"Locked outside of my home, and there's music inside that I don't understand. There is smoke inside but nothing is burning. Perhaps I am the one burning."

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Daenys did not know how she did it. She did not know how she dragged herself out of the water, how she numbly shrugged off her sodden cloak to wrap the remains of her brother and his dragon, and how Floris Baratheon was safely returned to the care of her sisters. Daenys did not know how she did any of these things because, to her knowledge, she hadn't moved at all. Her limbs were mechanical things, the gods puppeteering her with stiff jerky movements, like something so desperately trying to seem human, but was not. 

She wondered briefly, if it would have been better to bury the remains right there in the sand, but that didn't feel right. The sight of him would indeed destroy their mother, but Lucerys Velaryon deserved a proper funeral. He deserved to be sent off to the gods in a manner befitting a true prince. He deserved better.

Daenys did not remember her journey back to Dragonstone, her memory fragmented and disjointed. With a trembling hand, she dared to peel back the edge of her cloak, stealing a furtive glance at her melancholy cargo. A small, forlorn pale hand protruded from the folds of fabric, its fingers tightly clenched into a fist, and a dark leather cord peeked out from between the swollen digits. Summoning all her strength, she swallowed back the bile rising in her throat and forced herself to observe the hand more closely. With painstaking care, she pried apart her brother's cold fingers, revealing the object hidden within—a rusted iron anchor, its surface pitted and worn with age. 

Tucking the anchor into the folds of her cloak, Daenys felt a shudder course through her body, a cold chill that seemed to penetrate her very bones. But despite the discomfort, she refused to dwell on the gruesome reality of her brother's demise. Instead, she focused on the simple act of intertwining her fingers with his, seeking solace in the touch of his cold, clammy hand.

It felt unnatural, this communion with the dead, but she pushed aside her revulsion. She was just a sister, holding her brother's hand, taking him home.

As Silverwing landed on the familiar shores of Dragonstone, the night had fully enveloped the island, casting a blanket of darkness over its ancient stones. The stars glittered overhead, their light dancing upon the surface of the sea, yet despite the beauty of the night, the castle felt terribly empty to Daenys, and she hesitated for a moment, uncertain of where to turn.

Reluctantly, she began to make her way through the silent halls, wandering a little aimlessly as her footsteps echoed in the stillness of the night. And there he was, Ser Atticus, her loyal shield, his figure illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Relief flooded through her, nearly overwhelming her senses. She wanted to run to him, to throw herself into his arms and never let go.

But she held back, composed. Ser Atticus stopped before her, his eyes respectfully avoiding hers, yet she could sense the concern and empathy radiating from him.

"Princess," he bowed his head when he greeted her. He reached out, hesitating for a moment before placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

They stood there in silence for a few moments, the weight of their shared grief hanging heavy in the air. Finally, Daenys found her voice, her words choked with emotion.

"How... how did you escape?" 

The brunette knight let out a mirthless chuckle, a bitter edge to his tone. "I still have friends amongst the guards of the Red Keep," he explained. "When I heard of your escape, which was very daring, might I add, I made swift plans to return. My place is by your side, princess."

Daenys nodded. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

But Ser Atticus shook his head, his expression pained, "I have done nothing worth your gratitude. I should have helped you escape from King's Landing. I failed you."

Daenys reached out, gently grasping his hand in hers. "No," she said firmly, her voice steady despite the lump in her throat. "Thank you for staying alive. Thank you for returning."

Thank you for not adding another body to my conscience.

Ser Atticus's gentle voice broke the heavy silence, a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. "Have you forgotten your way around your own home?"

She might as well have, in a home that no longer felt like home. She was a stranger, locked out of time. Stuck in a past where laughter still echoed, stuck in a future where only ghosts remained. She did not belong here anymore, but then again she didn't really belong anywhere. The realm of the living was no place for the guilty. The very stone walls seemed different, although perhaps that could be attributed to her failing vision. 

Her home wasn't her home anymore. Something had gone wrong along the way and she didn't know how to fix it. 

The princess managed a small, rueful smile, "Perhaps. It has been... a trying time."

"Indeed."

"And... my mother? Where is she?"

"In the great hall, attending to matters of state."

"At this hour? She should be resting."

"The Queen pushes herself to ensure peace of the realm. She does us all a great service, and has made great sacrifices."

Oh. 

Then, his expression brightened with a glimmer of hope as he continued, "And there is more good news. Prince Jacaerys and Lady Baela have arrived from Winterfell. They bear news of Lord Cregan Stark's alliance."

