The morning sun streams through the stained glass windows of Dragonstone's great hall, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the cold stone floor. Vaemyra stands at the head of the long, oak table, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns carved into its surface. The hall is empty save for her and the echoes of her thoughts. Her mind is a whirlwind, but in the eye of the storm, one belief remains steadfast: she is the Princess That Was Promised.

Vaemyra's eyes are alight with fervor as she gazes at the ancient Valyrian scrolls spread out before her. She has pored over them countless times, the faded ink and delicate parchment almost imprinted on her mind. The histories of Old Valyria speak of great dragonlords and their conquests, but Vaemyra sees beyond the words to a destiny she believes is written in the stars.

In her disillusioned mind, the prophecies are clear. She is unburnt, emerging unscathed from the flames that should have consumed her. She commanded three dragons, not divided among siblings or spouses, but bound to her alone. The memory of her fallen son and Rhaeyn's tragic death still linger, but they are overshadowed by her conviction. She is the mother of dragons, and that makes her greater than Aegon the Conqueror. He needed his sister wives to control his three dragons, but Vaemyra had all three as her own.

Vaemyra's hand clenches into a fist as she stops before the great map table, her eyes tracing the outline of Westeros. She can almost see the banners bearing her sigil flying over the great cities, the people bowing to their true queen. The idea fills her with a fervent determination, a need that burns hotter than any dragon's flame. She leans over the table, her fingers brushing over King's Landing, imagining the Iron Throne beneath her.

The room is silent except for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Vaemyra's thoughts turn to her family, the ones she still holds dear in the shrinking warmth of her heart. Aemond, Helaena, Rhaenyra, and Daemon—they are the last vestiges of her humanity, the threads that still tether her to the past. But even they cannot stand in her way. The throne is her destiny, and she cannot allow anyone to divert her from the path she believes the gods have laid before her.

Her relationship with Jace is another matter entirely. The resentment between them has festered like an untreated wound. His doubt fuels her own pettiness, driving a deeper wedge between them.

His disdain is a constant reminder that not everyone understands her greatness, her rightful claim to the throne. But she does not need their understanding; she only needs their obedience.

Vaemyra straightens, her reflection in the polished surface of the table showing a woman driven by purpose and prophecy. She is alone in her convictions, but she wears her belief like armor. It is this unwavering faith that propels her forward, that makes her ignore the whispers of madness and the creeping coldness in her heart.

The distant roar of a dragon pulls her from her thoughts. She moves to the window, looking out over the courtyard where Drea and Freya lounge. The sight of them fills her with a fierce pride. They are her children, her proof of divinity. She is their mother, their queen. Together, they are unstoppable.

As she watches them, she recalls the ancient prophecies, the fragments of history she has painstakingly pieced together. The tales of Azor Ahai, the hero who would wield the flaming sword and drive back the darkness. The Long Night, a story she has heard but not fully grasped. None of it matters in her mind. She does not need to understand the details; she only needs to believe that she is the chosen one. Her dragons are her sword, her fire. She is the light in the darkness.

Her hand tightens on the window ledge, the cool stone grounding her in her determination. She will not be swayed by logic or reason. The throne is her birthright, her destiny. Each day brings her closer to the moment when she will reveal her intentions, when she will claim what is hers. Her heart, once warm and full of love, has grown cold and hard. It beats with a singular purpose: to see her rightful place as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

The moon casts an eerie glow over Dragonstone, its silver light reflecting off the dark waters surrounding the ancient fortress. Vaemyra walks through the corridors, her footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls. Her mind is a tempest of thoughts, a maelstrom of ambition and prophecy, mingled with the memories of blood and death. She knows she is destined for greatness, but the path to the throne is paved with corpses.

Her hands, delicate and pale, are stained with the blood of many. The faces of her victims blur together in her mind, a macabre thread of death that she no longer cares to unravel. Men and women alike have fallen to her wrath, their lives snuffed out like candles in a storm. She feels no remorse, no sorrow for the lives she has taken. They were merely obstacles in her path, and she swept them aside with the cold efficiency of a queen who knows her destiny.

Vaemyra turns a corner, her eyes catching the glint of moonlight on steel. A sword, its blade stained with blood, rests against the wall. She picks it up, the weight of the weapon unfamiliar in her hands. She has no formal training, no mastery of the sword, but she does not need it. Her dragons are her strength, her power. When the time comes, she will unleash them upon her enemies, and they will burn the world to ash.

She runs her fingers along the blade, feeling the cold metal against her skin. She remembers the whore—Clarice, Charlotte, Chloe, Cleo? The name is lost to her now, a meaningless whisper in the wind. The woman had been sent to spy on her, to pry into her secrets. Vaemyra had dealt with her swiftly, without hesitation. The memory of the woman's screams as she burned is a distant echo, a ghost of a sound that no longer haunts her.

