heeey How about a sad/depressing ending? 🤩 Rhaenyra x fem!reader where the reader is Alicent's youngest daughter and harbors feelings for Rhaenyra, which are reciprocated, However, when Alicent found out, she arranged a forced marriage between her and some lord. Hence, at the beginning of the dance and the events, She betrayed the Greens to save Rhaenyra in their schemes giving the advantage to the blacks. I.e that leads to her death :p
Rhaenyra Targaryen x fem!reader
warning(s): major character death, graphic violence, forced marriage, emotional abuse, parental abuse, targcest
(i ended up messing with the canon a little bit. Rhaenys doesn’t die in this)
The door to your chambers burst open with such force that the hinges groaned in protest. You turned from the window where you had been watching the sun set over King's Landing, your heart already sinking before you saw your mother's face. Alicent Hightower stood in the doorway, her chest heaving, her usually composed features twisted into something you had never seen before. Rage. Pure, incandescent rage.
In her hand, she clutched a piece of parchment, crumpled from the violence of her grip.
"Mother," you began, but she crossed the room in three swift strides and struck you across the face with the back of her hand. The blow sent you stumbling, your cheek burning, tears springing to your eyes from shock more than pain.
"Do not speak," Alicent hissed, her voice trembling with fury. "Do not dare speak to me with that mouth that has kissed her."
Your blood turned to ice. The letter. Someone had intercepted the letter you had written to Rhaenyra, the one you had entrusted to a servant you thought loyal. Foolish. You had been so foolish.
"I have given you everything," Alicent continued, her voice rising. "I have protected you, sheltered you, raised you to be a proper lady of this court. And this is how you repay me? By whoring yourself to that woman? To her?"
"I love her," you said, the words escaping before you could stop them. They hung in the air between you, defiant and true.
Alicent's face went white, then red. "Love," she spat the word like poison. "You know nothing of love, you stupid girl. You know nothing of duty, of loyalty, of what it means to be my daughter. She would see your brothers disinherited, would see everything we have built torn down, and you would spread your legs for her like some common tavern whore."
"She is not our enemy," you said, your voice stronger now despite the tears streaming down your face. "There is no war, Mother. There is only your fear and Grandfather's ambition tearing this family apart."
Alicent moved so quickly you did not see it coming. Her hands closed around your throat, not squeezing, but holding you in place as she brought her face close to yours. "You will never speak to me that way again," she whispered, her breath hot against your skin. "You will never speak her name again. Do you understand me?"
You could not answer, could barely breathe. Your mother's eyes were wild, desperate, and in them you saw something that terrified you more than her anger. You saw fear.
She released you suddenly, and you collapsed to your knees, gasping. Alicent turned away, smoothing down her gown with shaking hands, composing herself with visible effort. When she spoke again, her voice was cold, controlled.
"You will be married within the fortnight," she said. "Lord Thaddeus Rosby has agreed to take you as his wife. He is loyal, and he will take you far from this place, far from her. You will go to his lands, you will bear his children, and you will forget this perversion that has infected your mind."
"No," you whispered. "Mother, please, I cannot."
"You can and you will," Alicent said, still not looking at you. "The arrangements have been made. Your lord husband will ensure you fulfill your duties. He has been made aware that you may require a firm hand."
The implication made your stomach turn. "You would sell me to a man who would beat me into submission?"
"I would save you from yourself," Alicent said, and now she did turn, her eyes hard. "I would save you from the fate that awaits all who stand with her. When the King dies i fear a storm will start. And I will not have my daughter caught in that storm."
She left then, the door closing behind her with a finality that echoed through your chest. You remained on the floor, your mind racing. Married. Sent away. Imprisoned in all but name. And Rhaenyra, your Rhaenyra, would never know why you had abandoned her, would face whatever came alone.
Unless you found a way to warn her. Unless you found a way to protect her, even from afar.
The thought took root slowly, terribly. You could not stop the marriage. You could not change your mother's mind. But perhaps, when the time came, when the storm your mother spoke of finally broke, you could give Rhaenyra something more valuable than your presence.
You could give her a chance to survive.
Two years passed like a slow death.
Lord Thaddeus Rosby's lands were green and pleasant, his castle well maintained, his household orderly. He was not unkind to you, not precisely. He did not beat you as you had feared, did not force himself upon you with violence. But there was no warmth in his touch, no affection in his eyes. You were a prize he had won, a connection to House Targaryen and Hightower that elevated his standing. Nothing more.