Daenys felt a prickle of shame. Her siblings had always been more responsible, and here she was, only existing as a harbinger of grief. 

"Thank you for informing me."

"Of course, Princess," he tipped his head again. "I shall let you return to your task then."

Daenys left him in the corridor and made her way toward the great hall, already able to hear the faint murmur of voices emanating from inside.  

She pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into the warmth of the room, her single eye blinking against the sudden brightness. Before she had a chance to take in her surroundings, a figure flew into her arms, catching her off guard. 

It was Baela. 

Daenys was engulfed in her embrace, the familiar scent of her sister's hair washing over her like a wave. Baela squeezed her tightly, her arms wrapping around her waist with such force that it almost hurt, but it was a welcome pain, a reminder that there were still those who would hold her together. 

"You're here," Baela breathed, a sigh and a lament. "You're really here."

Daenys allowed herself to be held, her own arms still folded in front of her, trapped between their embrace so she couldn't return the hug. She felt a lump form in her throat as tears threatened to spill again.

"Yes. I'm here."

"Oh, you're sodden," Baela remarked, pulling back slightly to take in Daenys's damp clothes. "I wasn't aware it was raining."

"It wasn't."

"Oh."

Jace and Joffrey were there too, and Daenys's heart clenched to see them all in one place. All except one. Joffrey stood by Rhaenyra's side, and he sent her a solemn wave, one she did not return. Jace on the other hand was cradled in their mother's arms, her tender kisses peppering his forehead, each one a silent prayer of gratitude for the return of her children, and when she finally released him, her eyes glistening with tears, she turned to Baela, drawing her into a tight embrace.

"Thank the gods you're both safe," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what I would have done if anything had happened to you."

Baela sniffed, her fingers tracing comforting circles on Rhaenyra's back.

"We're here, my Queen," she whispered, her voice soft but steady. "We're both here."

Meanwhile, Jace remained conspicuously silent, his gaze fixed on the floor as if unable to meet anyone's eye. Daenys's heart sank as she watched him, her stomach churning with a sickening mix of guilt and despair. Despite her best efforts to catch his gaze, he seemed determined to avoid her, turning his face away whenever she drew near.

He hated her then. He was so repulsed by the sight of her, that he could not even bear to look at her. There could be no other explanation. He hated her for not being able to save their brother, for being married to his killer. A wave of nausea washed over Daenys as she imagined the depths of Jace's resentment, the depths of his loathing for her. Perhaps he wished that she had been the one to never return, that she had been the one to have died instead of Luke. If only he would meet her eye, he would see the same truth etched into the lines of her face. 

She too wished she had been the one to have died. 

But he refused to look at her, so he remained unaware. 

When Rhaenyra's gaze landed on Daenys, her eyes widened with concern as she took in her daughter's dishevelled appearance.  "Daenys, my dear, are you alright?" she asked, her voice soft with worry.

The princess blinked, her thoughts momentarily scattered as she struggled to find her voice. "I'm fine, Mother," she managed to murmur, forcing a small smile onto her lips. But her words felt hollow, a feeble attempt to mask the tumult raging within her.

"You should have put on your cloak," Rhaenyra frowned, chiding her gently. "It's so cold out tonight."

Daenys froze, her heart skipping a beat as she clutched the bundle tightly to her chest. She had held it so carefully, so protectively, that it had become an extension of her own body. 

"Don't tell me you've somehow brought home a child," Baela joked, her voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade. She offered a tight smile, a desperate attempt to lighten the mood with her jest.

But Daenys couldn't find it in herself to respond, her throat constricted with the weight of her unspoken truth. Instead, she wordlessly approached her mother, her movements slow and deliberate.

"What is it, Daenys?"

She couldn't bring herself to say the words aloud, to speak the cursed truth into existence. And so, with trembling hands, she wordlessly extended the bundle to her mother, that Rhaenyra took with the same gentle reverence with which it was handed to her. She felt a pang of curiosity mingled with apprehension as she wondered what kind of treasure Daenys had brought home that warranted such solemnity.

Mimicking her daughter's delicate touch, she carefully began to unwrap the bundle, and as the fabric fell away, revealing the truth hidden within, the colour drained from her face, her breath catching in her throat.

The stench hit first and it was a smell she knew all too well, the sickening scent of death and decay, permeating the air with its putrid embrace. The pungent odour hung heavy in the air, suffocating in its intensity, the very essence of fragile mortality.

