded into the lines around her mouth.

"Do not be arrogant enough to believe you may keep what you love and not soil it," she said. "The world does not yield cleanly. If you are going to choose her, do not think you will be the same man afterward."

"Think, Aemond. Think of what you want to leave behind. If you love her, you must learn to be cruel in measured ways so that cruelty does not devour you like a hunger."

He gave a humorless smile now, the mirth of a man who had already been eaten in many places. "You speak like a maester, practical and cold."

Alys let the remark slide like water from a stone. "I speak like someone who has seen too many men mistake passion for salvation."

She reached out and laid two fingers on his cheek, near the line of his jaw. The touch was quick, neither intimate nor distant, as if testing.

"If you choose Katerina, be sure of what you are willing to lose. If you choose otherwise, be sure you can live with what you leave behind."

He closed his eyes at the weight of the touch; the salt and smoke of Dragonstone filled his nose.

The decision had been made in a single heartbeat, and yet here it was, laid open and ridiculous in its completeness.

He wanted to swear and fight and leap into the world and tear it wide; he also wanted to curl into a small, safe thing like a child.

The contradictions made him dizzy.

"Then I choose her," he said again, steadier. "Not because I lack love for my name, or because I am reckless. Because there is no one else I will stand with. Tell me what should be done. Tell me what I must prepare.

Alys considered him a long moment, as if measuring the solidity of his resolve against the ruin it would invite.

When she spoke again, there was an iron edge beneath the honey.

"Then do not make your choice like a boy throwing a stone and hoping it will bury him. Do it like a king, if that is what you must become, and take every step with a plan."

"If you are to be Katerina's sword, be her strategist, if you are to be her shield, then do not let her be consumed by the need for fire."

He let the words settle.

The day closed closed around them and the wind climbed, carrying the sea's salt and the smell of distant ruin.

Below, a far light winked from the horizon, a ship, a watch, a faint and stubborn proof that the world still turned.

Aemond turned his face toward the dark and swallowed. "If the world ends for it, then so be it."

Alys's mouth tilted. It was not a smile of approval, but there was something like relief in it.

"Then prepare," she said simply. "You will need more than fury. You will need mercy for the wrong time, and a coldness for the right one. Learning that is the hardest thing of all."

He nodded.

The day mouthed its answer in a swell of wind and the far, indifferent sea.

They stood there, two shapes on a balcony, while the castle breathed and the world hurtled toward decisions they could not unmake.

XXXIV

[averillaratargaryen]

XXXII

The Red Keep was restless.

Servants crept through its halls like shadows, carrying whispers of Alicent’s grief and the King’s rage.

In the great chamber, the air was heavy with wine and smoke, the stench of spilled liquor still clinging to the stones. It was here, in the heart of the Keep, that the Greens gathered once more, torn between duty, fear, and the growing madness of their king.

The quiet did not last long.

Aegon shattered it, his cup hurled to the ground where it broke into pieces, crimson wine splashing across the pale floor like blood.

His face was flushed, his eyes fever-bright as he rose to his feet.

“Gone,” Aegon seethed, his chest heaving, his voice slurred with drink yet sharpened by fury.

He pointed a trembling finger at his brother across the chamber. “She walks out of this Keep, she walks out of this city, and you let it happen. Gods damn you, Daeron!”

Daeron stiffened where he stood, his youthful face shadowed by the flickering torchlight.

“I let nothing happen,” he shot back.

“You think me blind? You think me deaf? She slipped through our grasp, brother, as smoke does through clenched fists. Blame your guards if you must, but do not lay your failure at my feet.”

Aegon slammed a hand on the table, sending plates rattling. “My failure? No, Daeron, you have been her shadow, and still she eludes you. What use are you if you cannot even hold the leash of one woman?”

Alicent rose from her chair, her face pale with both exhaustion and wrath.

“Enough!” she hissed, her voice cutting through the thick air.

“Gods preserve us, will you both tear this family apart for one girl? You would speak of leashes and shadows, as though Katerina were some common whore to be bound? This is beneath you, Aegon.”

“Beneath me?” Aegon laughed, but the sound was cold, bitter. He turned on his mother, eyes bloodshot.

“Do you not see? She mocks me with every breath she draws outside these walls. She thinks herself untouchable-!”

“Perhaps she is,” Alicent cut in, her tone tight. “Perhaps the gods themselves keep her. Would you damn the realm for your wounded pride?”

Before Aegon could snap back, Otto’s voice rumbled through the chamber like a drawn blade. “Pride? No, Queen, it is worse than pride. It is obsession.”

He leaned forward on his staff, sharp eyes fixed on his grandson.

“You would do well, Aegon, to remember your duty. A king does not chase shadows. A king does not bring ruin to his people for the sake of one woman’s capture.”

“Duty,” Aegon snarled, his lip curling. “Always your word, grandfather. Duty, duty, duty. What has it ever brought me but chains? You would see me rule with quills and courtesies while my enemies sharpen blades in the dark. I tell you, I will have her, no matter what roads I must burn to ash along the way.”

Daeron, Alicent and Otto share a glance at one another, confused as to what Aegon had implied in that moment.

Aegon’s voice rose, sharp enough to make even Alicent flinch. “No matter where she runs, I will find her. If she dares cross the river, I will follow her into Essos itself. I will scour every city, burn every hall, until she has nowhere left to hide.”

“Essos?” Otto asks, “why would you turn to them?”

“If she is not in Westeros, then where else?” Aegon shrugged, “I must do what it takes to find her.”

“So you’d start a war without no true evidence of her whereabouts?” Otto scoffed, “Aegon, that is absurd.”

“I want her!” Aegon shouted back.

Daeron stepped closer, his tone measured though his jaw was tight. “Brother, listen to reason. To scour the city for her is one thing. But to reach across the Narrow Sea? To stir Essos with fire and war?”

He gave a close look to his brother, wondering if any of his words were truly going through Aegon’s mind, or perhaps he was ignoring him entirely.

“You would lose more than you gain. The alliances we have bled to forge would crumble. You would drive friends to foe with your madness.”

“And what are alliances worth,” Aegon snapped, “if they leave me powerless in my own hall?”

“Katerina is mine, and she dares defy me. Do you not see? So long as she lives free, she undermines me. She is a thorn driven deep, and I will not sleep until it is torn out.”

Alicent’s hands trembled where they gripped the edge of the table. “My son,” she whispered, her voice faltering.

“You speak of her as though she were the realm itself. Have you lost all sight of what is yours already? Your throne, your crown, your family.”

“My throne is hollow while she breathes beyond it,” Aegon interrupted, his eyes burning. “My crown is mocked while she walks untouched. And children? What would they matter, when their father is made a fool in every corner of his own kingdom?”

Silence fell for a breath, only the hiss of torches filling the void.

Then Aegon rose from his chair in a sudden, violent motion, the legs scraping across the stone. He stood tall, his voice thunderous.

“Hear me, all of you. I care not what roads I must tread, what enemies I must make. If I must cross the river into Essos itself, I will.”

If I must tear down every city from here to the farthest shore, I will. Let their walls burn, let their people scream, when their cities fall, they will know who to blame.”

His words struck the chamber like a blow.

Otto’s face tightened with fury. “You speak of burning innocents, of condemning thousands for one woman’s defiance. That is not a king’s justice, it is madness. I counsel you, Aegon, do not step upon this path.”

“Counsel all you like,” Aegon growled. “Your words are nothing to me now. Peace has failed me. Patience has failed me. Fire will not.”

Daeron’s voice rose, cutting through. “It will not only be your enemies who fall! Our allies will abandon us. The houses that swore oaths will spit upon them. You will sit the throne alone, with ash for your kingdom!”

“Then so be it!” Aegon roared, slamming his fist to his chest. “Better to rule ash with her beneath my heel than sit gilded in chains while she roams free.”

Alicent’s voice cracked as she stepped toward him. “My son, you damn us all with such words.”

But Aegon raised a hand, silencing even her. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his eyes gleaming with feverish light.

“I will find her,” he said at last, quieter but no less dangerous. “If I must scour every corner of the realm, I will. If I must chase her into the farthest wastes of Essos, I will. No matter the cost, no matter the ruin, I will see her brought before me.”

Otto leaned on his staff, his face grave. “And when the realm is dust, and your crown sits on nothing but charred bones, will you still call yourself king?”

Aegon met his gaze without flinching. “Yes. For she will know it was all for her.”

The chamber rang with silence, but it was no peace. It was the silence of cracks spreading through stone, of storm clouds thickening on the horizon.

No one spoke further.

Not Alicent, who lowered her gaze in weary despair.

Not Daeron, whose jaw clenched with quiet fury.

Not Otto, who turned away as though the weight of the crown pressed heavier upon his own shoulders.

And Aegon, standing tall amidst the wreckage of his family’s words, smiled a smile that was not sane at all.

The morning sun had broken across Dragonstone, its light slanting through the high windows of the hall and spilling golden upon the long table where the four of them sat.

The air still smelled faintly of the sea, brine and salt drifting in with the breeze, mingling with the smoke that curled from the torches along the stone walls.

Though the day had only just begun, the chamber already hummed with an unease as sharp as the jagged rocks beyond the keep.

Daemon sat at the table’s head, Caraxes’s distant shadow occasionally flickering across the floor.

Beside him, Alys lingered with her usual poise, her eyes darting between father and daughter.

Across the table, Katerina sat straight-backed, her gaze unflinching, while Aemond leaned just slightly forward, one hand curled around his goblet, quiet but listening.

It was Daemon who broke the silence first, his voice low, probing.

“You bought his body?”

Katerina’s dark eyes shifted to him, and she gave a single, deliberate nod.

Aemond’s brow creased, his curiosity stirred. “And how?” he pressed. “How does one barter with such a thing?”

Her lips curled faintly, though there was no humor in it. “An exchange,” she said simply. “Gwayne’s body… for Joffrey’s.”

“I’m sorry?” Aemond choked on his bread, hearing her speak of Gwayne’s body.

“Your uncle’s dead body, his cock shoved in his mouth. Would you wish for the details?” She chuckled at his expression.

Daemon stilled, and even Alys’s interest sharpened at that.

“I brought him here,” Katerina continued, her tone firm, almost ceremonial.

“So that he might burn as the rest of us. My mother would have wished it so. For Joffrey to die a Targaryen, his ashes scattered to peace, not to rot in the hands of our enemies.”

Daemon’s expression shifted, something almost like admiration glinting in his violet eyes.

A faint smirk ghosted his mouth, though it did not last long.

“You killed Otto’s son,” he said, his voice colored with approval. “That alone makes you stronger than most who ever dared claim the blood of the dragon.”

Katerina held his gaze, unshaken.

It was Alys who leaned forward then, her tone smooth, edged with curiosity.

“And what now?” she asked. “What do you plan to do next?”

Katerina’s reply was swift, decisive.

“Daemon will have to leave.”

The words cut the air clean, and all eyes turned to her.

Daemon’s brows shot up, and he jabbed a finger against his chest. “Me?”

“Yes.” Her voice was ice. “You.”

Daemon gave a sharp laugh, though there was no mirth in it. “Dragonstone is mine as much as it was Rhaenyra’s. We wed here. I fought here. I bled here. You think you have more claim than I?”

Katerina’s jaw tightened, her words like a blade.

“I saw it. In my vision. You escaped the sea, Daemon. You ran. You lived in shadows while my mother, my brothers, my family… burned. Died.”

His smirk faltered, replaced by a flash of raw frustration.

“You think it was easy?” His voice rose, echoing off the stone walls.

“You think I chose to live in hiding while fire consumed the realm? I was dragged beneath waves that should have killed me, and still I clawed my way out. You saw a vision, girl, but you did not live it.”

Katerina leaned forward, her fury spilling over. “And yet you did not return. Not even when they needed you most. You let them die. Tell me, Daemon, was the sea kinder to you than your duty?”

Their voices clashed, back and forth like blades drawn in the dark.

Every word a strike, every retort a wound. Daemon’s pride bristled, his anger crackling like lightning, but Katerina’s venom was sharper still, her grief, her rage, her bitterness at what she had seen and believed.

Finally, she shoved her chair back, the scrape of wood against stone cutting through the argument like a scream.

She rose, her eyes flashing, her voice ringing cold and final.

“No matter what you say, I will never forgive you.”

With that, she turned on her heel, her cloak flaring behind her as she strode from the hall.

The sound of her footsteps echoed, then faded into silence, leaving the others in her wake.

For a long moment, none spoke. Even Daemon’s anger seemed to cool, sinking into something heavier, unspoken.

Then Alys rose gracefully, her gaze lingering on the doorway Katerina had vanished through.

“Don’t,” Daemon muttered, his voice low, warning. “She’s stubborn. She won’t hear you.”

But Alys only tilted her head, a faint smile playing at her lips, though her eyes gleamed with something keener.

“She must,” she said softly. “She must truly see the truth, not a vision torn and twisted, but what was. She must understand you. Understand how you suffered just as she did.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, but he did not speak.

Alys’s voice lowered further, almost like a whisper meant for him alone.

“Perhaps it is the only way to bring her back. To draw out the last of her humanity.”

The hall remained quiet then, heavy with the weight of what had passed and what might yet come.

…

The chamber was dim, the last of the sunlight only faint through the narrow slits of the windows.

Katerina sat by the unlit hearth, her knees drawn close, her dark eyes fixed on the cracks in the stone floor.

The door creaked open without warning, and Alys slipped inside, her movements unhurried, her presence as calm as ever.

Katerina did not move, though her voice cut through the stillness.

“I could kill you for that.”

Alys smiled faintly, closing the door behind her. “You could. But you won’t.”

Katerina’s gaze flicked up, sharp as steel. “You’re too certain of yourself.”

“No,” Alys countered, stepping further into the room, “I am certain of you. You’ve never killed me because you know I’ve only spoken truth. Even when it’s not what you want to hear. And you see that too.”

Katerina’s lips curled, almost a sneer, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Do not waste your breath trying to persuade me. My mind is not so easily bent.”

Alys came closer, her eyes glinting in the low light. “I don’t need to persuade you. Change doesn’t come from words, it comes when you see what was hidden. When you know his truth.”

Katerina’s expression faltered, only for a moment, before she turned her face away. “Daemon’s truth means nothing to me. Not when my visions already told me all I need.”

“That is where you are wrong,” Alys murmured, her voice lowering, soft as a thread of silk. “Visions are glimpses, fragments. You must see it whole.”

Before Katerina could retort, Alys moved.

She reached out, quick and firm, pulling Katerina by the wrist until their hands locked. Her other hand pressed against Katerina’s palm, holding it flat against her own chest.

Katerina’s breath hitched, her eyes flashing with anger, but before she could wrench herself free, a pulse of something dark and unseen rippled through her, dragging her consciousness down like a stone into water.

The chamber melted away.

When Katerina opened her eyes, she was no longer herself but a shadow tethered to another place.