She walks through the castle, her footsteps echoing in the silence. The faces of the men and women she has killed flash before her eyes, but they are mere shadows, inconsequential in the grand scheme of her destiny. She has grown less empathetic to the lives of men, seeing them as the creators of a horrible world. Why should she care if they live or die? And though she is a woman, she is not above killing other women. Her enemies are many, but they are all obstacles to be removed, nothing more.

Baela stands with her betrothed at the end of the painted table, speaking to a council that has consumed more than their fair share of wine," Ser Criston Cole's host has taken to exploiting the tree cover to conceal its movements. He now only travels by night to confound our dragons."

" And what is Cole's heading?" Lord Bartimos asks.

" It is difficult to say, but there were signs of an army moving northwest, I believe."

" You should've burned them when you had the chance," Ser Alfred Broome utters.

" Perhaps you can, Ser Alfred, when you next sight them on your dragon."

Vaemyra can only give a slight chuckle. She loathes the fact that Rhaenyra has entrusted a child to be doing what she herself should be. Vaemyra has a dragon that blends into the clouds and a dragon that moves as silent as a shadow.

Yet Moondancer is the one chasing Ser Criston Cole.

" The only reason we know any of this is because of Baela's efforts," Jace says.

" What do we know, my prince?" Lord Bartimos asks," If you ask me, it is little and less.

" We know that Cole possesses a host that is growing in strength and that it is a problem," Rhaenys says as she stands at the head of the table

" Can Daemon hope to meet itcwith his own in time?" Lord Gorman asks," And if I know the Riverlands, he has more disentangling ahead of him than the end of a Lyseni orgy."

" Have you heard word from your father?" Ser Bartimos asks.

Baela hesitates to answer, suddenly feelings very uncomfortable under the gaze of the judgmental men," No."

" Ravens were sent to Harrenhal seeking news of Daemon's progress with the Riverlords," The maester says," None have, as yet, returned."

" Just so," Ser Alfred utters," An enemy host, growing in constitution, marches somewhere in the vastness of the Crownlands. We could, perhaps, act if only we had a host of our own. Or someone here to lead us. Perhaps the Queen's own sister would be better than an empty chair.

Only then is Vaemyra's attention truly caught.

" Mind your tongue, Ser Alfred," Jace utters.

" Does it speak falsely, my prince? This council is rudderless," Ser Alfred says.

" I'm doing my best to steer it, Ser Alfred," Rhaenys speaks.

" Why should your voice be any louder than ours, Princess? The queen did not name you Hand. It is her voice, and that of the king consort, that we need to raise alliances and command our vassals. But they are gone."

" What has come of this council?" Corlys questions, his voice commanding respect as he makes his entrance," Our enemy is on the march. Is there naught to be done in the absence of the queen, but to grouse and claw for power?"

" We do not know the queen's doings," Rhaenys continues," But we must trust that she seeks the same as each of us at this table. An end to this conflict."

Vaemyra sits and considers his words, her eyes gazing down at the painted table before her," An end to this conflict can only be fire and blood."

" Fire and blood is not the only option, Princess," Corlys says.

" Isn't it?" Vaemyra asks, finally lifting her head to meet his gaze," The Greens have the Red Keep, they have all of King's Landing and many houses behind them. They have the largest dragon in the realm in their clutch and you assume this conflict can be ended by anything but?"

A silence falls over the room, as though Jace agrees with her words, he refuses to show any support for his aunt. Vaemyra stands up, her glossy silver hair cascading down her back as she addresses the room," If the Queen does not return by week's end, then we can only assume that she is lost to us all," her eyes flicker over to Jace," And then we must consider our options."

" Options for what?"

" Whom will take her place as Queen."

And across the bay, the Green Council is finding themselves in the exact opposite circumstance. The king's seat is filled, but the council wishes it wasn't.

" The two of you have been plotting... without my authority?" Aegon asks, staring in disbelief at his brother at the end of the table.

But Aemond replies in a language much more beautiful than the Common Tongue, a language of which he is an expert and his brother is simply a beginner, " Ēdā tolī naejot naejot.Hae aōha, se naejot īlva dāryssy.  Gaomagon emā iā kȳvanon, ñuha dārys? lo sīr, ao elēni ziry naejot aōha.  Īlon aōha udligon."

One by one, the heads turn to the King.

" Kostan emagon naejot mazverdagon iā.... vīlībāzma?" Aegon says, though thoroughly unsure of himself.

The shit-eating grin on Aemond's face is one that won't be wiped off easily, especially when the thing he wants is even closer than ever before," Harrenhal is a useful morass. It will keep Daemon well-occupied while we strengthen our host and weaken Rhaenyra's support on the mainland. We will deal with it in the Riverlands in time. But right now. Rook's Rest is an easy target and a worthy effort. Don't you agree, my king?"