You performed your duties as his wife with mechanical precision. You managed his household, entertained his guests, smiled when required. At night, you endured his attentions and prayed to gods you no longer believed in that you would not quicken with his child. The gods, for once, seemed to listen.
Your mother wrote occasionally, letters full of news from court and thinly veiled reminders of your obligations. Aegon was thriving. Aemond had claimed Vhagar. Helaena's children grew strong. The King's health continued to decline. Each letter was a knife twisted in your heart, a reminder of the life you had lost, the woman you could not have.
But you listened. You cultivated friendships with the servants, with the merchants who brought goods from King's Landing, with anyone who might carry news. You learned which of your husband's men were loyal to Otto, which were merely opportunistic, which might be swayed. You studied the maps in your husband's solar when he was away, memorized the roads and castles, the distances between strongholds.
You prepared, though for what, you could not say. You only knew that when the moment came, you would be ready.
The raven arrived on a grey morning in late autumn. You were in the solar, pretending to work on your embroidery while your husband met with his steward, when the maester entered, his face pale.
"My lord," he said, his voice shaking. "News from King's Landing. The King is dead."
The room went silent. Your husband rose slowly, taking the offered parchment with hands that trembled slightly. You watched his face as he read, saw the calculation there, the weighing of options.
"The Queen Dowager has declared for King Aegon," he said finally. "She calls upon all loyal lords to gather their forces and prepare to defend his claim." He looked at you then, and you saw the suspicion in his eyes, the question he dared not ask aloud. Whose side would you choose, daughter of Alicent Hightower?
You lowered your gaze, the picture of wifely submission. "The gods have spoken," you murmured. "Long live King Aegon."
Your husband relaxed, satisfied. He began issuing orders, calling for his bannermen, preparing for war. You sat quietly, your hands steady on your embroidery, and felt something cold and hard settle in your chest.
The storm had finally come.
Over the following days, the castle became a hive of activity. Men arrived from the surrounding lands, weapons were sharpened, supplies gathered. Your husband spent his days in council, planning troop movements and discussing strategy. And you listened.
You listened as they spoke of Rhaenyra's isolation on Dragonstone, of the lords who had declared for her and those who had not. You listened as they discussed the dragons, the terrible advantage Rhaenyra held, and how they might counter it. You listened as your husband received orders from King's Landing, instructions from your mother and the Hand.
And you learned of the trap they were laying at Rook's Rest.
It was brilliant, you had to admit. They would lure Rhaenyra's dragons into an ambush, use the castle as bait, and strike with Vhagar when the Blacks arrived. It would be a decisive blow, one that might end the war before it truly began.
It would kill Rhaenyra’s ambition.
That night, you lay awake beside your sleeping husband and made your choice. You had spent two years in this cage, two years playing the dutiful wife, the loyal daughter. You had done everything your mother asked of you, everything except forget.
You had not forgotten Rhaenyra's smile, the way she had held you, the promises you had whispered to each other in the dark. You had not forgotten what love felt like, what it meant to choose something for yourself rather than have it chosen for you.
Your mother had tried to save you from the storm. But you were done being saved.
You would walk into the storm willingly, and you would make sure Rhaenyra survived it.
You waited until the castle slept, until even the guards on the walls grew drowsy in the small hours before dawn. Your husband lay beside you, snoring softly, oblivious. You rose from the bed with practiced silence, dressing in your riding leathers, the ones you had hidden away, the ones your husband had forbidden you to wear. They felt like armor, like freedom.
The corridors were dark and empty. You moved through them like a ghost, every creak of floorboard making your heart race. If you were caught now, there would be no mercy. Your husband would lock you away, or worse, your mother would hear of it. But you did not let yourself think of that. You thought only of Rhaenyra, of the trap waiting at Rook's Rest, of the time slipping away.
The dragon pens were at the edge of the castle grounds, built when your husband had agreed to house your dragon as part of the marriage arrangement. Shadowfyre had been your one condition, the one thing you had refused to surrender. Your mother had allowed it, thinking a dragon would make you more valuable, more controllable. She had not understood that Shadowfyre was your last thread of independence, your last connection to who you had been before.
The guards at the pens knew you. You had visited Shadowfyre every day for two years, the only time you felt truly yourself. They nodded as you approached, unsuspicious. You often came early, they thought nothing of it.