A dark room stretched before her, damp stone walls and a single guttering torch.

In the corner, Daemon stirred, his body gaunt, his face pale as he woke. He groaned, pushing himself upright, confusion painted across his sharp features.

He tried the door, the walls, even the cracks in the stone, clawing for escape.

Every attempt ended the same, with whispers rising, cold fingers grasping at him, spirits pressing him back. They came in shadows, faceless at first, until one stepped forward.

The man’s form was tall, broad-shouldered, his face lined with age but his eyes bright, burning with knowledge.

“Daemon Targaryen,” the figure intoned.

Daemon whirled, his voice hoarse. “Who are you?”

“I am the one who kept you,” the man said, his tone unyielding, “the one who bound you from returning. Had you surfaced, had you gone back, you would have been ash long before your time.”

Daemon’s lips peeled back in anger. “You stole me from them. From my wife. From my children.”

The man’s gaze did not waver. “I saved you. The fire had already claimed what you could not. All except two.”

Daemon stilled. His chest rose, fell. “Two?”

“One a bastard,” the man said slowly, “and one legitimate.”

Daemon’s throat worked, his eyes narrowing. “Katerina.” His voice cracked, disbelief breaking it apart. “But she-? she died before me.”

The man lifted his hand, and the shadows parted.

There she was.

Katerina. His daughter.

Young, as when she first left him, her body slack and still, laid upon a table. Beside her loomed Lestat, his face pale as marble, his hand hovering over her wrist as if deciding her fate.

Daemon staggered toward her, his eyes wide. “She-? She breathes?”

“She will wake,” the spirit said. “But not with you here. He will sense you. And if he knows she is your blood, he will let her die, if only to wound you. Your rivalry runs too deep.”

Daemon clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. “So I must leave her? Again?”

The spirit nodded once. “It is the only way she lives.”

Daemon looked back at Katerina, his face a storm of torment and fury.

She was there, so close, yet impossibly far. He reached out, but his hand passed through like mist. The choice lay before him, unbearable yet absolute.

His voice broke when he whispered, “Forgive me,” before he turned, stepping back into shadow.

Katerina’s lungs burned as if she had been pulled from water. She sucked a ragged breath when Alys stepped back, the touch at her palm gone and the room snapping itself shut around her once more.

The stone, the low light, the small table with its untouched cup.

For a long heartbeat she simply stared, eyes wide and unsteady, the afterimage of that dark room still smoldering behind her lids.

Alys watched her with an expression that was almost maternal, all composure and an odd, hard-shelved pity.

The way she stood, one hand folded at her skirts, the other loose at her side, made Katerina feel exposed, as if some unseen seam in her chest had been split open and everyone could see what lurked inside.

“You saw him,” Alys said softly, as if stating the obvious might help the world reassemble itself. “You saw what you needed to see.”

Katerina’s mouth moved but no sound came. The vision had not been neat; it had been a bruise, there and then not, truths whispered through smoke.

She rubbed the heel of her hand against her eyes to clear the aftertaste. “He left,” she said finally, the words brittle. “He turned his back.”

“Daemon left,” Alys agreed, and there was no triumph in that admission. “But not because he didn’t love you. Because he feared what would happen if he stayed.”

Katerina’s laugh was a dry thing. “Fear. Cowardice. Names for the same betrayal.”

“No,” Alys corrected quietly. “Not the same. There is a difference between the man who pulls away to save himself and the man who slips into shadow so that another may live.”

“You spoke of cowardice, so did the fire. So did grief. But grief is not always cowardice. Sometimes it is the only road left.”

A memory flared at the corner of Katerina’s mind, a small, dark child with Daemon’s laugh tumbling on a knee that smelled of smoke and sea.

The memory hurt with the jagged sweetness of what had been lost. She clutched at it like a talisman and found her fingers closed on air.

Alys stepped closer and lowered her voice so that only Katerina could hear. “Daemon has haunted himself for years. He thought he failed Rhaenyra. He thought he failed his children, Baela and Rhaena, every day that followed. To know, after all that, that one of them may still breathe… it tears a man apart inside.”

“He wakes with hands clenched and reaches for hollows. He has run, yes, but not to avoid guilt alone. He ran to keep that guilt from consuming what little might still be saved.”

Katerina’s jaw tightened. There was a bitter taste beneath Alys’s words, not quite pity and not quite reproach.

“I saw you,” she said. “In my vision you warned Daemon. You told me I would be his downfall.”

Alys’s face did not change, but the line of her mouth hardened. “I said something like that,” she admitted.

“And I told him the same. Because visions are pieces, child, shards of a thing that cannot be trusted to speak whole. What I said to him was not a threat but a choice to tell the truth, or be consumed by the lies you keep.”

“You told him that if he kept the truth from me he would be the one to fall.” Katerina’s voice went small in the quiet.

The accusation hung between them, but without malice this time, more a plea for sense than an indictment.

Alys folded a hand about Katerina’s shoulder with a brief, near-awkward tenderness. “I told him that,” she said. “Because I could see what hiding would do to him and to everyone he loves. If the truth is left to rot in a man’s mouth, it will come out poison. If Daemon had chosen to bury it, you would have, rightly, torn that rot out of him.”

“He would have been destroyed either way, but perhaps not in the way you would allow. I could not let that happen to him and watch you lose the last shreds of a family that could still be rebuilt.”

Katerina’s chest ached with a thousand contradictions.

Relief, fury, a hollow fondness that stung. She wanted to hate Alys for presuming to dictate mercy and for daring to be the intermediary between broken things.

Yet Alys’s hand was steady, and her tone carried the authority of someone who had practiced mercy and calculation until they were indistinguishable.

“You could have kept the truth from me,” Katerina said. “Let him choose. Let him keep his life. You could have lied, for him.”

“And let him die for it?” Alys asked, almost sharply. “What would that give you? A vengeance on a ghost? A fatherless child returned to a bleeding city?”

She took a breath. “I do not speak only for Daemon. I speak for what remains. You have been robbed of silence and of a portion of your peace. I could not stand by and keep the last of his truth from you.”

Katerina stared, throat working.

The room felt suddenly very small, too small for the weight that had landed there.

In the corner a candle guttered and cast their faces into brief, ridiculous relief: one lined, the other young and terrible. She felt tired in a way that went beyond sleep.

“You would choose honesty over him?” she asked, the words raw.

Alys did not waver. “I would choose the chance of something true. He will always be Daemon, flawed, fierce, coward and brave in turns.”

“But if you are to have him in any way, you deserve the whole of him. If that means pain now, then so be it. Pain is the price of waking, Katerina.”

Katerina let the pain in. It rushed through her, hot and terrible and, under it, something like gratitude.

She pressed her palms together, fighting to steady the tremor that ran through them.

“You believe him,” she whispered at last, not certain whether she addressed Alys or the memory of Daemon that Alys had teased from her mind. “You believe he chose for me.”

“I do,” Alys said. “I have seen his hands shake at the edge of choices he could not make. I have seen him unmake himself for what he thought would protect you. He is no saint. But he is not the monster you fear.”

Katerina’s laugh this time was softer, but it held no joy. “Monsters are easier to understand,” she said.

“They do what they do and you can mark them. Humans are worse; they justify themselves and leave ruins.”

Alys’s face softened, briefly, a sliver of sorrow. “Then let us tend the ruins,” she said. “At least try.”

Katerina looked at her, at the steady countenance and the hand that had pulled her back from whatever abyss the vision had threatened.

For a moment she considered the shape of the future Alys proposed. Truth, sorrow, perhaps reconciliation.

It seemed fragile, almost obscene, beside the dark hunger she had learned to live with.

Still, something in her chest unclenched. Not forgiveness, not yet. But the first small recognition that people could choose to be more than the worst of themselves.

She drew a breath, long and shaky. “Very well,” she said, low. “Show me him then. Let me see whether the man who left is worth saving.”

Alys inclined her head and, with the calm of someone who had planned for far angrier storms, rose to go. “I will,” she promised.

“But not now. Rest. You have carried too much of fire and shadow for one evening.” She paused at the doorway. “And Katerina?”

She paused, waiting to gain back her attention, “do not let the vision be the only truth you hold.”

When the door closed, Katerina sat a long time in the solitary silence.

The image of Daemon’s face in that dark room, aching and raw, kept surfacing and then retreating, as if the memory itself were a tide.

She had watched the man she had called father choose exile rather than revelation.

Katerina had tasted the reason for that choice and found it bitter. She had, for the first time in a long while, the appetite to know the rest of the story.

The chamber was quiet, save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the faint drip of wax from the candles that burned low.

Aemond sat half-dressed, his long hair hanging damp from the wash he’d taken, the shadows flickering over the pale skin of his chest and shoulders.

Alys moved about with her usual ease, though tonight there was a weight to her silence.

At last, it was Aemond who broke it, his voice edged with a sardonic curl.

“Well. That was… awkward.”

His single eye narrowed faintly, though there was a glimmer of humor buried there. “Daemon already despised me, but at least I am not alone now.”

Alys glanced over her shoulder, her lips twitching but never quite forming a smile. “You think Daemon despises Katerina? No. He may roar and rage, but in truth, he won’t. Katerina is his blood. His daughter. And blood… it is difficult to cast aside.”

She paused, studying him with her shrewd, knowing eyes. “She will forgive him. It is only a matter of time.”

Aemond gave a faint snort but said nothing more, his gaze falling to the fire as if it could burn away the unease that gnawed at him.

Alys crossed the chamber, carrying a small clay jar in her hand.

She lowered herself gracefully onto the stool before him, her skirts whispering against the floor.

Without a word, she dipped her fingers into the ointment, the scent of herbs rising sharp and clean, before pressing her touch to the bruised expanse of his chest.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth as the cool salve met his skin, and she sighed at the sight of him. “Seven hells, Aemond,” she murmured.

“How do vampires manage to survive being intimate? You are covered in bruises, deep bites, scratches… scars upon scars. If I did not know better, I would think you wrestled with a pack of wolves.”

Aemond’s lips curled faintly, his voice calm. “It is not so grievous as it looks. Our kind… we are not like men. Intimacy burns higher. Strength rises with it. Every mark you see, every bite, every tearfeels to me as a pinch, little more. Pain becomes part of the want.”

Her brows lifted, though she did not argue.

She worked the ointment across another scar, her motions steady, though her mind was elsewhere.

“And Katerina?” she asked softly. “Did this… change her view of you?”

For a moment, Aemond was silent.

His gaze fell to the shadows on the stone floor, his jaw working as though weighing the words. “No,” he admitted finally, his voice low.

“Not in the way I might have wished. She made it plain to me, before the night was even through. That it was a moment of weakness. A surge of feeling. A one-night indulgence born of anger and grief. Nothing more.”

His fingers clenched faintly against his knee, but his face betrayed little beyond the measured tone of his words.

“It stung, yes. But I cannot blame her. After all I’ve done… after what my family has done. The best I can do now is give her space. To let her choose, should she ever wish to.”

Alys’s eyes softened, though her voice remained steady, carrying the edge of her certainty. “She will come around,” she said, almost as if stating a fact rather than a hope.

Aemond’s eye flicked toward her, skeptical. “And how are you so sure?”

Alys leaned back slightly, wiping her fingers clean on a cloth, her gaze fixed upon him.

“Because of what I showed her. Because of what I told her. I gave her the truth Daemon would never say aloud. And she listened.” She folded the cloth neatly, her voice dipping lower, more thoughtful.

“I have realised something about her. Katerina… she is just a girl. A girl who lost her family far too young. Who loved blindly, recklessly, and paid in grief. That grief tells her she is incapable of love, that her idea of it is broken beyond repair. So she walls herself behind anger and vengeance, convinces herself she feels nothing.”

Alys’s eyes lingered on Aemond, the corner of her mouth curving faintly.

“But walls, no matter how strong, are never forever. Sooner or later they crack. She only needs to open her heart once more. To let go of what has passed.”

The firelight threw shadows over Aemond’s face as he sat in silence, the words sinking into him like water into stone.

He looked away, though the muscle in his jaw shifted, betraying the storm inside.

Alys rose smoothly, setting the ointment jar aside. “Her humanity will return,” she said, almost lightly, but her voice carried conviction. “By tonight, I would wager.”

Aemond’s eye flicked back to her, uncertain whether to believe or scoff. Yet something in her calm, in her utter assurance, anchored him despite himself.

…

The corridors of Dragonstone lay in silence, broken only by the wind rattling against the shutters and the distant groan of stone settling in the cold.

Alys moved like a shadow, her steps light, her hand grazing the wall as she made her way back to her own chamber.

She paused when she passed Daemon’s door. It stood slightly ajar, a sliver of firelight bleeding into the corridor.

For a moment she went on, then stopped, her instincts tugging her back. With a small sigh she turned and pushed the door open, slipping inside.

Daemon sat slouched in a chair near the hearth, his long hair unbound, his face half-lit in the glow.

His sword leaned forgotten against the wall, his hand limp on the arm of the chair. His gaze was distant, locked on nothing.

For once, the rogue prince looked less like a dragonlord and more like a man who had been hollowed out.

“You leave your door open,” Alys said lightly, though her tone carried a gentleness not often present in her words. “Someone might think you invite ghosts.”

Daemon’s eyes shifted toward her, bleary with exhaustion.

“They’re already here,” he muttered. His voice was rough, weighted. “Every corner of this cursed keep. Every stone remembers.

Alys lingered near the door at first, studying him, before moving closer. “And what is it you see in those stones?”

He laughed, a dry sound, shaking his head. “Rhaenyra’s scream. Baela’s tears. Rhaena’s disappointment. And now… her. Katerina. Alive, yet looking at me as though I am already dead.”

He pressed his palms to his eyes, dragging them down across his face. “What am I to her, Alys? A father? A coward? Both?”

“Both,” Alys answered simply, coming to stand beside him. “But neither forever.”

His lips curved into a bitter smile, though his shoulders sagged. “She’ll never forgive me.”

“She will,” Alys said, her voice low and certain. “Not today. Not tomorrow. But she will. The girl you once held is still there. She remembers, even if she buries it in fury. She will not stay buried forever.”

Daemon turned his head toward her, his eyes sharp, searching her face as though for proof.

For the first time in a long while, his composure cracked, and something raw bled through. “And what am I meant to do until then?” he whispered, almost to himself.

Alys’s hand lifted of its own accord, resting lightly against his shoulder. “Endure,” she murmured. “Wait. Be patient, until she is ready to forgive you.”

He leaned into the touch before he knew it, his face turning up toward hers.

Their closeness startled them both; his nose brushed hers, a fleeting touch, enough to send Alys blinking, her breath caught in her throat.

Daemon’s hand twitched, half-ready to reach for her, but the movement stalled.

The moment stretched thin, too intimate, too dangerous.

Alys drew back sharply, clearing her throat. “No,” she said, soft but firm. She stepped away, folding her hands before her. “That is not what you need.”

Daemon turned his gaze aside, jaw tight with embarrassment. His hand dragged through his hair, a humorless chuckle escaping him.

“Seven hells,” he muttered under his breath.

Alys steadied herself, smoothing her skirts, her composure returning in full.

“What you need,” she said evenly, “is to prepare. Katerina will come to you soon. And when she does, she will want truth, not weakness.”

Her words fell like a tether in the room. Daemon gave the faintest nod, still not looking at her, but the tightness in his posture eased.

Without another word, Alys turned and left the chamber, closing the door softly behind her.

Daemon remained where he sat, staring into the fire.

Her chamber was dim, the fire burned low, shadows stretching long and heavy across the stone walls.

Katerina sat on the edge of her bed, her body stilled but her mind a storm. Alys’s words lingered like smoke in the air, refusing to vanish.

“He has run, yes, but not to avoid guilt alone. He ran to keep that guilt from consuming what little might still be saved.”

Her hands trembled as she pulled open the drawer of her bedside table.

Inside, tucked neatly though yellowed by years, lay a bundle of old parchment.

Drawings.

Untidy lines of charcoal and faded ink, scribbles that bore no art but all the weight of memory.

She lifted them out carefully, her fingers brushing the edges as though the paper itself might crumble.

Unfolding one, she found the drawing of a dragon, awkwardly shaped, its wings uneven, its tail far too long.

Scrawled beside it was a smaller sketch, herself as a little girl, standing proudly with stick-thin arms raised as though she were claiming the beast as her own.

In her mind, the scene replayed with the clarity of dream.

She was small again, her hair tied back in a loose braid, her face smudged with charcoal as she held the scrap of parchment high.

“Look, Father!” Her child’s voice was bright, eager. “See how fierce she is? She’ll burn all of King’s Landing if I tell her.”

Daemon, younger, his face softer than she remembered it now, leaned over her shoulder.

He studied the scribble with mock gravity, his lips twitching into a grin. “Ah, so you’ve drawn Syrax? Or Caraxes?”

She shook her head, beaming. “No! She’s mine. She came from me. She’ll be bigger than all the others one day.”

He chuckled, ruffling her hair, smearing more charcoal into the strands. “A dragon of your own, is it? Then perhaps I should tell the others to beware. You’ll be fiercer than me, little one.”

“I will,” she had said, her chest puffed with pride. “But I’ll still let you ride with me.”

The memory dissolved as the present crept back in.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the parchment, the charcoal smudge of her tiny dragon now blurred.

Her breath hitched as a single tear fell, darkening the page. She stared at it in shock, her other hand flying to her cheek.

Her skin was wet. Her lashes damp. Another tear slid down, then another, until the paper in her lap blurred beneath the drops.

For the first time in what felt like forever, her body betrayed her walls, and the grief she had buried broke through.

Her shoulders shook, the parchment rattling in her hands.

A sob tore from her throat, ragged and desperate. “Why?” she whispered into the silence, her voice breaking. “Why do the gods mock me so?”

She looked at the drawing again, at the little girl with her stick-thin arms and her impossible dragon, and the sound that left her chest was half a laugh, half a sob.

“He is my father… and yet he feels so far. So distant from me, as though I were never his at all.”

Her hands dropped, the papers scattering across the floor, her tears dripping onto the stone.

She buried her face into her palms, crying until the sound echoed against the walls of her chamber.

And still, even through the sobs, her heart whispered the same question into the void.

Why must every love I am given be taken or turned against me?

…

The hour was late.

Daemon now sat in his chamber, hunched forward in a chair, his elbows digging into his knees, his hair falling loose around his face.

The firelight cast sharp shadows across the planes of his cheeks, carving the weary lines deeper.

The door creaked. He lifted his head sharply.

Katerina stood there.

Her figure framed by the doorway, her silver hair dull in the flicker of flame, her eyes swollen, rimmed red.

The evidence of tears that even she could not conceal. The papers of her childhood drawings still seemed to cling to her mind, for she looked fragile in a way Daemon had never seen her, and that fragility made her terrifying.

He shot upright, his hand gripping the armrest before letting go. “Katerina,” he breathed, as if the very name might tether her to him.

His voice cracked on the edge of it, rough with the weight of years unsaid.

They stared at each other, the silence thick, dragging. Daemon’s throat bobbed; he tried again, stepping forward. “Katerina, I-?”

“Why?”

Her voice cut like a blade.

He froze.

She did not look at him as a daughter should look at her father. Her eyes were fire and storm, and though her cheeks were marked with tears, her tone was hard, demanding.

“Why did you do it? Why did you leave? Why did it have to be you?”

Daemon’s mouth opened, then shut again. He swallowed, forcing words out. “I-! I had no choice. I was-?”

She shook her head, silencing him with the bitter gesture. “Don’t. Don’t tell me what I already know. You think I don’t understand? I saw it, I saw everything.”

“But I do not wish to see you care from a vision” she scoffed, “I want to know the truth from you. I wish to hear it, from you.”

Daemon’s chest tightened.

He wanted to reach for her, but the distance between them felt like a chasm. His voice wavered.

“I cared. Gods, I cared every moment. Not a day passed I did not think of you. You, your mother, your brothers. Katerina, you haunted me. Every dream was your face. Every waking moment, guilt gnawed at me. I cursed myself a thousand times over for choosing the path I did.”

Daemon’s pupils widened, a sign of plea.

“But what choice did I have? Tell me. Should I have stayed, to die and leave nothing of us behind? Or should I live, and carry that burden, to remember when no one else would?”

She flinched. His words had weight.

Truth.

She could feel it.

But still, her head shook violently, her lips trembling. “No. No, don’t. Don’t make this something noble. Don’t you dare.”

His face fell, the fight draining as quickly as it had risen. “It wasn’t noble,” he admitted softly.

His voice cracked again, hoarse, heavy with shame. “It was cowardice. It was grief. It was me, too weak to stay, too broken to fight what I could not win. You want truth, Katerina? That is truth.”

Her jaw clenched, tears welling fresh in her eyes, though she held them stubbornly at bay.

Then, suddenly, the dam broke. Her voice came out shattered, croaky, as though her throat could barely bear the sound.

“How could you do that?”

Daemon’s breath stilled.

She stepped closer, her voice rising, threaded with sobs and fury.

“You let everyone I love die. You left me. You left me alone. You sent me away-!” Her hands clenched into fists, her whole body trembling. “How could you do that?”

Her words struck him harder than any blade. Daemon’s knees gave way, and he dropped heavily to the ground before her.

His head bowed, his hands clutching at his thighs. His shoulders shook as he rasped, “I know. I know. Gods forgive me, I know. Every day since, I’ve hated myself for it. I would change it all if I could.”

“If there were a thousand paths, I would walk every one that brought me back to you. But the gods gave me only this, and I failed you. I failed all of you.”

Her breath caught. She stared at him, trembling, the sight of her father on his knees cutting her deeper than any betrayal.

“No,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, breaking into silence.

Daemon lifted his head, his eyes glistening, rimmed red.

He looked defeated, a dragon brought low, his fire dimmed. He did not know that in that moment, something inside Katerina shifted.

The walls she had built, the coldness she had clung to, began to crumble.

Her humanity stirred, her heart hammering painfully back to life, and it overwhelmed her.

She crumpled to her knees in front of him, the two of them facing one another on the cold stone floor.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Their eyes locked, each seeing in the other the same grief, the same regret, the same desperate longing for what was lost.

Then, slowly, Daemon reached out. She did not pull away.

His hand trembled as it touched her cheek, and when her tears spilled freely down her face, his thumb brushed them away with a tenderness he thought he no longer possessed.

The sob broke from her chest then, raw and desperate, and she fell forward into his arms.

He caught her, holding her tightly against him as though he might lose her again if he loosened his grip.

His own tears slid silently down his face, though his lips moved with whispered apologies.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m sorry. I should have stayed. I should have fought. I should have died with them. I will never forgive myself. But I swear, Katerina, I will not leave you again.”

Her voice, muffled in his chest, came out pleading, broken. “Promise me.

“I promise.” His hand clutched at the back of her head, his forehead pressed against her crown. “On my blood, on my name, I promise you. I will not leave. Not again. Never again.”

Her sobs shook her whole body, her arms tightening around him as though to bind him to the vow. “Please,” she cried softly, “don’t ever leave me. Not again.”

“I won’t,” he whispered, the words repeated like prayer. “I won’t. I swear it, Katerina. I swear it.”

The fire crackled beside them, the only witness to their grief.

Father and daughter clung to each other as though their arms alone could piece together the broken family, as though this embrace could undo the years of loss.

His tears fell quietly; hers flowed freely, her sobs filling the chamber with the weight of all she had carried alone.

And for the first time in years, perhaps since her childhood, Katerina allowed herself to cry not as a vampire, not as a weapon, but as a daughter, a daughter who longed for her father.

Daemon, broken and bent, held her as though he had found the one piece of himself he thought gone forever.

The sky above was heavy with cloud, the morning sun smothered by grey. The air smelled of salt and smoke, the sea’s wind carrying the bitter tang of burning flesh and bone.

Alys, Aemond, Daemon and Katerina stood outside the castle walls.

Before them, the pyre crackled, flames clawing high as Joffrey’s body was given to the fire.

Katerina stood unmoving, her gaze fixed on the blaze.

The firelight danced across her face, but her eyes looked hollow, red-rimmed and swollen from tears shed through the night.

Her lips pressed into a line, her shoulders stiff. She did not blink, as though if she did she might lose him again.

Across the flames, Aemond stood with his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

His single eye remained on her, watching the grief carved into her features.

He knew those nights, the muffled sobs she thought no one heard, the way she turned her face from him as though he couldn’t see.

She had her humanity back, yes, but she was raw now, bleeding in ways that no wound could show.

And he hated that Aegon had a hand in this hollowing of her. That his brother had taken a part of her away.

Daemon turned from the fire, his boots crunching against the gravel, and bent over the leather satchel Katerina had brought with her.

“Perhaps there is something,” he murmured, “something of his you might wish to burn with him.”

But Katerina did not look.

She did not move.

Her eyes were on the fire, her lips parted as though speaking silently to the brother she was losing for the second time.

Daemon’s hand sank into the bag. His fingers brushed cloth, parchment, trinkets, and then something cold. His brow furrowed as he pulled it free.

The crown.

Its silver gleamed faintly even in the dull light, jewels dulled but unbroken, a relic of power and history.

Viserys’s crown. The same crown Rhaenyra had worn. The last crown Daemon had seen upon the head of the only woman he had truly loved.

He stared at it, his thumb tracing along the cold curve.

Memories surged like ghosts, his younger self, proud and brash, burning for the throne, for the weight of metal upon his brow.

He had wanted it desperately. Fought, bled, schemed, killed, for the chance to have it. To rule.

His jaw clenched.

For years he had told himself it was his right. That he would be stronger, better, fiercer than Viserys. That he would make their bloodline burn brighter than ever.

Yet as he stared at the crown in his hand, all he could feel was emptiness. He had craved it once. Now it felt heavy. Ashen.

He lifted his eyes, past the flames, to Katerina.

She was still staring down, her face pale, her body unmoving, her gaze locked on the fire. A daughter of fire and blood, yet consumed by loss.

Daemon looked down at the crown once more. Then, slowly, he walked toward her.

The crunch of his boots stirred her from her trance, and her head turned. She saw the crown in his hand, her lashes flickering with a brief, bitter light.

“Oh yes,” she said quietly, her voice hoarse from the night before. “It belongs to you now, I suppose.”

Daemon stopped in front of her, his eyes lowering to the crown once more.

For a moment it seemed he might agree, might place it upon his own head as he had always dreamed.

But then, without hesitation, he lifted it and set it gently upon hers.

Katerina’s breath caught, her hand twitching slightly as though to reach for it. “Father—?”

“She would want you to have it,” Daemon said firmly. His voice wavered only slightly. “I am no deserving of it. And I know your mother would agree.”

For a moment, silence held them. Even the fire seemed to hush, the crackling dulled against the weight of the words.

Katerina blinked, her hand rising to touch the cold metal resting on her head.

The crown felt foreign, heavier than she imagined. The crown of her mother. The crown of her blood.

Daemon looked at her, his daughter, her face pale but strong against the firelight. “It is yours now, Katerina. By blood. By right. And by fire.”

And the flames roared higher, sparks scattering into the grey sky like stars torn from heaven.

XXXIII

[averillaratargaryen]

XXXI

warning!: smut; bruising, blood, violent. explicit language.

The chamber was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth throwing long shadows across the stone walls.

Katerina stood with her back against the far table, arms crossed, her gaze fixed anywhere but on the man before her.

Aemond lingered near the center, his single eye sharp and restless, though his posture carried the weight of command.

Alys was seated at his side, her hands folded in her lap, her watchful gaze sliding between the two like a hawk gauging distance.

Guards lingered by the doorway, tense and silent, the air thick with anticipation.

Then Aemond spoke, his voice low, steady but edged.

“Leave us.”

Alys tilted her head, uncertain. “You would speak with her alone?”

He didn’t look away from Katerina when he nodded. “Yes. Everyone leaves. No guards. No ears pressed to doors. Just her and I.”

The guards hesitated, glancing at one another, until Aemond’s tone sharpened. “Now.”

Boots shuffled against stone as the men obeyed, disappearing into the hall. Alys, however, lingered, brows furrowed.

“Are you certain?” she asked softly, studying him.

Aemond finally tore his gaze from Katerina to meet hers. His jaw tightened. “I am certain.”

Alys exhaled through her nose, rising from her chair with measured grace. “So be it.”

She brushed past him, her cloak trailing lightly against the floor, and slipped out of the chamber, the heavy door thudding shut behind her.

In the corridor, she found Daemon waiting against the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable. His eyes narrowed when he saw her step out alone.

“Well?” he asked. “Should I be worried?”

Alys gave a small shrug, her lips curling faintly at the corner. “Worried? Perhaps. But I could only hope nothing bad comes of it.”

Daemon snorted, pushing himself from the wall. “Hope,” he muttered, almost to himself. “That’s a frail shield to lean on.”

Still, neither of them moved to open the chamber door. They both knew what was meant to unfold inside was beyond their interference

Back inside, the silence weighed heavy.

Katerina had not shifted from her place by the table, and Aemond had taken a single step closer, though he still kept a careful distance.

The fire crackled, and the faint hiss of burning wood seemed the only sound alive in the room.

Two predators. Two ghosts. Alone at last.

Katerina leaned against the table, arms folded, chin lifted, her eyes fixed on Aemond as though daring him to speak first.

It was Aemond who broke the silence, but not with accusation. Only with patience. “Say what you will.”

Katerina let out a sharp breath, a humorless sound that hovered between a laugh and a scoff. Her voice was quiet, steady, but laced with venom.

“I thought I killed you.”

Aemond’s mouth twitched, almost a smirk but without joy. He shrugged lightly, tilting his head. “And yet I am here. In the flesh.”

Her eyes narrowed, studying him, searching for an answer hidden behind that pale face. “What did you do?” she asked, her tone colder, sharper.

He stepped toward her, measured, deliberate.

“What I did? Katerina, this-?” he gestured to himself, to the faint difference in his skin, his hair, the strange hunger that still lingered in him, “this is your doing. You didn’t think this through.”

Her arms dropped, her hand curling into a fist against the wood. “I didn’t have to think it through.”

Her eyes flickered with the edge of fury as her voice sharpened. “You betrayed me.”

The accusation hung in the air like a blade unsheathed.

Aemond’s face remained impassive, calm as still water. “I did not betray you.”

Katerina’s jaw clenched. Her voice rose just slightly, each word punctured with fury barely restrained.

“So you didn’t take Joffrey’s bracelet? Use it to play your magic tricks? Bring him back to your family, without my knowledge?”

For a moment, his calm faltered, and he exhaled through his nose, his shoulders tense.

He didn’t deny it.

“I did.” He took a step closer.

“Stay back.” Her voice cracked with venom, and for the first time, there was the faintest tremble in it. Her control was thinning.

Aemond froze where he stood, his eye narrowing as he sighed. “I had no choice. Aegon would have killed you. If it came to it, I would rather it be anyone, but you.”

Katerina laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “You don’t get to decide that. No one should die simply for me to be protected. Do you not understand?”

She scoffed, amused at his reasoning.

“Joffrey was finally living for himself. For once, he had something good, and you” she jabbed her finger toward him, “you ended it, all to keep me breathing a little longer.”

Her voice cracked with something raw, something that was almost grief, though her humanity was buried deep beneath her rage.

Aemond’s jaw clenched.

His voice deepened, steadier, heavier. “I would sacrifice everything for you, Katerina. Everything. Do you hear me?”

His hand curled into a fist at his side. “If it meant your survival, I would give up every soul in this cursed city. I would trade them without regret.”

“You sound like a madman,” she spat.

“No.” His voice cut sharp now, his composure slipping, as he shook his head in denial.

“I sound like a man who refuses to lose you again. Not like the first time. Not after everything. If that makes me a villain, if that makes me a monster, then so be it. I will be a monster for you.”

The fire snapped violently in the hearth, shadows shifting across the walls as though echoing the storm rising in them both.

Katerina shook her head, her lips curling in disdain. “You speak of love as though it makes the lives you destroyed weightless.”

“Yes,” he snapped, stepping forward again despite her warning, his voice finally breaking into anger.

“Yes, because my love for you outweighs them all. Do you not understand, Katerina? I cannot-! No, I will not lose you. Even if you hate me for it.”

Her breath came shallow, ragged, her calm crumbling piece by piece. “And you think that makes it right? That your obsession makes you righteous?”

His eye burned into hers. “Not righteous. Only real.”

The silence that followed was sharp, the only sound the fire and the echo of their ragged breathing.

Katerina’s nails dug into the wood of the table until it splintered beneath her fingers.

“You disgust me,” she whispered, venom thick in her voice. “You think love excuses your betrayal. You think it makes you noble to sacrifice what was mine, what was his.”

Aemond’s voice broke through, lower, guttural, a growl beneath the words. “And you think vengeance makes you pure? You think tearing this city apart absolves you of your pain?”

Her lips parted, her breath sharp, her eyes darkening.

“I never wanted this. Not any of this. I woke, and they were all dead. My mother, my brothers, and where were you, Aemond? Playing the loyal dog while Aegon slaughtered what was left of me.”

His nostrils flared, his composure gone entirely. “I was surviving! I was fighting! And while you hide behind your rage, you know the truth, without me, you would already be nothing but a name in the dirt.”

Their voices rose, crashing like waves against stone, until both were trembling with fury.

The air itself felt suffocated, heat rolling from the fire, their breaths heavy as though the chamber couldn’t contain them both.

Finally, her voice cracked the silence again, sharp as steel.

“I hate you.”

The words struck deeper than any blade. For a moment, Aemond went still, his face slack with something raw, wounded.

But then it twisted, fury burning bright in his eye, his calm shattered entirely.

The chamber quaked in their silence, the distance between them charged with something violent, volatile, something that could collapse into ruin, or ignite into something else entirely.

Something in Aemond cracked.

His composure was gone, his fury unleashed.

In a flash, he closed the space between them, his hands at her throat, forcing her back against the stone wall. The sound of her body striking it reverberated through the chamber, sharp as thunder.

His face was close to hers, his breath ragged, his grip iron. His eye bore into hers, blazing, searching, unwilling to yield.

“You hate me?” His voice was low, a whisper like the edge of a blade against flesh, but layered with a challenge, as though daring her to make him believe it.

The words carried disbelief, a refusal to accept what she had said.

Katerina’s lips curved into the faintest sneer. Her voice was steady, cold, defiant. “I hate you.” She repeated it with cruel precision, each syllable a dagger.

Then her gaze hardened further, her chest heaving beneath his grip. “I hate how much I trusted you. I hate what you did to me.”

For a moment, silence swallowed the chamber. Only the crackling of the fire answered.

Aemond leaned closer, his grip unrelenting though his voice softened, cracked with something raw and unguarded.

“I love you. I have and will never stop loving you. And I know you do too. Deep down, I know you love me.”

Her eyes flickered, her lips parting as if to speak, but he did not stop. His words cut on, bitter and merciless.

“You killed my sister, Helaena. You killed my nephew, Jaehaerys. They had nothing to do with this war, yet you spilled their blood. Tell me, Katerina… how are you any different than I am?”

The venom of the comparison ignited her like a match struck to oil.

With a snarl, she shoved him off, flipping their positions in a flash of supernatural strength. He slammed into the wall, his head snapping back, her hand now around his throat.

Her face was inches from his, her voice shaking with fury. “Don’t you dare compare this!”

Aemond, breath caught in his chest, lips parted in defiance, smirked through the pressure of her grip.

His eye glinted with challenge, unbroken even beneath her strength. “But I do dare.”

The smirk only fueled her rage.

She tightened her hold, but in the next heartbeat he wrenched free, their bodies colliding again.

He reversed their stance, forcing her back against the wall once more, but this time, his hand slid from her throat to her jaw.

His grip was harsh, his thumb digging into her skin as his lips crashed against hers.

It was not a kiss of tenderness, but of war, a clash of fire and hunger, anger bleeding into desperate want.

Katerina shoved him away, her palm cracking hard across his face.

The sound rang sharp, and his head snapped to the side. Slowly, he turned back to her, his lip curling into a smile, dark, hungry, dangerous.

For a breath, they stood locked in silence, both of them trembling, their chests rising and falling in tandem, as though the chamber itself was waiting to see who would strike first.

And then they moved together, as though drawn by some inexorable force.

Their mouths met again, violent, consuming. His fingers tore through her hair, gripping it at the roots, yanking her head back with a force tenfold harsher than he’d ever dared before.

She gasped against him, her lips split under his bites, blood mingling with the heat of their kiss.

Her palms pressed against his shoulders, searing with unnatural heat, burning into his flesh until his back arched with the sting.

His growl vibrated against her mouth, the pain only feeding the frenzy between them.

He bit harder, his teeth grazing, tearing until her lip bled freely, and she answered with nails raking across his skin, sharp lines searing red into him.

There was no gentleness in their movements, only rage, hunger, and the desperate ache of two souls bound by ruin.

This was not reconciliation. It was survival, possession, the inevitable collapse of fury into intimacy, as though hate and love were indistinguishable between them.

Their breaths came ragged, their bodies pressed so tightly the wall seemed to groan beneath them, neither willing to yield, neither willing to admit what it meant.

That beneath the hatred, beneath the betrayal, they still belonged to one another.

The kiss broke with a snarl, their mouths slick with blood, each tasting the copper tang of the other.

Katerina shoved Aemond hard enough that the heavy table by the wall splintered when his body crashed against it.

The sound of wood cracking filled the chamber, but he only rose back to his feet, his chest heaving, his eye fixed on her with a hunger edged in fury.

“You hate me?” he rasped, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

“I hate you,” she whispered, low and venomous, her voice trembling not with fear, but with craving.

In an instant, he was on her again.

They collided with the wall, stone groaning under the force, plaster raining down around them.

Her fangs descended, puncturing the skin of his neck with a sickening tear.

Aemond growled through the pain, his nails digging into her hips hard enough to break flesh, his own fangs bared.

He sank them into the curve of her shoulder, the hot rush of blood flooding his mouth, metallic and intoxicating.

She gasped, half-moan, half-snarl, her hand tangling in his hair as she forced him closer.

“Come here” he whispered into her skin, voice muffled by the taste of her blood.

“I hate you,” she hissed back, shoving him until the shelves behind them collapsed, scattering books and shards of glass across the floor.

Their feet crunched over it as they stumbled, tangled together, neither letting go.

Her lips found his again, violent, her tongue slick with the taste of his blood as she bit down until his mouth split.

He answered with equal ferocity, dragging her across the chamber, their strength leaving deep gouges in the stone where her nails scraped against the wall.

The bedframe shattered beneath them when he threw her onto it, when his hand slammed against the bedpost, the ancient wood shuddering under his grip.

Splinters cracked free, scattering across the stone floor, wood snapping like brittle bones.

She rose back up in an instant, straddling him, her hair wild, her eyes black, veins crawling dark beneath them.

Her fangs glistened in the firelight as she leaned down, sinking them into his chest this time, blood welling, spilling across his skin.

His back arched, a strangled groan torn from him, but his hand seized her throat, forcing her to meet his gaze.

His eye burned with equal fury, equal lust. “Hate me all you want,” he growled, voice hoarse, “but you will never escape me.”

Her grip tightened on his wrist, her lips smeared red as she pulled back. “I don’t want to escape,” she whispered, the words venom and confession all at once.

Then she bit again, lower, crueler, until his breath shook raggedly.

Their bodies crashed together, moving with supernatural force, the chamber breaking under their rage.

The mirror by the wall splintered, the bedframe crumpled, the floorboards cracked under their weight. It was ruin, pure and unrelenting, as though their very hatred had become flesh.

The line between fury and need blurred into nothing but blood, breath, and fire.

Her nails carved his back, trails of crimson welling up beneath her touch.

His teeth tore into her collarbone, her gasp sharp, but her body pressed closer, demanding more, demanding destruction.

The chamber filled with the sound of breaking wood, tearing flesh, ragged whispers and blood-soaked kisses. They did not stop. They could not stop.

For in their hatred, they found something far stronger, the dark, twisted tether that bound them together, and would never let them go.

Their kiss was a battle, teeth tearing, fangs puncturing lips, blood smeared hot across tongues.

He answered with a growl, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her head back.

The bed groaned beneath them.

…

The chamber shook with noise.

The crash of wood splintering, the slam of bodies against stone, snarls that were half-growls, half-moans. Every sound bled through the door, sharp and unrelenting.

Daemon sat rigid at the table outside, his jaw tight, his hands balled into fists.

The sound of Aemond’s grunt, rough, animalistic, had his lip curl in disgust.

He leaned forward, pressing his brow against his knuckles, his voice low, muttered between clenched teeth.

“This cannot be happening right now.”

Across from him, Alys reclined in her chair as if the chaos were nothing more than a passing storm.

Her lips twitched into a knowing smile, her eyes glinting with wicked humor. She let a chuckle slip, light but cutting through the din.

“Oh, this is definitely happening.”

Daemon’s head jerked up at her, his stare sharp, disbelieving, as though he could not fathom how she found any of this amusing.

His eyes were dark, heavy with dawning horror, but before he could voice his frustration, the chamber door rattled violently at another crash from within.

A heavy thud followed, wood and stone protesting under the force of two bodies colliding.

Both of them flinched.

Daemon’s hand instinctively found the hilt of his sword, his knuckles pale around it, his face twisted in outrage.

Alys, by contrast, only tilted her head, that sly smile deepening, as though every fresh sound confirmed her expectations.

…

Her nails scraped across his jaw, leaving pale red marks that healed and reopened in the same breath.

Her lips dragged against his, their kiss breaking only for her to whisper against his mouth, her voice low, ragged, a confession soaked in venom.

“You’ve ruined me.”

His hand tightened around her waist, pulling her flush against him, his breath harsh at her ear. His reply was a murmur laced with a cruel tenderness.

“You’re going to ruin me too. But unfortunately for you, I seem to enjoy the dark parts of you.”

Her laugh was sharp, broken at the edges, more of a hiss than a sound of joy. She leaned forward, her lips brushing the hollow of his throat as she spoke.

“You enjoy it until it consumes you. Until you wake one day and realize I’ve left nothing but ashes of who you were.”

He grinned, a wicked curl of his mouth, even as her fangs grazed his skin and drew a bead of blood. His fingers dug into her hips with bruising force.

“No matter how far you run, or how hard I try to escape you, you’re everywhere. I see you everywhere, and I enjoy it.”

Her response was a growl against his chest, muffled by the taste of him as she bit down hard, tearing into him.

His hiss of pain twisted into a groan, his head snapping back against the wall, but instead of pushing her away, his grip only tightened.

Their movements were wild, unrestrained, the bed splintered beneath their weight as he spun her onto it, his mouth catching hers again with brutal force.

Her lips bled against his teeth, and she licked at the cut like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.

Her hands clawed at his tunic, dragging the fabric until the seams snapped under the pressure of her strength.

He answered in kind, gripping at her bodice until the laces gave way, the sound of ripping cloth mingling with their ragged breaths.

It wasn’t desire alone that undressed them, but fury.

Every shred of clothing torn away like the breaking of oaths, like stripping down to the raw, unguarded truth of what they were.

Fangs grazed flesh as skin met skin, each bite a claim, each kiss a wound.

She shoved him backward, his shoulder colliding with a pillar, dust raining from the stone.

He laughed, a low, maddened sound, even as her lips sought his throat again. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her head back so he could meet her blackened gaze.

“You are mine,” he whispered harshly, his forehead pressing to hers.

His fingers trail down, slowly between her legs.

Aemond’s eye had never left hers, watching her crumble beneath him, when his fingers slid back and forth.

Memories, of his games he played under the dinner table had come to mind.

A chuckle that escaped both of them, being able to read into each other’s minds.

But soon after, Katerina found her back arched, when his finger deepened inside her.

She gasped, the pleasure being almost too much to bare, but Aemond would not have her past it. Instead, he pulled both her hands, pinning them harshly above her head.

“Tell me you hate me” he whispered, his eyes getting a clear look down, between her legs.

“I- I hate you” she stuttered, unable to focus, when he managed to speed up the pace.

Her gasps had becomes mirrored by him, Aemond feeling her release just as much as herself. That is how much he was consumed by her.

And when she did, Aemond had kept his fingers deep in, his head now leaned against hers, her soft whimper causing him to let out a harsh grunt.

He bit her harshly, against her earlobe, his fingers slowly sliding out, before he sat back.