For a moment, Rhaenyra could do nothing but stare in disbelief at the gruesome sight before her. Her hands trembled as she reached out to touch the cold, lifeless form nestled within the folds of fabric, her fingers recoiling instinctively at the touch of death.

And then, as the truth of what lay before her sank in, her world shattered into a million pieces. With a strangled cry of anguish, she dropped the package, taking three hasty steps backward as if to distance herself from the horror of her own reality. She collapsed to the ground with a wail, her body trembling with sobs as she crumpled beneath the weight of her sorrow. 

Baela was there in an instant, her strong arms encircling her trembling form, guiding her gently to the floor. Kneeling beside Rhaenyra, she wrapped her arms around her as her stepmother grappled at her arms with the intensity of a drowning person grasping for an anchor. 

"No, no, no," she whispered hoarsely, her voice choked with tears. "Tell me it is not what I think it is. What I know it to be."

"I'm sorry, Mother," Daenys whispered, her voice barely audible above the cacophony of Rhaenyra's wails. "I'm so sorry."

But her words fell on deaf ears as Rhaenyra's laments grew louder, echoing through the halls of Dragonstone. 

"When there was no body, I had..."

She had what?

She couldn't even form coherent thoughts anymore. Rhaenyra Targaryen had clung to the belief that her sweet boy had somehow survived. She had prayed for it. She had never been a woman of prayer, or religion for that matter, but she had lit the candles and spent hours on her knees, begging, pleading. She had beseeched every single god she knew of, and some perhaps she even made up, a desperate scream into the heavens for someone, anyone to listen. 

All because of that most insidious of emotions. Hope. 

She had hoped that Lucerys would wash up on some sandy shore, injured perhaps, but whole and alive. That somehow, however long it took him, he would find his way back to her because she was his mother and he was hers. 

Baela cradled her in her lap and smoothed the hair back from her forehead. She didn't know what to say. No one knew what to say. Jace held his hand up to his face, fingers splayed against his nose and mouth, perhaps to keep out the scent of rot, or perhaps to hold his mask in place lest it shatter. 

There was nothing to say or do. No way to make this better or more bearable. Daenys kept whispering apologies, murmured so softly she doubted anyone even heard her. She didn't even know what it was she was apologizing for. There was so much after all. An apology for not being able to protect Luke, for not saving him, for not being there, for being married to a kinslayer, for loving a kinslayer, for not slitting Aemond's throat the moment she heard the news. There weren't enough apologies in all the Seven Kingdoms to atone for everything. 

None of them noticed as Joffrey cautiously stepped toward the twisted form spilled across the floor, not until they heard his sharp intake of breath, his eyes wide with horror. This is what jolted Daenys out of her stupor, her instincts kicking into overdrive as she surged forward, desperate to shield him from the harrowing truth. With a quickness born of desperation, she reached out, her hands closing over Joffrey's eyes, blocking out the sight before him. She dragged him backward, putting distance between them and Luke's remains. 

Perhaps in some deluded sense, she imagined she could protect one brother's innocence when she had utterly failed to do so for the other. 

She felt Joffrey's body stiffen beneath her touch, his muscles tensing with confusion and fear. "What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice tinged with panic as he struggled against her grasp.

"Perhaps you should leave—"

But Joffrey refused to be placated, his resolve hardening as he fought to break free from her grasp. 

"Is that Luke? Is that my brother? Is he truly dead?"

His only response was his mother's wailing. 

"I heard them talking, you know," The youngest Velaryon confessed, his voice trembling with emotion. "Mother told Luke that his journey would be short... but then he didn't return. It had been days, and he didn't return... but I didn't think that he..."

His words trailed off into a choked sob, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides in a futile attempt to quell the storm raging within him. Daenys watched in silent anguish, her heart breaking at the sight of her brother's pain, knowing that she was the cause of it all.

With a violent swat, Joffrey knocked her hand away from his face, shoving her aside with a force that sent her stumbling backward. The fire in his eyes burned bright with a ferocity that she had never seen before—a primal rage that threatened to consume him whole.

"I swear upon the gods," Joffrey proclaimed, his voice ringing out with a fervour that bordered on madness. "I will avenge him. I will go there right this moment and burn them all. I will cut the kinslayer's heart out and feed it to him!"

His words were laced with venom, each syllable dripping with the promise of retribution as he swore terrible oaths in his rage. He was already moving toward the exit, his steps fueled by a single-minded determination as if he intended to mount his dragon right at that moment and fly to King's Landing to confront their enemies head-on.