"I would fly," you told them simply. "The morning will be fine for it."
They exchanged glances but did not argue. You were their lord's wife, and you had flown before, always returning. They opened the gates.
Shadowfyre knew. Dragons always knew. She raised her head as you approached, her dark scales gleaming like oil in the torchlight. She was smaller than Vhagar, smaller even than Meleys, but she was swift and clever, and the bond between you ran deeper than blood. You had claimed her when you were ten years old, had flown with her through storms and clear skies alike.
"Lykirī," you whispered, running your hand along her neck. "We fly to Dragonstone. We fly to her."
Shadowfyre rumbled, a sound that was almost a purr, and lowered herself so you could mount. You climbed into the saddle, securing the straps with hands that shook only slightly. This was treason. This was betrayal. This was the end of everything you had been and the beginning of something new.
"Sōvēs," you commanded, and Shadowfyre launched herself into the night sky.
The rush of wind stole your breath, the ground falling away beneath you with dizzying speed. You had forgotten this, the pure exhilaration of flight, the way the world became small and manageable from dragonback. For two years you had flown only in circles around your husband's lands, never straying far, always returning. Now you turned Shadowfyre east, toward the sea, toward Dragonstone, and you did not look back.
The flight across the Crownlands was treacherous in the dark. You flew low to avoid being spotted, Shadowfyre's wings beating steadily as she carried you over sleeping villages and dark forests. Every moment you expected to hear the roar of another dragon, to see Vhagar or Sunfyre rising to intercept you. But the sky remained empty save for stars.
When you reached the coast, the sun was beginning to rise, painting the sea in shades of gold and crimson. Shadowfyre flew out over the water, and you felt the change in the air, the salt spray rising to meet you. The Blackwater Bay stretched endlessly before you, and somewhere beyond it, Dragonstone waited.
The crossing was the most dangerous part. If you fell here, if Shadowfyre tired, there would be no rescue, no salvation. Only the cold embrace of the sea. But your dragon was strong, and she seemed to sense the urgency in your heart. She flew faster than you had ever felt her fly, her wings cutting through the air like blades.
You saw Dragonstone rising from the mist long before you reached it, the ancient Valyrian fortress black and forbidding against the dawn sky. Your heart clenched with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. You were here. You had made it. Now you only had to pray that Rhaenyra would listen, that your warning would be enough.
Shadowfyre circled the castle once, and you saw guards scrambling on the walls, pointing up at you. They would not know if you were friend or foe, not yet. You guided Shadowfyre down to the courtyard, and she landed with a grace that belied her size, her claws scraping against the stone.
You dismounted on shaking legs, your body aching from the long flight. Guards surrounded you immediately, their spears leveled, their faces wary. You raised your hands, showing you were unarmed.
"I am a daughter of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower," you said, your voice carrying across the courtyard. "I have come to speak with Queen Rhaenyra. I have information she must hear."
The guards exchanged uncertain glances. One of them, a captain by his bearing, stepped forward. "You will surrender your weapons and come with us. The Queen will decide what to do with you."
You nodded, though you carried no weapons save the small knife at your belt, which you handed over without protest. They led you into the castle, Shadowfyre watching with eyes that glowed like embers. You sent her a silent command to wait, to be calm, and felt her acknowledgment through the bond you shared.
The walk through Dragonstone's corridors felt endless. Your heart pounded, your mind racing with everything you needed to say, everything you needed to warn Rhaenyra about. And beneath it all, a desperate, aching hope that she would be glad to see you, that two years had not erased what you had shared.
When they brought you to the courtyard where Rhaenyra waited, you saw her immediately.
Rhaenyra came herself, striding into the courtyard with Daemon at her side, her hand on the pommel of her sword. When she saw you, she stopped dead.
"Leave us," she commanded, her voice brooking no argument. Daemon's eyes narrowed, but he obeyed, and the guards retreated to a respectful distance.
Rhaenyra crossed to you in swift strides and pulled you into her arms, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe. "What are you doing here?" she whispered against your hair. "Gods, what has happened? Are you hurt?"
"I had to warn you," you said, your voice breaking. "They are planning an ambush. At Rook's Rest. They mean to lure your dragons and strike with Vhagar."
Rhaenyra pulled back, her hands coming up to cup your face. Her violet eyes searched yours, and you saw the confusion there, the desperate hope warring with caution. "You came all this way to tell me this? After two years of silence?"
"I never stopped thinking of you," you said, and the words came out raw, honest. "Not for a single day. My mother discovered us, before the war. She married me to Lord Rosby to keep me from you, to bind me to the Green cause. But I am done being bound. I am done choosing duty over love."
Rhaenyra's composure cracked then, and she pulled you close again, her face buried in your neck. You felt her tears hot against your skin. "I thought you had forgotten me," she whispered. "I thought you had chosen them."
"Never," you said fiercely. "I could never."
You told her everything then. The plans you had overheard in your husband's councils, the movements of troops, the alliances being forged. You told her about the trap at Rook's Rest in detail, how they planned to coordinate the attack, where the forces would be positioned.
Rhaenyra listened, her face growing paler with each word. When you finished, she was silent for a long moment.
"You are committing treason," she said finally. "If your family discovers what you have done, they will execute you."
"I know," you said simply. "But I would rather die a traitor to them than live as their pawn. I would rather give you a chance to survive than save myself."
"Then stay," Rhaenyra said, her voice urgent. "Stay here with me. I will protect you. We will face this war together."
You wanted to say yes. Gods, how you wanted to say yes. But you shook your head, your heart breaking. "I cannot. If I disappear, they will know I warned you. They will change their plans, and you will lose this advantage. I must return, must play the loyal wife a while longer."
"No," Rhaenyra said, her hands tightening on yours. "I will not let you go back to him. I will not lose you again."
"You will not lose me," you lied, holding her as tightly as you dared. "I will find a way back to you. I swear it."
You stayed one more night, wrapped in her arms in her chambers, memorizing the feel of her skin against yours, the sound of her breathing, the way she whispered your name like a prayer. In the morning, you left before dawn, slipping away like a ghost.
You did not tell her that you had no intention of playing the loyal wife much longer. You did not tell her that you had already made your choice, already decided how this would end.
You would give her more than information. You would give her victory, no matter the cost.
Rook's Rest will be theirs.
You had come with your husband's forces, playing the dutiful wife, the loyal sister of Aegon. Lord Rosby had been pleased with your return from Dragonstone, never suspecting where you had truly been, never questioning the intelligence you fed him about Black movements. Shadowfyre had been kept in the castle's dragon pit, and you had visited her daily, keeping the bond strong, preparing for this moment.
When the horns sounded and Meleys appeared on the horizon, a crimson streak against the morning sky, you knew the time had come.
The castle erupted into chaos. Soldiers ran for the walls, commanders shouted orders, and above it all, the roar of dragons split the air. You moved through the panic with purpose, heading not for shelter but for the dragon pit at the castle's edge.
The guards there were abandoning their posts, fleeing from the battle overhead. You did not stop them. You ran down the stone steps into the pit's depths, where Shadowfyre waited, her dark scales gleaming in the torchlight. She knew. She always knew.
"Īlon jikagon naejot vīlībāzma," you told her, your voice steady despite the fear coursing through you. We go to war.
Shadowfyre rumbled, a sound like distant thunder, and lowered herself so you could mount. Your hands shook as you secured the chains, as you settled into the saddle. Above, you heard the screech of dragons meeting in combat, the roar of flame, the screams of dying men.
"Sōvēs," you commanded, and Shadowfyre launched herself upward.
The world exploded into light and sound and heat. You burst from the dragon pit into a sky filled with fire and fury. Meleys and Sunfyre were locked together, tearing at each other with savage desperation. The golden dragon's blood rained down on the castle below, and Aegon's screams were audible even over the chaos. Above them all, Vhagar circled like a monstrous shadow, too large to join the melee without crushing her own allies.
You had sent word to Rhaenys, had told her to come, had promised her the advantage. But you had not told her everything. You had not told her that you would be here, that you had one final card to play.
Shadowfyre climbed, her wings beating hard, carrying you up toward the battle. You saw the moment Rhaenys noticed you, saw Meleys's head turn, saw the confusion in the Red Queen's eyes. Friend or foe? The question hung in the air for a heartbeat.
Then Sunfyre's jaws closed on Meleys's neck, and there was no more time for questions.
You drove Shadowfyre forward, screaming a command, and your dragon unleashed a torrent of flame at Sunfyre's exposed flank. The golden dragon shrieked, releasing Meleys, twisting to face this new threat. Aegon's face was a mask of blood and rage, and you saw the moment he recognized you, saw the betrayal register in his eyes.
"Traitor!" His voice was raw, broken. "You dare—"
Shadowfyre slammed into Sunfyre's side, and the impact nearly threw you from the saddle. The two dragons grappled, claws tearing scales, teeth seeking throats. You held on with everything you had, feeling Shadowfyre's fury through the bond you shared, feeling her determination to protect you even as she fought.
Meleys recovered, circling back, and for a moment you thought you might win, might actually survive this. Rhaenys met your eyes across the sky, and you saw understanding there, saw gratitude and sorrow mingled together.
The ancient dragon fell from the sky like a mountain given wings, and her roar shook the very air. You saw her jaws open, saw the fire building in her throat, and you knew with terrible certainty what was about to happen.
Vhagar was aiming for Meleys. For Rhaenys. For the Queen Who Never Was, whose death would break Rhaenyra's heart and cripple the Black cause.
You did not think. You simply acted.
"Naejot!" you screamed, and Shadowfyre obeyed, breaking away from Sunfyre and diving toward Meleys. Toward Vhagar's line of fire.
Time seemed to slow. You saw Rhaenys's eyes widen, saw her mouth open to shout a warning. You saw Vhagar's fire erupt, a column of flame so bright it burned your eyes even from a distance. You saw Shadowfyre's wings spread wide, positioning herself between Meleys and death.
In that final moment, you thought of Rhaenyra. Of her smile, of the way she had held you that last night, of the promises you had made and broken. You thought of your mother, and you hoped she would understand someday that you had chosen love over duty, hope over fear, the future over the past.
You thought, I am sorry I could not keep my promise to return.
Then Vhagar's fire took you.
The heat was beyond comprehension, beyond pain. It consumed Shadowfyre in an instant, turning her dark scales to ash, melting flesh from bone. You felt her death through the bond, felt her final surge of love and loyalty, felt her satisfaction that she had saved you from Sunfyre's jaws even if she could not save you from this.
Your own body ignited. The leather of your riding gear, the cloth beneath, your skin, your hair, everything burned. You opened your mouth to scream and inhaled fire, felt it sear your lungs, your throat. The chains holding you to the saddle melted, and you were falling, falling through smoke and ash and the remnants of your dragon.
The world spun. Sky and earth traded places. You saw Meleys pulling away, saw Rhaenys's face twisted in horror, saw Vhagar's massive form blotting out the sun.
You saw Rhaenyra's face, as clearly as if she stood before you. You saw her smile.
Then you saw nothing at all.
Your body struck the ground in the castle courtyard, a broken, burning thing that had once been a woman, a daughter, a lover. Shadowfyre's corpse fell beside you, her wings shattered, her fire extinguished forever.
The battle raged on above, but you were beyond it now, beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond everything but the final, fading thought that you had saved her, that Rhaenys would live to fight another day, that Rhaenyra's cause would survive.
It was enough. It had to be enough.
Rhaenys Targaryen walked through the ashes of Rook's Rest with a heavy heart. Meleys was dead, her beautiful Red Queen broken and burned, and Rhaenys herself had barely escaped with her life. She had been thrown clear when Meleys fell, had crawled from the wreckage as Vhagar and her rider departed, victorious.
But it was not a complete victory for the Greens. Aegon was gravely wounded, perhaps dying. Sunfyre would never fly again. And the castle itself was destroyed, its garrison scattered or dead.
As Rhaenys picked her way through the rubble, searching for survivors, she found instead the dead. So many dead. Burned beyond recognition, most of them, their bodies twisted and blackened.
It was your ring that caught her eye, the silver band with the small emerald that marked you as a daughter of House Hightower. It had somehow survived the flames, though the finger that wore it had not. Rhaenys knelt, her joints protesting, and carefully brushed away the ash.
Your face was gone, burned away, but your size, your build, these things Rhaenys recognized. She had seen you at court, had known you as Alicent's youngest daughter. And she had received your message, the one that had brought her here, the one that had given her the chance to strike at Aegon himself.
"Oh, child," Rhaenys whispered. "What have you done?"
She understood then. The sabotage, the burning tower, the chaos that had prevented the Greens from coordinating their defense. This girl had done that. This girl had betrayed her own family, had given her life to strike a blow for Rhaenyra's cause.
For Rhaenyra herself, Rhaenys suspected.
She had seen the way Rhaenyra looked sometimes, when she thought no one was watching. Had seen the grief that flickered across her face at odd moments. Rhaenys was old, and she was not blind. She knew what love looked like, even love that could not speak its name.
Carefully, with a gentleness that surprised her, Rhaenys gathered what remained of your body. There was not much. The dragonfire had been thorough. But she wrapped the bones and ash in her own cloak, cradling the bundle as she might have cradled a child.
She commandeered a horse from the fleeing Green forces and rode through the night, the precious burden secured before her. By the time she reached the coast and found a ship willing to take her to Dragonstone, dawn was breaking.
Rhaenyra was in the great hall when Rhaenys arrived, surrounded by her council. They were discussing the reports from Rook's Rest, the news of Aegon's injuries, the loss of Meleys. Rhaenyra's face was composed, queenly, but Rhaenys could see the tension in her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes.
"Your Grace," Rhaenys said, and her voice was soft. "I would speak with you. Alone."
Rhaenyra looked up, and something in Rhaenys's expression made her go still. "Leave us," she commanded, and her council filed out, casting curious glances back.
When they were alone, Rhaenys approached the throne and carefully, reverently, laid the wrapped bundle at Rhaenyra's feet.
"What is this?" Rhaenyra asked, but her voice was already shaking. She knew. Somehow, she already knew.
"I found her at Rook's Rest," Rhaenys said quietly. "She was the one who sent me the message, who told me where to strike. She sabotaged the Green defenses from within. She is the reason Aegon fell, the reason we have any victory at all to claim from that battle."
Rhaenyra descended from the throne slowly, as if moving through water. She knelt beside the bundle, her hands hovering over it, not quite touching. "No," she whispered. "No, she was to be safe. She was to stay away."
"She chose this," Rhaenys said. "She chose you."
Rhaenyra's hands finally touched the cloak, pulling it back to reveal what lay within. The bones were small, fragile, barely recognizable as human. But the ring was there, and Rhaenyra took it with trembling fingers, holding it up to the light.
The sound that came from her then was not quite human. It was grief made manifest, a wail of such profound loss that Rhaenys had to look away. Rhaenyra collapsed over the remains, her body shaking with sobs, her carefully maintained composure shattered completely.
"I told her to stay away," Rhaenyra gasped between sobs. "I told her I would find another way. Why did she not listen? Why did she not stay away?"
"Because she loved you," Rhaenys said simply. "Because she loved you more than she feared death."
Rhaenyra gathered the bones to her chest, rocking back and forth, keening. Rhaenys stood watch, giving her queen this moment of private grief, this moment to be not a queen but simply a woman who had lost everything.
"She saved us," Rhaenys said after a long while. "Her sacrifice has given us an advantage we would not otherwise have had. Aegon is broken. Sunfyre is crippled. The Greens are in disarray. She did this for you, Rhaenyra. She gave you a chance to win."
"I do not want to win," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice raw. "Not like this. Not at this cost."
But even as she spoke, Rhaenys saw the change come over her. Saw the grief harden into something else, something colder and more terrible. Rhaenyra's tears stopped, and when she looked up, her eyes were dry and burning with a fury that made Rhaenys take a step back.
"They will pay," Rhaenyra said, her voice soft and deadly. "Alicent, Aemond, all of them. They will pay for what they have done. They took her from me. They will learn what it means to take something I love."
She stood, still cradling the remains, and looked at Rhaenys with eyes that held no mercy. "Prepare the dragons," she said. "All of them. We will burn them from the sky. We will burn them all."
Rhaenys bowed her head, recognizing that something fundamental had shifted in this moment. The Rhaenyra who had sought peace, who had tried to avoid war, was gone. In her place stood a queen who had nothing left to lose, and that made her the most dangerous person in Westeros.
As Rhaenys left the hall, she heard Rhaenyra begin to sing, soft and low, a Valyrian lullaby. She was singing to the bones in her arms, to all that remained of the girl who had loved her enough to betray everything she had ever known.
The Dance of the Dragons would continue, Rhaenys knew. But it would be a different dance now, darker and more vicious. Because Rhaenyra Targaryen had learned what it meant to lose love, and she would make the world burn for it.
In the great hall, alone with her grief, Rhaenyra held you close and whispered promises to your bones. Promises of vengeance, of justice, of a world remade in fire and blood. She would win this war, she swore. She would take the throne that was hers by right.
And she would make sure that your sacrifice meant something.
Even if it meant burning the world to ash.