Katerina watched, when he placed both, same fingers, against his tongue, his lips closing down as he managed to have himself a decent taste.

But it wasn’t enough.

He starved for her.

And just that was not enough.

With his hand that still pinned down her two hands, above her head, Aemond let his free hand loose, spreading her legs apart.

With his hand pressed firmly against her inner thighs, he gave her a glance, finding Katerina staring down, her bottom lip bitten to its edge.

Her face flushed as she stared down at him with wide eyes.

Aemond had pushed into her, harshly, enough to break her. But it seemed that is what she wished for.

“Is that all?” She mocked.

But Aemond took no offence to her words. No.

If anything, it had given him more of a reason to truly unleash his full potential.

Freeing her hands, he had her craddled, before leaning in to whisper.

“Hold tight, my love.”

With one hand, he had flipped her over. A position she had not yet to discover.

“Aemond-!”

He had pressed down firmly against her back, her back arched up to him.

With no words, and no warning, Aemond pushed himself deeply into her.

He grunted, his fangs fleshing out through his gums. His fingers trailed her back, feeling the vibrations of her tone, as she moaned sweetly against the plushed mattress.

His fingers had fallen to her hair yet again, as he argued with himself to go slow. But something about her, about Katerina, had him helpless.

Instead, he had pulled her head back, her muffled moans now echoing through.

He signed in relief, the sound of her voice melodic to his ears.

“Fuck” he whispered softly.

Looking back down, the two faced the shattered mirror, that was due to their own strength.

Her eyebrows furrowed, and suprisingly, she enjoyed the show just as much as he did.

Leaning down, he whispered in her ear, words that would momentarily cause her to smile.

“Do you like that?”

She nods, before the two smile at one another, through the cracks of their own mistakes.

His pace had sped up, the sound of skin slapping against one echoing through the walls.

By now, every single person could hear them.

But there was no care, no shame between them. Just the lustful thoughts of destroying each other.

Katerina had turned herself over, placing herself above him, his head slapping down against the mattress.

His head leaned more towards the ground, due to the broken frame beneath them.

It seems their strength could not even be handled from Oakwood.

She had wasted no time, inserting his throbbing cock inside her.

Lifting her head back, her silken hair flowed against her shoulders, both her hands grasped firmly at his waist.

Aemond stared her down.

From bruise, to wound, her body was a map of his destruction. Just as his was hers.

Her tightness around him caused him weakness, when he whimpered softly against her wrist, as her palm laid heavily against his chest.

He bit into her harshly, smiling to himself when he heard her giggle.

Aemond had noticed her struggle. And it was no doubt she would, when it was a first, for her to take in every single inch.

She could not handle it, no matter how much of a front she put on. But he had admired that about her.

Lifting himself up, he bought his lips to hers, his hand craddled at the crook of his neck, the other sliding down to hers waist.

He had motioned her forward and back, moaning into her when his lips could not find the will to escape hers.

He could not let go.

He never wished to.

Instead, he firmly grasped both sides of her, now at her hips, motioning her back and forth again.

And again.

At each time she had rode herself forward, his fangs pressed harshly against her bottom lip.

Her fingers dug deep, his shoulder blades bleeding out, but that was hardly enough pain to have him stop.

Instead, he pulled her forward, initiating her to dig deeper.

And so she did.

His tongue buried deep into her mouth, as it played along hers.

The taste of ironed blood, flavoured within them, staining their breath.

They could gasp, become breathless, beg to stop, even.

But all was done, without becoming apart.

At least, not yet.

The coil inside her stomach was near to bursting, her thighs in tremor, at the feeling of her insides that snugged onto his cock.

Her brows furrowed, as she gasped harshly when she pulled her lips away.

“Aemond” she called out in panic.

But with calmness, he had kept her held ontop of him.

“It’s okay” his voice was low, “it’s okay, it’s okay. I got you.”

Katerina nods, finding herself ready to release, but hadn’t noticed the look in his face. Not until she looked up to his hooded eyes.

They both reached up to their climax, before juices spilled between both their legs, their bodily fluids mixed with one another.

Aemond shuddered, his cheek leaned against her, rubbing against it as though he were a cat, and she was his owner.

“Oh seven hells-!” He grunted, his teeth grazed against her cheek, before he bit her softly, as her fingers pressed down at his bruised scars she created.

Aemond had then gently lift her up from her hips for a brief moment, his cock slowly sliding out of her, and soon had dropped down, his tip landing down at his thigh.

He slowly pulled her back down, leaving her to sit above him, their heads leaning forward against one another, their breaths heavy and held with much emotion.

“I still hate you” she whispered, out of breath.

With a smirk, he gazed up into her eyes.

“If hating me is this type of feeling, then so be it.”

XXXII

[averillaratargaryen]

XXX

The Red Keep had grown hollow. Its stone walls, once echoing with commands and council, now carried only silence, broken by the occasional wail of a grieving queen.

Alicent Hightower sat curled upon her bed, her hair uncombed, her gowns wrinkled from days of wear.

She clutched at her prayer book, though her hands trembled so violently she could barely turn its pages.

Tears stained the words, blurring the lines, and more than once she closed it only to reopen it again, desperate for guidance that would not come.

“They say it is a curse,” she whispered hoarsely, voice ragged. “That the gods turn their eyes from us. From me. From my children.”

Her body shook as sobs escaped her chest, raw and unrestrained.

Outside her chamber, Otto Hightower stood with his head bowed, listening but refusing to enter.

His jaw was clenched, his eyes heavy. For all his talk of strength, he could not bear to see his daughter like this.

Gwayne’s death had struck them all, but for Alicent, it had been the last thread cut.

Aegon paced the corridor restlessly, his cloak swinging with each turn. His eyes were bloodshot, not from drink but from sleepless nights.

Rage burned in him, though it barely disguised the grief that hollowed his face.

“We should burn her out of this wretched city,” he spat.

“Send every last sword, burn every street until she is ashes. She dares take him—” His voice cracked, but he quickly turned his face away.

“Ashes will not bring him back,” Otto replied quietly, though his words lacked the firmness they once carried.

Aegon stopped pacing, his hands shaking at his sides.

He looked toward his mother’s door, hearing her broken prayers, and for a moment he seemed small again, not a king, not a conqueror, but a son unable to shield his family.

And in the shadows stood Daeron.

He had spoken little since the news of Gwayne’s death, but his silence was not indifference.

His face was pale, his eyes troubled as he watched them all unravel. His mother collapsing into despair, his brother raging helplessly, his grandsire sinking into quiet doubt.

That night, he sat alone in the darkened hall, torchlight flickering across his face.

He thought of Gwayne, of his mother’s cries, of the city choked with blood. A heaviness pressed against his chest until he could no longer sit still.

…

The Red Keep had grown hollow. Its stone walls, once echoing with commands and council, now carried only silence, broken by the occasional wail of a grieving queen.

Alicent lay curled upon her bed, her hair uncombed, her gown wrinkled from days of wear.

Daeron sat at her bedside, his hands folded tightly in his lap. He had seen his mother weep before, but never like this, never broken, never emptied of strength.

He knew that she blamed herself for it all.

The sight clawed at him in a way he could hardly bear.

“Mother…” he said softly, reaching for her hand.

Her hand tightened around his with sudden force. She turned her face toward him, pale and streaked with tears, her eyes fever-bright.

“Gwayne is gone. The city is ruined. Your brother-?” She stopped herself, choking on the words. “This is mine to bear. It is all mine.”

“No.” His voice hardened, surprising even himself. He shook his head, gripping her hand as though to anchor her.

“No, Mother. This is not yours to carry. You are not to blame for her sins.”

Alicent’s lips trembled. She looked away, staring at the floor, as though afraid of the conviction in her son’s eyes.

Daeron’s chest ached as he watched her crumble. He had seen Aegon rage, seen his grandsire grow cold and silent, but none of it compared to this.

To the sight of his mother wasting away beneath a grief that would not loosen its hold.

That night, as the torches guttered low in the halls, Daeron sat alone in thought.

His mother’s cries still echoed in his ears. Every tear, every prayer, every broken word gnawed at him.

He could not simply stand by and watch her wither.

“If no one will end this,” he murmured into the silence, “then I will.”

Rising, he fastened his cloak and slipped quietly through the keep. He did not call for guards. He did not tell his brother, nor wake his grandsire.

Alone, Daeron left the Red Keep and stepped into the streets of King’s Landing. His heart pounded, but his steps were steady.

He would find Katerina.

He would make her see reason.

The chamber was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire that burned low in the hearth.

The air smelled of damp stone and salt, the constant breath of the sea seeping into the bones of Dragonstone.

Aemond sat at the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, his hair falling into his face in uneven strands.

Three days had passed since he’d first stirred from that restless, near-death slumber, and though his body had found its strength again, his mind remained in turmoil.

His hunger had dulled, no longer the gnawing agony that clawed at him when he first woke.

Somehow, without question, he had found the means to feed. But it was not his body that kept him here, staring into shadows. It was her.

Katerina.

Her name alone brought with it a tide of memory he could not stop, nor did he try.

Her laughter, sharp, sometimes mocking, sometimes sweet. Her eyes, fierce with defiance and yet, beneath, carrying something soft he could never fully name.

The warmth of her touch the night she let herself rest against him, fragile in a way she’d never allow anyone else to see.

And then, that final moment. The look in her eyes before she snapped his neck.

He closed his own, exhaling sharply through his nose as if he could expel the vision. But it lingered, stubborn, etched into him.

The way she had to turn it off, to strip away what humanity she had left, in order to do it. That alone told him the truth.

She hadn’t wanted to kill him.

She couldn’t have.

If she truly had, she wouldn’t have hesitated. She wouldn’t have fed him her blood after, tethering his life back to hers in the most violent, intimate way possible.

No. She had let her fury consume her, drowning in the hatred she bore his family. Hatred he could not fault her for. Hatred he, at times, had carried himself.

And still…

Still he missed her.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the small drawer at his bedside.

He pulled it open slowly, as though what he sought was fragile enough to break from haste.

From within, he lifted a single earring. Silver, inlaid with a tiny glinting stone, its twin long lost.

She had left it behind once, in his chamber at the Red Keep. Carelessly forgotten, as if it were nothing. But to him, it had become everything.

He held it between thumb and forefinger, turning it gently so that the firelight caught against its surface.

“I should have told you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with the weight of words left unsaid. “That I kept it. That I needed to.”

He drew in a shaky breath, closing his fist around the earring until the edges pressed into his palm.

His eye stung, the kind of ache he refused to let fall into tears, though they threatened all the same.

It was ridiculous, he told himself. A shard of metal and stone. That was all it was.

And yet, it was hers.

A piece of her.

Aemond leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his forehead nearly touching the fist he held tight against his lips.

“I want to see your face again,” he breathed, the words torn from him as though confessing a sin. “Just once more.”

The chamber offered no reply, only the steady hiss of the fire and the hollow moan of the sea against the cliffs outside.

Alone, he sat in silence, clinging to the single thing she had left him, as if it could carry him through the torment of missing her.

For the first time in his life, the prince who had always sought strength above all else felt the ache of something greater than power, sharper than vengeance.

Loss.

And in that loss, a longing so fierce it threatened to undo him.

…

The hall of Dragonstone was dim that night, the air heavy with smoke from the torches that licked at the damp stone walls.

The long table sat unevenly lit, the flickering light revealing half-empty plates and goblets, shadows yawning across the corners of the chamber.

Daemon was eating as though his stomach were bottomless, tearing apart the roasted fowl with his hands, chewing with sharp satisfaction as if each bite was a victory.

His goblet was never empty for long. The scrape of his knife against the plate echoed, loud against the silence that otherwise reigned.

Across from him, Alys sat still, a half-eaten loaf of bread resting untouched at her fingertips.

She had torn off a piece when the food first arrived, but it now lay beside her, neglected, as though even the thought of swallowing it was too much.

Her eyes were lowered, fixed somewhere between her hands and the table, thoughts far from Daemon’s gluttonous indulgence.

Daemon finally dropped the picked-clean bone onto his plate with a loud clatter. He leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before releasing a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Your little trick of sitting there and not eating,” he said dryly, gesturing toward her with the dripping leg of meat still in his other hand, “has managed to sour my appetite. And I do not like that very much.”

His tone was casual, but there was irritation beneath it, the kind of sharpness that came when Daemon felt even the slightest discomfort.

Slowly, Alys lifted her gaze to him. Her face was calm, though her eyes gleamed with something restrained, something he could not easily read.

She let the silence linger for a moment, as though deciding whether or not to speak at all.

Then, quietly, she said, “Katerina will be returning soon.”

The words dropped like stones between them, breaking through the hollow quiet of the chamber.

Daemon stilled, lowering the meat to his plate with deliberate slowness.

He tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. “And how would you know that?” he asked, his voice half skeptical, half curious.

“I had one to look out for her,” Alys replied, her tone steady. “Someone I knew she would not kill. Someone like myself.”

Daemon gave a sharp, humorless laugh, leaning forward on his elbows. “Another vampire?” he pressed, the word falling from his lips with a mix of mockery and disdain.

Alys did not flinch. “You cannot limit how many there are,” she told him flatly.

Daemon arched a brow, waiting, but she continued, her voice low, measured, as though speaking too much truth might invite consequence.

“There are more than you think,” she said. “Many hiding, biding their time. Living quietly, unnoticed, in a small city across the sea in Essos. They will cross the water when the time comes.”

Daemon blinked, confusion flitting across his face before irritation quickly returned. “Essos?” he scoffed, leaning back again, his hand curling around his goblet.

“A nest of leeches waiting for a tide to carry them here? And you expect me to take such a tale at your word?”

Alys only looked at him, her silence an answer in itself. Her lips pressed together faintly, as though she would say no more.

Instead, she rose slightly straighter in her chair. “You would do better to prepare,” she said, her tone carrying that sharp edge of warning that cut through even Daemon’s mockery.

“When Katerina comes here, and she will, you must be ready. Just as Aemond must be. Just as I must be.”

Daemon chuckled again, but this time it lacked its usual vigor. He leaned forward, his grin sly and teeth bared as though in challenge. “Prepare for what, exactly? Do you think she would dare raise a hand against me? Against her father?”

He gave a little shake of his head, the smugness still clinging to him. “No. I would think she would be delighted to find me alive.”

Alys’s eyes hardened. “You mistake her state,” she said firmly.

“When a vampire has no humanity, they do not feel joy, or love, or relief. They feel nothing but hunger and rage. Do not fool yourself into believing blood binds her to you. She would not hesitate to come for you if she chose.”

Daemon’s grin faltered.

Her words lingered in the air, heavier than the smoke, heavier than the torchlight.

Alys leaned forward now, her voice sharper still. “And after the visions she’s seen of you? Of what you’ve done? You should not rule out her vengeance. Not even for yourself.”

The silence that followed was heavy, stretching long enough for the fire to snap loudly in the hearth.

Finally, Alys pushed her chair back and rose from the table, gathering her skirts with quiet grace. She gave him one last look, unreadable, before turning toward the doorway.

Daemon remained in his seat, his hand wrapped tightly around his goblet though he no longer drank from it.

His smug smile had faded entirely, his mouth pressed into a thin, uncertain line.

As the sound of Alys’s footsteps faded, he sat back in his chair, staring into the shadows of the hall.

For the first time since setting foot back on Dragonstone, unease crept into his chest.

He told himself it was foolishness. He told himself Katerina would never dare.

But the silence around him, and Alys’s words, made the bravado feel thinner than ever.

The house Katerina had claimed for herself stood on the outskirts of King’s Landing, its shutters drawn and the street outside eerily abandoned.

Inside, silence clung heavy to the air.

Katerina lay stretched across a couch, her head pillowed against her arm. Her skin held that pale, deathly glow the curse had gifted her, but in sleep she looked almost human again, still, almost fragile.

The only sound in the chamber was the slow, even rise and fall of her chest, the faint hiss of breath slipping past her lips.

She stirred, eyes opening to the gloom.

A streak of grey daylight had found its way between the cracks in the shutters.

She sat up, brushing back her dark hair, listening to the quiet. There was no footstep, no creak of wood. And yet… something stirred in the back of her mind.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You may as well show yourself,” she called softly, her voice carrying across the empty room.

For a moment there was nothing. Then the faintest shift, a shadow at the far side of the chamber. A figure stepped into the light.

Daeron.

He looked different from how she remembered him at the Red Keep.

His hair was longer now, his blue eyes rimmed with shadows, his mouth set in a thin line. He carried no sword, no armor. Just himself, and that was enough to make the silence between them thrum with tension.

Katerina rose slowly from the couch, her gaze fixed on him. “What are you doing here?”

Daeron’s lips twisted faintly. “I could ask the same of you.”

He paused, and then spoke the truth, afraid of the look in her eyes, “I had met a man on the street. One who was.. familiar with you.”

“Malachai” Katerina whispered, frustrated by his name.

The words hung. Neither moved closer. For a while, they simply regarded one another like ghosts out of a half-forgotten dream.

Finally, Daeron spoke again, his voice quieter. “I never had the chance to say it… to say I was sorry. About Joffrey.”

Katerina’s brows furrowed at the sound of her brother’s name.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, turning her face away. “Sorry? You think that would have been enough?”

“It is all I had,” he admitted.

Her gaze snapped back to him, eyes glinting. “And you thought I would stay after all of it? After your brother slit my brother’s throat? After your family called me daughter one moment and turned their back on me the next?”

Daeron flinched, but stood his ground. “You left us,” he said bitterly. “You abandoned the only chance for peace.”

“Peace?” Katerina laughed dryly, though there was no humor in it. “Do not speak that word to me. There was no peace. Only lies. Only betrayal.”

The quiet dissolved. Their voices grew sharper, their words jagged.

“You think you are the only one to suffer?” Daeron’s voice cracked as he stepped closer, his anger finally cutting through. “Look at what you’ve done! The city lies in ruin. People starve, they rot in the streets. My mother-!”

His voice broke again. “My mother lies sick in her bed because of you!”

Katerina’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “Your mother.” She scoffed.

“Do you think I forget her words? How she swore she loved me as her own, how she held me like her child? Yet when it mattered, when my brother bled beneath Aegon’s blade, where was she? At Aegon’s side. Standing by his hand.”

Daeron’s breath caught. His jaw tightened.

The room crackled with the weight of their fury.

“You speak of peace-! of love,” Katerina spat, “but your family has never known the meaning of it. Only power. Only blood.”

“And what of you?” Daeron shot back. “Do you call this love? These corpses in the street? The terror in children’s eyes when they whisper your name?”

Katerina’s eyes gleamed, dark with fire. “Do not mistake me for the monster they paint me as. I never wanted this. But you Hightower’s forced me to it. You wanted a monster?”

Her voice dropped, sharp as a blade. “Then here I am.”

The words struck them both silent.

Daeron’s breath heaved. Slowly, the heat in his voice faltered. He lowered his gaze, speaking now with quiet hurt rather than rage.

“I loved you,” he said. The words trembled.

Her eyes widened at his sudden confession.

But Daeron shook his head, as he fought away his feelings, “but not any more. Not like this. Not with so much blood on your hands.” He lifted his eyes to her, pained and searching. “Why did you do this, Katerina? Why?”

For a moment, something softened in her expression. She tilted her head, studying him. Then she stepped closer, her voice low, near a whisper.

“You sense the monster in me… and yet you are still in love with it. With me.”

The words hung between them, dangerous and tender both.

Daeron’s throat worked, his chest tightening. He reached out slightly, as though to touch her, but then stopped. His hand fell.

“Come back with me,” he pleaded. “Surrender. Let me take you back to the Red Keep. We can end this. Before there’s nothing left to save.”

Katerina studied him for a long, long moment. Her eyes flickered over his face, and for the first time there was no fire, only silence.

Then she smiled faintly. Sad, almost.

“You still don’t understand.”

Her hand lifted before he could react.

Power surged, blinding light flaring into his vision. Daeron cried out, stumbling back, clutching at his eyes as the chamber dissolved into whiteness.

When the brilliance faded, she was gone.

Daeron staggered forward, blinking tears of pain. His breath shook, the echo of her presence still burning in the air.

He stood alone in the chamber, blinded and broken, her words still seared in his mind.

“You sense the monster in me… and yet you are still in love with it.”

And perhaps he was.

But perhaps she also hid her care for him. Leaving him to live whilst she ran, despite having the opportunity to take him from his heart.

…

The sea churned restlessly beneath the cliffs of Dragonstone, waves slamming against the blackened stone.

Daemon Targaryen stood alone outside the fortress gates, the wind tugging at his cloak. Above, Caraxes circled the skies.

The dragon’s long body rippled like a serpent, wings carving through the clouds, its hiss and rumble carrying down to its rider.

Daemon’s hands rested lightly on the pommel of Dark Sister at his hip, though he felt no need to draw it.

Not yet.

He had been waiting for this moment, her moment, for two days, and his patience was beginning to fray.

Then it came.

Caraxes’ roar split the sky, sharp and keening. The dragon twisted violently midair, tail lashing, the pitch of its cry unlike any Daemon had ever heard.

Fear.

Instinctive, primal fear.

Daemon’s lips curled into a grim smile. “So. You’ve come.”

He moved down the long stone bridge, boots echoing on the wet stone. The mists off the sea rolled across his path, curling in thick, ghostlike veils.

He did not need to look far. A figure was already approaching at unnatural speed, her movement a blur that made his eyes struggle to follow.

The impact of her arrival sent him stumbling a half step, but he caught himself, Dark Sister’s hilt steadying him. When the mists cleared, she stood before him.

Katerina.

Her hair was silken and loose, her face pale as bone, her eyes hollowed yet sharp as blades.

She stared at him with no flicker of emotion, no recognition in her stillness.

Daemon’s breath caught in his chest.

Fascination stirred despite himself.

She was the echo of Rhaenyra in her youth, and yet more. Something otherworldly clung to her now, a weight that pressed on the air itself.

“You’ve grown,” he murmured, his voice almost soft.

Katerina’s expression didn’t shift. Her arms crossed over her chest, her chin tilting in cold defiance.

He chuckled faintly, shaking his head. “My own daughter. To see you standing here before me, it almost feels like the gods have dealt me mercy at last.”

Her eyes narrowed, her voice flat. “Save your act, Daemon.”

The name hit him harder than he expected. Not father. Not anything close. Just Daemon, stripped bare.

Katerina’s lips parted again, her tone sharpened. “I saw it.”

Daemon’s brow furrowed. “Saw what?”

Her gaze burned into him. “You escaped. I saw how you fled into the shadows while the rest of them burned. While my mother died. While your queen was butchered and your sons torn apart. You-!”

Her voice rose, venom threading through it, “you lived like a rat, hiding. That is what I saw in my visions.”

Daemon stiffened, his smirk faltering.

He swallowed hard before forcing himself to laugh low, though it came brittle. “So the witch whispers my sins into your dreams now. Clever.”

“No,” Katerina shot back. “I saw it. I felt it. You cannot dress it with words.”

The air between them crackled, tension vibrating like the string of a bow drawn too tight.

“This castle,” she hissed, gesturing sharply to the looming towers behind him. “It was hers. My mother’s. You do not deserve to walk its halls.”

Her eyes glittered with fury. “You left her to die, Daemon. You abandoned her. And now you dare hide here, where she drew her last breath?”

Daemon’s jaw clenched, his hand twitching against his sword. “Careful, girl.”

“No,” she barked. “You be careful.”

His composure cracked. His own fury spilled free, voice booming over the sea winds. “You speak of abandonment as though you are blameless. Where were you? All the power in your veins, and yet you vanished. You could have turned the tide.”

“You could have saved them, saved her! But you chose nothing. You let history bury us, and now you return only to point your bloody finger at me?”

Katerina’s throat worked, but she didn’t flinch. “You and I both know that is not true.”

Her voice quivered, not with weakness, but with conviction.

“I never wanted this,” she whispered. “I never asked to wake up to ash and ruin. I never wanted to walk this world cursed, alone, only to find her gone. Do you know what it was like?”

Her eyes glistened, fury cracking into grief. “To claw my way out of the dark, only to hear the whispers? To know that my mother, my brothers… all dead?”

Her voice broke, and then roared back into fire. “I mourned you!”

Daemon froze.

“I mourned you,” she shouted again, jabbing a finger into his chest. “All the while you hid, a coward too afraid to bleed with the rest of us. A coward, Daemon. That’s all you are.”

The words struck deeper than steel.

Daemon turned sharply, back to her, his hands curling into fists.

He inhaled through his nose, fighting the urge to lash back, to lose himself. His shoulders shook once, anger, or something else, he wasn’t sure.

Silence stretched.

Katerina’s glare burned holes into his spine. Her chest rose and fell with unsteady breath.

For a moment, she thought he might actually walk away.

And then her gaze shifted.

Behind him, at the edge of the courtyard, stood two figures. Alys, silent, her dark eyes fixed on Katerina. And beside her, taller, sharper, stood Aemond.

The moment their eyes met, the world seemed to tilt.

Aemond’s gaze locked on hers, unreadable but unyielding.

And Katerina, something inside her twisted violently. A rush of memory, of betrayal, of the night he had nearly taken everything from her. Her body stiffened, her lips peeling back in a snarl.

Daemon turned, frowning, just in time to see it.

Her face changed.

A guttural rip sounded as her gums tore, fangs sliding down with a wet snap.

The veins beneath her eyes thickened, crawling black against her pale skin. Her irises drowned in darkness, twin pools of hunger and rage.

Her breath hissed, animalistic, as she bared her teeth fully.

Daemon staggered back a step, his own daughter now unrecognizable before him.

Horror crawled down his spine, dragging the smugness from his face.

He had seen death, he had seen dragons, he had faced fire and war without flinching. But never had he seen this.

“Katerina…” his voice came low, uncertain, almost pleading.

But she wasn’t looking at him anymore.

Her gaze was fixed solely on Aemond, her darkened eyes locking with his pale one like a predator choosing its prey.

And the wind howled across the bridge as the cliffside seemed to hold its breath.

XXXI

[averillaratargaryen]

XXIX

There are creatures born of night and shadow, and there are those forged of earth and moonlight.

But rarer still are the ones who walk between. Hybrids, born from the unholy union of wolf and vampire.

The body of a hybrid is not born so much as it is remade. Bone lengthens, sinew tightens, blood quickens in the veins until it sings.

Their hearts beat with the rhythm of the wild hunt, yet their silence is the stillness of the grave.

Eyes that once knew only mortal sight burn with dual fire, amber in the dark, crimson in the hunger. To look through them is to see further than any man could dream. Every breath of mist in the forest, every tremor of fear in another’s pulse.

Scent becomes a symphony, each note sharp as a blade.

A single drop of blood carries a story, a single strand of hair tells of journeys across kingdoms. Sound magnifies until the faintest heartbeat in the stone halls, the faintest whisper in the far woods, becomes clear as thunder.

The skin itself feels more, the heat of flame, the cold bite of steel, the electric brush of life itself.

Yet it is not only body that changes, but soul.

The wolf demands loyalty, the vampire demands dominion, hunger, eternal claim.

A hybrid carries both burdens, twin crowns of fury and desire. They are torn between the howl of the night sky and the silence of the crypt.

History speaks of them in hushed tones.

The first were said to be accidents of war, wolves turned under the blood moon, bitten by fangs before their flesh had settled, leaving them cursed to two masters.

Others were crafted by design, by witches who sought to fashion perfection, weaving together beast and immortal.

Few endured.

Those who did carved their names into legend, leaving kingdoms broken in their wake.

For where wolves burn with fleeting fire, and vampires endure in endless shadow, hybrids alone are the storm that cannot be tamed.

The moon had waxed and waned four times since Joffery’s death, yet King’s Landing had not healed. Instead, the city had withered.

The streets, once deafened by the call of merchants and the chatter of children, now carried only the sound of silence.

Doors stayed shut, windows latched, prayers whispered behind splintering wood.

No laughter rose from the taverns, no haggling from the markets.

What remained was the stench. Iron-rich and sweet, the scent of blood left too long in the air. It clung to every stone, soaked into every crack of the cobbles.

Many had vanished.

Whole households disappeared overnight as though swallowed by the earth. Others were found where they fell, their bodies pale, drained, mouths frozen in silent cries.

Those who lived kept to the shadows, daring not to linger when dusk fell, fearing the cold whisper of a curse said to crawl the city’s veins.

The skies themselves seemed to mourn.

Clouds pressed heavy over the spires and rooftops, grey upon grey, the sun a stranger seldom seen.

Ravens circled the Red Keep, too many, as if drawn to carrion. The bells tolled often, yet their ringing gave no comfort, only dread, for it meant more dead to bury, more names to whisper into the stones.

Whispers spread faster than flame.

Some said it was the wrath of the gods, punishing a family of kings who had spilled too much blood.

Others swore it was the return of old, darker legends, monsters that walked like men, feeding when the city slept.

No one knew what hunted them. No one dared to ask.

But everyone felt it.

The dread.

The watching.

The cold.

King’s Landing had become a hushed graveyard, and each day it seemed less a city of men and more a tomb for the living.

…

The Small Council chamber was colder than it had ever felt, though no winter’s frost had touched the city.

The air itself seemed weighed with unease. Candles guttered low in their holders, smoke curling thin and restless toward the vaulted ceiling.

The men gathered at the table shifted in their seats, parchments and ink pots left untouched, for what use were laws and writs when death itself prowled their streets?

Ser Tyland Lannister cleared his throat, his hands fussing over the edge of a scroll as though touch alone might keep his nerves in check.

“The bodies were found at daybreak, near Cobbler’s Square,” he said, voice clipped but shaking at the edges. “Six of them. Pale, every drop of blood drained clean. The cobbles beneath them… stained near black.”

Lord Jasper Wylde muttered, “That makes near thirty in the last fortnight. Thirty, within the very heart of the capital.” His voice cracked halfway through, more fear than outrage.

“They speak of a terror stalking the night,” Ser Arryk added grimly. “The taverns are empty. Even the goldcloaks hide in their barracks after sundown. They claim the gods have cursed us.”

“Gods?” Ser Tyland scoffed, though his fingers still trembled. “If the gods had hand in this, we’d all be dust by now. This is something else—something worse.”

The men murmured, each offering fractured suggestions.

“Seal the gates.”

“Post guards on every corner.”

“No, we have not enough men left to stretch the city so thin.”

“Then send riders, call for aid from Oldtown-?”

“And have the realm laugh at our weakness? We are not beggars.”

Each idea floundered before it could take root, smothered beneath consequence and doubt.

Their words tangled in circles, chasing answers none dared name.

Through it all, Aegon stood apart.

His back to them, shoulders taut as he stared from the high window, the grey sky staring back. His reflection in the glass was a ghostly thing—pale skin, sunken eyes, the face of a king hollowed by sleepless nights.

“Your Grace,” Otto Hightower’s voice cut sharp, paternal authority laced with irritation, “moping out the window will do no help.”

For a moment, silence pressed thick. Then Aegon turned.

Slowly.

His face was pale and straight, lips drawn tight in a thin line. The candlelight caught only shadows beneath his eyes.

“As if I did not already know that,” he said, his voice low, a rasp that carried through the chamber.

He strode forward, each step echoing against the stone.

The men straightened, some shifting uncomfortably as he reached his chair. He sank into it, heavy, and pressed his hands against his brow. His fingers curled in his hair, elbows braced on the oak table.

None spoke.

None dared.

The chamber grew still, only the crackle of candleflame between them. They watched him, their king, and found no reassurance in his silence.

Only the mirror of their own dread.

At length, Aegon lifted his head. His gaze swept them, hard and unblinking, before he spoke.

“This all will be stopped,” he said. “If we catch Katerina.”

The name dropped like a stone in still water. The men shifted in their chairs, exchanging uneasy looks.

Lord Tyland was the first to break the hush. “It is not possible, Your Grace. The streets are abandoned after dusk. No man will risk his life to walk them, not even for gold. We’ve already lost too many. The guards fear her more than they fear you.”

Aegon’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding as his eyes flared with tired fury. He slammed a palm against the table, making the ink pots jump.

“This is her,” he spat. “This is her doing.”

“Your Grace,” Otto interjected smoothly, though his voice betrayed the tension in his throat, “we cannot yet be certain. Rumor and shadow have a way of twisting truth. If it is her, she has power beyond our knowledge. And if it is not…”

He let the thought hang, dangerous and unfinished.

“Who else could it be?” Aegon snapped. “Was it not she who cursed us with her presence? Was it not her blood that defied fire itself? She is no girl, she is a plague given flesh.”

His fists curled on the table as his voice lowered, trembling with rage. “And I will not let this plague take my city.”

The chamber fell still again. Only the sound of Aegon’s breath filled the silence, harsh and uneven.

Lord Jasper Wylde ventured softly, “But if she cannot be caught, Your Grace… what then? Shall we sit here and wait for the city to bleed itself dry?”

Aegon’s gaze cut to him, cold and unflinching. “She will be caught. If men will not walk the streets, then I will send hounds. If hounds fail, I will send fire. King’s Landing is not hers to haunt, it is mine to rule.”

Before further reply could come, the heavy doors creaked open. A guard entered, armor smeared with dirt, helm tucked beneath his arm. He bowed low, voice hurried.

“Your Grace. We searched Harrenhal, as ordered. But… Prince Aemond is nowhere to be found.”

The words hung in the chamber, striking like a blow.

Aegon straightened in his seat, eyes narrowing. His voice was quiet, almost calm, though the tremor in it betrayed him. “And his wife? Alys Rivers?”

The guard shook his head. “No trace, Your Grace.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any before. Aegon leaned back slowly in his chair, his fingers curling against the carved arms, knuckles white. His gaze drifted, unfocused, to the far wall.

The councilmen exchanged looks but none dared speak.

Even Otto, ever the voice of measured reason, kept still, watching his grandson with a calculating eye.

Aegon said nothing more. Only sat, pale and rigid, the weight of absence pressing heavier than the terror of the city itself.

…

The Queen Dowager’s chamber was heavy with shadows, the curtains drawn half-closed against the weak light of day.

The air was thick with the stale scent of herbs, maester’s salves, and untouched food long gone cold.

Alicent Hightower lay upon her bed, her frame slight beneath the embroidered coverlets, her skin pale, almost translucent. She seemed more like a ghost of herself than the fierce mother who had once stood unbending in council.

At the foot of the bed, Maester Orwyle stood wringing his hands, his expression grave.

Daeron, stepping in from the doorway, halted at the sight of his mother’s frailty. The boy inside him ached, though he stood now as a man.

“How is she?” he asked, his voice low, almost afraid to pierce the hush.

Orwyle gave a sad smile, his gaze softening on the queen. “She grows weaker, my prince. She takes no broth, no bread. Her strength wanes daily. If you could convince her to eat something… anything at all…” He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Perhaps from your lips, she will listen.”

He bowed and withdrew, leaving Daeron alone with the still figure on the bed.

Daeron approached quietly, as though afraid the sound of his boots might shatter her.

He lowered himself onto the stool beside her, then leaned gently forward, slipping his arm around her shoulders to help her sit upright. She was light—far too light, and he could feel the tremor in her bones.

“Mother,” he said softly, steadying her as she leaned against him, “you must eat. You are wasting away.”

Alicent’s head turned slowly, her weary eyes meeting his, dimmed by grief. She shook her head faintly. “How can I eat, Daeron?” Her voice was no more than a whisper, hoarse with tears unshed.

“When so many innocents lie dead in the streets? When their mothers starve with grief, and their children rot in the gutters? How could I bring food to my lips?”

Daeron’s chest tightened.

He took her hand, clutching it firmly between his own. “This is not your doing. You should not punish yourself for something you did not cause.”

A bitter laugh escaped her, hollow and frail. “Not my doing? Who was it that opened her chamber door to that girl? Who let her sit beside me and called her a gift? I, Daeron. I trusted her. Blindly. Foolishly. And now the city bleeds for it.”

Her words trembled, but her tone was sharp with guilt.

Daeron shook his head firmly. “No. You cannot blame yourself. She deceived us all. Her powers… whatever she is… you were caught in them as I was.”

Alicent turned her face away, blinking rapidly. Her eyes glistened, tears threatening to fall, but she lifted her hand quickly, swiping them away before they could trace her cheeks.

She would not allow herself the weakness of weeping before her son.

For a moment, silence lingered, broken only by her shallow breaths.

Then she turned back to him, her gaze steady though heavy with sorrow. “Have you spoken with your brother? With Aemond?”

Daeron’s lips parted, but no words came. He shook his head once, eyes dropping, unable to meet her searching gaze.

Alicent sighed softly, almost to herself. “Alys took him back with her. I trust her. She will keep him safe.”

Her conviction rang thin, more hope than certainty, but she said it as though by repeating it she could make it truth.

Daeron nodded, forcing himself to hold her gaze now.

He reached for the tray that had been set aside at her bedside, a bowl of broth, a heel of bread, both still warm, freshly brought. He set it on the edge of the bed and looked at her with a plea in his eyes.

“Please, Mother,” he said gently. “For me. For Aemond, too. Do not waste yourself to nothing. We need you still. I need you.”

Alicent’s lips parted, a protest ready, but when she saw the raw ache in her youngest son’s eyes, the argument died. He was suffering too, she could see it plain as day, and he bore it with quiet strength, for her sake.

Slowly, she nodded. Her trembling fingers reached for the spoon, and Daeron’s shoulders loosened with relief.

For that moment, at least, mother and son bore the weight together.

The sea winds howled against the black stone of Dragonstone, the ancient fortress brooding beneath a sky of bruised clouds.

Within its cavernous halls, the crackle of fire in the hearth fought to drive out the chill that clung to the stones.

Alys Rivers sat near the window, a raven’s message spread open in her pale hands. Her eyes traced the lines again and again, though her face betrayed little save the faint tension at her brow.

Across the chamber, Daemon paced with long strides, boots striking the floor in sharp rhythm.

“Ah, to be back in these halls,” he declared, his voice carrying with a pride only he could summon. “Home. The air itself tastes sweeter here than in that cursed city. Dragonstone has always been mine, my blood sings for it.”

He turned with a half-smirk, but Alys did not lift her gaze from the parchment. She read in silence, the firelight flickering across her dark hair, until at last she let the paper fall into her lap with a soft sigh.

“Your joy is ill-timed,” she murmured, her voice calm, cool as the stone beneath them.

Daemon’s brows furrowed. “And why is that?”

She tilted her head, her eyes finding his with measured weight. “News from King’s Landing. Katerina… she may have truly lost herself. Joffrey’s death was not the end, it was the beginning. The city bleeds. It rots. Blood smears its streets, and no man dares speak above a whisper.”

Daemon stilled mid-step, the firelight catching sharp in his violet eyes. He frowned. “How many dead?”

Alys looked back to the parchment, her lips tightening before she gave the count. Her words were even, though sorrow lingered beneath them.

The numbers struck him harder than a blade.

For a moment his eyes widened, the mask of iron control slipping.

Yet no word escaped his lips. His jaw clenched, his gaze turning away, as though silence could shield him from the weight of it.

The chamber door creaked. A maester stepped out, his grey robes whispering against the floor. His lined face bore quiet urgency as he bowed slightly, his voice carrying across the room.

“Lady Alys. Prince Daemon. The boy has woken.”

At once, Alys rose, smoothing her skirts with steady hands though her pulse quickened. She turned toward Daemon, her eyes questioning.

Daemon held her gaze for a heartbeat, then gave a silent nod of assent. His permission, his trust, sealed in the gesture.

Without a word, Alys swept past the maester, her steps measured yet swift, leaving Daemon alone in the firelit chamber as she made her way toward the boy’s bedside.

…

The chamber was dim, lit only by the glow of a single candelabrum.

The air smelled faintly of smoke and herbs, heavy with the remnants of whatever draughts the maester had used to dull pain.

Upon the bed, Aemond stirred, his breaths ragged and uneven, his chest rising and falling with effort. A faint grunt escaped his lips as he turned his head, his voice cracking into the silence.

“Katerina…”

The name broke from him like a plea, hoarse, yearning. He called it again, softer this time, his eye shut tight as if the sound of her name might summon her to him.

Then his lids flickered, and he turned, only to find Alys Rivers seated quietly in the shadowed corner.

His eye widened at once, alarm flashing through his pale face. He pushed himself upright despite the pain, confusion striking him in a flood of words.

“Why are you here? Why am I in this bed? What has happened-? what did you do?”

His questions tumbled one after another, his voice sharp with panic and disorientation.

Alys rose, her movements unhurried, graceful, and came to sit at his bedside. She placed a hand gently against his chest, her palm firm yet careful, urging him back down.

“You need not fear,” she said softly, her tone measured. “Aegon has his men searching for you. They will scour the city and the countryside alike, but they will not find you here. I have brought you somewhere beyond their reach. Neither he, nor his men, will touch you.”

Aemond’s gaze flickered around the room, restless, then lowered to the floor. His lips parted, his voice dropping into a whisper.

“Katerina…”

The worry in his tone was almost childlike, stripped bare of his usual restraint. His eye snapped back to Alys’s face, desperate. “Did Aegon find her? Did he-? did he do something?”

Alys shook her head, her hand still resting against him.

“No,” she answered, her words calm but edged with gravity. “Katerina is fine. More than fine.” Her dark eyes lingered on him, steady, unflinching.

“It is the city that has fallen. King’s Landing runs red with blood. That is her work.”

Aemond froze, staring blankly ahead.

A flash of memory struck him. The last look he had caught in Katerina’s eyes before she left him. Empty, cold, stripped of warmth. His throat tightened.

“She…” His voice faltered. Then his face twisted with realization. “Her humanity. She has switched it off.”

Alys inclined her head slowly, knowingly. “Yes. I am aware.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his eye flashing with sudden urgency. “I need to find her. I need to-!”

“You need to rest,” Alys cut in firmly, her tone sharpening.

But he would not heed her. With a grimace, he shoved her hand away, swinging his legs from the bed.

They wavered beneath him, weak and unsteady, but sheer will forced him upright. He staggered forward, step by halting step, until he reached the mirror set against the far wall.

When his gaze met his reflection, he stilled. His breath caught in his throat.

The man staring back was not the Aemond he had always known.

His hair, once long and silken, gleaming with silver, now dimmed to a duller hue and shortened to his shoulders. His skin, once pale and sharp with Targaryen frost, bore a new undertone, something foreign, something altered.

His nostrils flared, catching scents that should not have reached him. His eye narrowed at the change in the world’s sharpness; every flicker of candlelight, every beat of his own pulse thrummed vividly in his vision.

Lowering his gaze, he turned his hands over slowly, staring at the texture of his skin, the strength lying just beneath it.

His lips parted, trembling. In a voice broken by disbelief, he whispered, “What has she done to me?”

Behind him, Alys’s voice came calm, steady, carrying the weight of truth.

“She has given you her blood.”

Aemond’s head snapped around, horror lacing his features. “She tried to kill me?”

Alys stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. “Her blood has not undone your intent, it has only given you what she alone could create.” Her voice softened, though it held its edge of inevitability.

“You are no longer just vampiric Targaryen, Aemond. You are something else now. A hybrid.”

He turned back to the mirror, staring at the stranger reflected there.

His fingers brushed over his altered hair, his face, as though the touch could wake him from this nightmare. Yet the truth clung to him, heavy and inescapable.

And for the first time in many years, Aemond Targaryen looked upon himself and felt the sting of disbelief, of fear.

…

The chamber was quiet save for the scrape of cutlery and the desperate, guttural sounds of Aemond eating.

He sat hunched over the table, his shoulders sharp beneath the loose tunic Alys had provided him, his body still gaunt from weeks of starvation.

His plate was piled high, and yet he tore through the food as though it would vanish from beneath his fingers if he didn’t devour it quickly enough.

Every mouthful was ravenous, meat torn with his teeth, bread broken apart in shaking hands.

He barely chewed, swallowing hard, then reaching for the next piece. His breaths came fast, almost ragged, as though the act of eating had become as frantic as fighting for air.

Across from him, Daemon Targaryen sat rigid, his wine untouched, his violet eyes locked upon his nephew with barely contained revulsion.

His lip curled as he watched Aemond shovel food into his mouth, grease smearing his lips, his throat working ceaselessly.

It was not the act of hunger alone. It was the animalistic desperation of it.

Alys, seated at the head of the table, noticed the look on Daemon’s face before turning her gaze to Aemond. “Slow yourself,” she said, her voice calm, warning.

But Aemond only paused long enough to draw a heavy breath, his eye wild and unfocused.

“I cannot,” he rasped, his voice rough with exertion. “My appetite… it has grown strong. I cannot stop.”

He reached for the goblet before him, its contents dark, thick. Not wine, though it mimicked the look of it.

Blood.

Deer’s blood, carefully acquired by Alys and offered as a substitute. His hand trembled as he lifted it, his body crying out for what it instinctively craved.

He tilted his head back and drank deep, gulp after gulp. The liquid stained his lips, slid down his chin.

But halfway through, his body convulsed.

His throat seized, his stomach clenched violently. A moment later, he gagged, slamming the goblet back onto the table as blood spilled from his mouth in a thick, bitter flood.

He doubled over, retching onto the stone floor.

Daemon’s patience snapped.

“That is enough!” His voice thundered as he stood, his hands slamming against the wooden table so hard the plates rattled.

His glare burned into Aemond, then slid accusingly toward Alys. “You creatures are disgusting.”

“Daemon!” Alys’s voice cut sharp, reprimanding, her tone carrying that edge of what are you doing? Her eyes flashed with a warning that only Daemon would understand, yet his fury only deepened.

He jabbed a finger toward the younger man. “Look at him! Look at the mess he’s made. Foaming like some rabid beast. And you would have me sit here and pretend this is not an abomination?”

Aemond lifted his head slowly, blood streaking his lips and chin.

His single eye, clouded with confusion and humiliation, flickered between them. His voice was hoarse, strangled. “Why… why can I not stomach it?”

Alys turned to him, her tone softer now, though resolute. “It has been too long. More than a month without blood. Your body rejects what it once accepted. It must remember what it is.”

Aemond shook his head, his fingers clawing weakly at the edge of the table as though grounding himself against the spinning of his world. “This is not right. What blood is it?”

“Deer,” Alys replied carefully.

His eye widened, then narrowed with dawning realization. He shook his head again, more violently this time, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “No. No, no, no. I need human blood.”

Daemon scoffed, his disgust deepening. “Of course he does.”

Alys ignored him, leaning toward Aemond with a firmness that cut through his panic.

“Not yet. You are not ready. You can barely stand, let alone hunt. If you drink now, you will not control yourself. You will become her, or worse.”

At the mention of Katerina, something flickered across Aemond’s face.. grief, guilt, a memory that stung like fire.

He slumped back into his chair, his body shaking from hunger and weakness, but his eye still burning with that desperate plea.

He managed only one word, whispered, broken, “Please…”

Alys rose and gestured to the guards by the door. “Take him back to his chamber.”

They stepped forward at once, moving carefully to lift him.

Aemond did not fight, though his body trembled with restraint, as if he might at any moment tear himself free and lunge for the vein of the nearest man.

Instead, he allowed himself to be carried away, his eye fixed on the empty goblet as though it mocked him.

The chamber doors shut behind them, leaving silence in their wake.

Daemon shifted, his mouth already opening, but Alys cut him off sharply.

“Don’t,” she warned, her gaze cold, hard as steel.

He bristled, fury simmering. “You sit there feeding him scraps, watching him foul the floor, and expect me to hold my tongue? This-! this thing Katerina has made of him-?”

A sly curve touched Alys’s lips, humorless, sharp. “Do I need to remind you, Daemon, of what debts you owe me?”

Daemon’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

His chest rose and fell in slow, heavy breaths, and for a heartbeat it seemed he might strike her, might lash out in the only way he knew how.

But Alys leaned forward, her tone low, measured.

“Katerina will come. You know it. And when she does, he will be the only one who can reach her. Unless, of course, you’d rather kill them both and lose what hope you have left.”

The words landed like an iron chain, and Daemon froze, his jaw tightening, his rage caught in a snare.

Instead of answering, he seized his goblet, hurled it to the floor, and stormed out of the dining hall without another word.

The doors slammed in his wake, leaving only the echo of shattered glass and the faint smile of Alys Rivers, seated alone at the table.

The screams of men still echoed through the ruined streets of King’s Landing. Some cried for their mothers, others begged for mercy. None found it.

Katerina stood among them, no longer the girl she once was.

Her humanity had been stripped away, leaving only a hollow shadow. Her beauty was still intact, but it carried something cruel now. Her skin was paler, her features sharper, her lips stained dark with blood.

And her eyes.

Her eyes that were once alive with warmth, were now near black, as though the night itself had taken root in them.

She toyed with her prey, a young guard sent from the city. His armor was too big for him, his hands trembling as he clutched at the dirt. His voice broke as he pleaded.

“Please… please don’t kill me. I’ll run, I swear it. I’ll never return. No one will know.”

Katerina tilted her head, feigning thought. Her pout was mocking, childish in its cruelty. “Hmm… I don’t think I believe you.”

Her fingers tightened around his throat, ready to snap his neck.

“Put him down.”

The voice was firm, commanding.

She turned her head slowly, strands of her dark hair clinging to her cheek, and found Gwayne Hightower. Two riders of his house followed close behind, horses stamping against the stones as they drew nearer.

Otto Hightower had sent them. Aegon’s forces had been gutted, too many lost to ambushes and slaughter. Reinforcements were needed, and so Otto had turned to his son, demanding men strong enough to sweep the streets clean again.

Katerina’s lips curved into a wicked smile. “Gwayne Hightower.” She spoke his name like a taunt.

“Put him down,” Gwayne repeated, with more force. He did not move closer. He had the awkward, brittle confidence of a knight who had never known what it meant to stand where a woman like this did.

Behind him his men shifted, hands heavy on hilts.

She looked back at the boy, then snapped his neck without hesitation. His body crumpled to the ground.

Katerina then stared into Gwayne’s eyes, her voice as quiet as a whisper, “Too late.”

Gwayne swung down from his saddle with the theatrical calm of a man who had practiced being a savior.

He took two steps toward her and then stopped, measuring. He had the arrogance of a house used to being obeyed.

“You cut a fine figure, Katerina, if your aim was to terrify,” he said. “But you will answer for these killings. I will not hand you to his Grace as a favor; I will drag you myself. I will watch your head fall.”

She considered him, an expression that wore both boredom and appetite. The shadow under her eyes had grown.

“Drag me,” she said, stepping forward until her breath hovered over his face, “as if your King had not already done so.”

Gwayne stepped nearer, horse and men forgotten. He did not flinch when she came close; if anything his chest expanded, his jaw clenched in a show of resolve.

“You will not be given the luxury of my pity,” he said. “You have butchered innocents. Innocents who were houses’ bread, fathers’ sons. I will not stand for such savagery in my lord’s city.”

Katerina’s eyes scanned him slowly, cool and casual. She tipped her head as if listening to a distant song. Then she spoke low, almost conversational.

“Do you think this is savagery, Gwayne? Or would you call it justice, if the hand that bled your kin bled first?” Her tongue flicked like a serpent’s.

“You speak of dragging me to Aegon. And what then? Another display? Another proclamation? Will that heal the women whose husbands never came home? Will it line the bellies of the children who went to bed hungry?”

She smiled, and it was not kind. “Or will it simply be another stage for the pretending?”

The Hightower’s face hardened. “You mince words as if they make a difference. You have no right to judge the living.”

She shrugged, splendid indifference. “Oh, I judge them by what they do. By what they allow. Men like you, he who rides in polished armor to save his honor, are men who, when given the choice, feed the maw of whatever power promises them safety.”

Gwayne’s fingers closed into a fist.

For a long beat he said nothing, only studied her as if searching for the human that the legends claimed.

Then, with a voice that tried to be iron, he answered, “If I take you back to his Grace, at least the realm will see justice. People will sleep easier knowing a monster has been dealt with.”

“People will sleep,” Katerina echoed, “until the next throat is cut and the next maiden found with her mouth full of somebody’s blood.”

Her hand dropped lightly to the dead guard’s hair and stroked it as if smoothing a child’s head. “Do you not feel it, Gwayne? The tightness in the throat of this city? The hunger?”

“You think that by burning one camp, burning one witch, you will quell the storm below? How small your heart must be to believe in such tidy ends.”

Gwayne advanced a pace. “You will not turn us into beasts. We will not cower.”

She watched him like a scholar watching a pupil about to fail a test. “Do you think it would make me cower?” Her smile turned predatory. “Do you think I fear a man with a clean sword and a flattery for his king?”

“No.” He spat the word like a sudden ember. “But you will have to kill us all if you wish to live.”

There it was, the line she had been scratching toward, he made the promise, and in it lay the threat and the challenge. Katerina laughed, slow and delighted.

“Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

For a moment, they only stared at each other, predator and hunter, neither flinching. Then Gwayne turned to his men with a smug smile, ready to command.

But when he looked back, Katerina was gone.

A beat of silence.

Then came the sharp, sickening crack of bones breaking in the shadows. One man’s scream tore the night open before it was abruptly cut short.

The horses reared in panic, hooves striking the cobblestones.

Gwayne spun, his eyes wide, and let out a hoarse scream of his own as the darkness answered him with death.

…

The tavern door groaned as Katerina pushed it open.

The air inside was stagnant, heavy with the ghost of old ale and charred wood.

Empty.

Silent.

She stepped across the threshold, dragging the back of her hand across her lips.

When she pulled it away, a streak of crimson smeared her pale skin. She licked what remained, eyes dark and unfeeling.

Her gaze swept the room until it fixed on the single figure sprawled lazily atop a table. A young man, boots propped on the wood as though it were his own chamber, one arm dangling at his side.

“Are you comfortable?” Katerina asked, voice low, sharp with mockery.

The man stirred, tilting his head toward her with a faint smirk. “I am.”

She stepped closer, the boards beneath her feet creaking. “Malachai.”

His smirk faltered. He pushed himself upright, though he still leaned back with forced ease.

“I know Alys sent you,” she continued, her words slicing through the stale air. “Sent you to watch me. Every step. Every breath.”

Malachai gave a short nod, swallowing once before replying. “She asks if you’ll come to Dragonstone.”

Without asking, Katerina moved to the table and sat heavily on its edge, the sudden weight making it jolt. Malachai nearly choked on his breath, shifting upright with a sharp intake as her presence crowded him.

“Why Dragonstone?” she asked, leaning forward until her shadow stretched over him. “Why does she want me there?”

Malachai met her eyes, though his composure wavered. “She didn’t say. Only that it’s important. That she has questions for you.”

Katerina tilted her head, her darkened eyes gleaming. “Questions,” she repeated, almost as a laugh. Her gaze slid away, settling on the shuttered window. “I suppose my visions were true then. My father is alive. A coward, hiding away while his city burns.”

Malachai shifted, unease flickering across his face. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting from her to the floor before forcing himself to answer.

“Strange you’d call him coward, when you’ve been hiding a month yourself.”

Katerina snapped her gaze back to him, lips parting in amusement. “Is that so?”

He nodded stiffly. “Others wait to see you. To face you.”

“Who?”

Malachai’s eyes flickered away again before landing reluctantly back on hers. “Alys. And your father.”

Silence stretched for a moment. Katerina leaned back, folding her arms across her chest. A bitter smile curved her lips. “Alys wants to see me?”

“Yes,” Malachai answered, his voice quieter now. “She has questions only you can answer.”

Katerina’s smile lingered as she gave a slow nod. “Soon,” she murmured, as though promising herself more than him.

Her eyes drifted back to him, narrowing with a spark of amusement.

Malachai hesitated to speak, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him, “Katerina.. what did you do?”

She laughed, a sound hollow and sharp as broken glass. “What my father could not.”

The words hung heavy, chilling him. Malachai studied her, torn between fear and something disturbingly like admiration.

Katerina leaned in close, her breath brushing his ear, her voice low and dangerous. “This city will learn to fear the colour gold.”

The council chamber was cloaked in the drone of men’s voices, lords and advisors volleying words back and forth in frustration.

Fingers tapped tables, chairs scraped the floor, and still, no true solution had been found to the city’s unrest.

The sharp clang of iron boots broke the rhythm.

The great doors burst open, guards stumbling inside, breathless, faces pale as if the very colour had drained from their skin.

One of them rushed forward, pressing a fist to his chest before blurting out, voice cracking under strain:

“Your Grace, Lord Hand, you must come. You must see it.”

The chamber fell silent.

Every man’s head turned.

Otto’s brow creased, his lips parting but no words came. Aegon leaned back slowly in his chair, his knuckles tightening against the armrest, watching the guards’ tremble.

The Hand turned his eyes to his king, and the king to his Hand. Their look alone spoke what neither dared say aloud.

“Show us,” Otto ordered. His tone was calm, but the slight quiver beneath betrayed his unease.

…

The group hurried out, boots clattering across the stone corridors, down the steps, into the courtyard.

Aegon and Otto pressed forward, but what awaited them was hidden still, the crowd clustered too tightly ahead. It was not until they passed through that the sight revealed itself.

Daeron stood rigid, his youthful face twisted in horror, yet his hands clutched firmly to the frail figure beside him.

Alicent.

She trembled violently in his hold, one hand outstretched toward the ground as though reaching for what her body could not bear to touch.

Her voice broke the air like glass shattering. “Gwayne!”

It was a cry that ripped from her chest, a mother’s anguish carried in the name.

Her knees buckled, and she would have collapsed fully had Daeron not caught her under the arms, dragging her back against him.

His jaw clenched, tears threatening though he refused to let them fall.

Otto stopped dead, his cane slipping slightly from his grip.

For all his age and years of composure, the Hand of the King paled, his lips trembling, his eyes wide in a way his councillors had never seen.

He stared, his heart sinking with the weight of recognition.

Aegon strode forward, at first unflinching, his jaw locked, his eyes set in cold defiance, until the reality became clear.

His stride slowed, then halted altogether. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, hard, but his breath stilled.

His pale eyes narrowed, then darted, desperate to find a reason, an answer that did not exist.

Alicent’s sobs filled the silence. She pressed her face into Daeron’s shoulder, her hand clawing at his tunic as though anchoring herself to him.

Otto’s hand rose, trembling, to cover his mouth.

His chest heaved once, his cane striking the ground as though he needed to remind himself he was still standing.

Aegon’s hands curled into fists. Anger warred with horror across his features, the raw sting of disbelief tightening his brow, his lips pressed so firmly together that the colour drained from them.

His body shook, not from fear but from rage. Yet beneath it, an unmistakable gleam of dread, he knew who was responsible.

The king’s fury was cold, but it was the kind that burned from the inside, gnawing at bone.

The courtyard was silent, but the silence itself screamed.

The scene before them was carnage laid bare.

Ser Gwayne lay dead, held at the back of his horse.

His neck tied with a gold cloak, his Hightower heritage no longer displayed.

A cock gagged in his mouth, along with his two dead men behind him.

XXX