Daenys stretched out her arm, her fingers grasping desperately at her brother's hand in a futile attempt to restrain him. But he pulled against her with violent force, as he fought to wrestle himself free from her grasp.

"Please, Joff. Please stop."

"No! You don't get to tell me what to do! You just want to protect them, don't you? Has being married to a monster shifted your loyalties sister? Will you still defend the man who murdered our brother?"

Daenys flinched as if he had slapped her. He might as well have. It would have hurt less. 

"What is going on here?"

A sudden voice broke through the chaos, and revealed the stern form of Lord Corlys Velaryon, leaning heavily on his cane. He was followed closely by Princess Rhaenys, their presence a welcome relief.

Rhaenys's keen eyes swiftly took in the scene before her, her expression shifting from confusion to concern as she assessed the situation at hand and took charge. She took Joffrey's hand from Daenys's, and knelt before him, pulling him into her comforting embrace. The young boy thrashed and fought against her, his rage still burning bright within him, but Rhaenys held firm, her arms encircling him with a protective warmth.

He continued to mutter about bloodshed and violence, his words a bitter echo of the pain that consumed him, but gradually, as Rhaenys whispered soothing words of comfort, his struggles began to subside. He buried his face into her shoulder, his sobs wracking his body as the weight of his grief threatened to overwhelm him.

Rhaenys brushed her hands through his hair, her touch gentle and reassuring as she sought to calm the storm raging within him. And when he had quieted down, she wiped the tears from his eyes and pressed a kiss to his temple.

"There will be no more of that, young prince," she said softly, her voice tinged with a sternness that brooked no argument. "You must have patience. You may have your vengeance in due time, but charging there in the heat of the moment will only result in more death."

She paused, her gaze locking with Joffrey's. "Look at your mother," she continued, casting a glance at Rhaenyra. "She wouldn't want to lose you too."

Lord Corlys on the other hand made to help Baela support Rhaenyra, his touch a silent gesture of solidarity in their shared grief. Together, they guided her to a nearby chair, where she sank with a weary sigh. Though her sobs had subsided, her shoulders still shook with the aftershocks of her despair.

Turning his attention to Daenys, Lord Corlys's expression softened with understanding as he sought an explanation. His granddaughter wordlessly withdrew the rusted anchor from her pocket, handing it to him silently, and his sigh was heavy with resignation as he accepted the object, his fingers tracing the rough surface of the leather cord.

He had hoped that his grandson would return the anchor to him personally, but it seemed that fate had other plans. In his melancholy, Lord Corlys was reminded of a conversation he had shared with Luke during Laena's funeral. 

If I'm the Lord of Driftmark, it means everyone's dead.

What an innocent lad. 

Over the years, Lord Corlys had tried his best to foster some confidence in him, encouraging his ideas and thoughts to prepare him for his birthright, but all of it had been for naught, and now, as he held the rusted anchor in his hands, Lord Corlys couldn't help but feel a pang of regret for all that had been lost. It seemed as though loss followed him everywhere, and nothing he did made any difference. 

"Is there to be a funeral then? In the tradition of House Velaryon?" he finally spoke. 

Lucerys was his. A Velaryon by name, and thus in every sense that mattered. 

Everyone turned to look at him, and he sensed their hesitation. 

"He was a Velaryon. To the sea, he belongs and to the sea he should return to," Lord Corlys frowned.

He belonged to us, and should have returned to us. 

"Let what is left of him be cremated, in the custom of House Targaryen," Rhaenys placated. "The sea has already claimed much of him."

"Very well. It will be as you say. He always had been a boy of both fire and sea."

He caressed Baela's face and thumbed away her tears. Meanwhile, it was Jace who finally mustered the resolve to pick up his brother's remains, carefully wrapping them up in the dark damp cloak he had arrived in. He would be warm soon enough, freed from the cold. 

"A raven has arrived for the Queen. From Prince Consort Daemon."

Maester Gerardys stood at the door, his expression grim, and when he handed the scrap of paper to her, Rhaenyra stood. She scanned the words briefly and then went over them once again. Wordlessly, she handed the message to Baela and strode out of the room, the contents of Daemon's message giving her resolve. 

"There will be a funeral on the morrow, and then there are preparations to be made. I mean to fight this war and win it."

Only when she left did Baela read her father's message out loud, cementing his solemn oath/ 

"An eye for an eye, a son for a son. Lucerys shall be avenged."

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A/N: lol sorry for the delay in this chapter, school's just been super busy. also i got into Medici lol so I've been lowkey distracted. but hope yall enjoy the chapter!

As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/predictions/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged!