I can't stop thinking about how devastating it must have been for Baela.
To descend from Moondancer through the smoke, the blood, and the ruins of a battle, searching desperately for the person who, only hours earlier, had been telling her they could win. The one who believed they could survive it all.
And then finding him.
Finding the cold, lifeless body of the boy she chose to stay for when it would have been easier to leave. The prince she fought beside. The friend she had known for most of her life. The man she may have imagined a future with—a future that would now never exist.
And then carrying him.
Feeling the weight of his body on her shoulders while carrying the weight of everything they were, everything they had become, and everything they would never get the chance to be.
Thinking about the promises they never had time to make.
The words they may never have said.
The life that war stole from them before they ever had the chance to live it.
And then giving him back to his mother.
Giving Rhaenyra not an heir, not a prince, not the hope of a cause—
but the boy she loved.
There is something unbearably cruel about that.
Because sometimes love isn't spoken.
Sometimes love is choosing to stay.
Fighting beside someone.
Looking for them when everyone else is gone.
And being the one who brings them home one last time.