Aegon looks around the room, his eyes nervously flickering as he tries to say something smart," Vaemyra--"

" Is most likely being counseled not to act by her sister," Aemond utters before his brother has the chance to finish," She has two dragons, yes. The other was found dead in the pit, slain with a mother's kindness. Vaemyra is not unlike Daemon, but so long as Vaemyra holds any love for Rhaenyra... there is no need to worry."

Aegon gulps as he tries to straighten up," She tried to kill me."

" Tried," Aemond nods.

" I'll have her hanged for treason."

Aemond stares with his one good eye, staring down at his brother, the man unfit to be king," Good luck."

The Prince, or rather, King Consort currently occupying Harrenhal falls into another dream-like state again, where his dreams and his waking hours mingle together till he cannot figure out which one is which. He stalks through the castle at night, chasing a figure that bears his resemblance but not his clothes, and ends up finding the witch of Harrenhal.

Alys Rivers.

" So what are you then? Some kind of maester?" Daemon asks.

" In a manner of speaking," Alys shrugs," I inherited the duties after the last one fled in the night."

" Fled? Why?" The Targaryen questions.

" Just never settled in," The bastard chuckles," How are you settling in?"

" I've come to know the face of tortured rest well enough."

" Sleep can be... thin in this place."

" What would you know of my sleep?"

" Harrenhal's been cursed since its first stone was laid. Black Harren felled the grove of weirwood trees that grew on these lands. Heart trees, imbued with the spirits of those who lived long before he came. It's said their whispers can still be heard sometimes."

" A midwife's tale," Daemon brushes off.

" Mm, the very bed you sleep in was made from such a heart tree," Alys adds," Have you experienced anything... of note?"

" You are a strange kind of woman," The Targaryen utters.

" I'm no woman at all," The bastard corrects," I'm a barn owl. Cursed to live in human form. So, you've come here after quarreling with your wife?"

" What?"

" You arrive here alone to claim the castle and yet, send no ravens. Do you now plan to make your own claim? Perhaps to prove yourself to her."

" Do not try me with your insolence, witch."

" It's a hard thing, I imagine, to give obeisance to one who replaced you as heir. And a woman too. A... girl child you bounced on your knee. I mean, does it please you that her legitimacy is contested? As you stand here... with a castle and a dragon... attempting to draw an army of men."

The one who replaced him as heir finally returns to Dragonstone, entering the Great Hall where the painted table lays, rejoining her council after days of her absence.

" Where have you been, these last days?" Jace asks, his temper rising as he rests his hands on his sword," You vanished without so much as a word."

" Well, I apologize for my absence and the secrecy, but such was necessary," Rhaenyra says," I went to King's Landing."

" To what possible end?"

" To meet Queen Alicent and sue for peace."

" You could've been taken or slain!"

" I inherited 80 years of peace from my father. Before I was to end it, I needed to know that there was no other path. And now I do. Only one choice remains to me: either I win my claim or die."

" Cole's victories have only emboldened him," Rhaenys says, being the Hand in all but name," He marches on Rook's Rest. His host was just hours away when Lord Staunton's ravens took wing.

" Why Rook's Rest? After Duskendale?" The Queen asks, failing to see the significance," It is but a small coastal keep."

" Cause Lord Staunton is a member of this council," Ser Alfred suggests, "And because his castle is small and vulnerable and there for the taking. Cole knows we have no army on the mainland.

" He is brazen," Lord Bartimos says," He is daring us to act. We need to send a dragon."

A silence falls over the room and all eyes remain on the Queen, all ears listening and all minds waiting.

" There are those who have mistaken my caution for weakness," Rhaenyra utters as she stands tall," Let that be their undoing."

Naturally, Jace is the first to bring up his name suggesting that is is him who should go face first into war, but only one name is truly considered.

" You must send me, Your Grace," Rhaenys says," Meleys is your fastest dragon and no stranger to battle. I will meet Cole."

Without so much of a word of protest, Rhaenyra gives Rhaenys a simple not, and that's all it takes for The Queen Who Never Was to prepare for war.

" I have two dragons," Vaemyra utters, her voice shrill as she approaches her sister," One of which is Balerion's sister. I should be sent--"

" Rhaenys and Meleys have that battle experience that neither you nor Drea and Freya possess," Rhaenya says, her voice strong and unyielding," You and your dragons have a great strength, and for your loyalty I am grateful, but if I am to send someone to the battlefield on dragonback, it would be Rhaenys."

Vaemyra's nostrils flare as she stares at her sister, suddenly feeling the same agitation as her nephew, unable to feel useful. Rhaenyra looks into her sister's eyes and sees nothing but fire, nothing but rage, anger... madness.

Rhaenyra's brows furrow, both out of concern and fear. She knows that her sister has the unfortunate trait that runs through their family, but this is the first day that she sees something different.

As though Rhaenyra can see the reflection of the Iron Throne in Vaemyra's eyes.

Alas, the Battle of Rook's rest is a chaotic nightmare that propels the realm into dragon war far The battle is the first time any of the soldiers see true dragon war with their own eyes, and it makes them feel small and insignificant, the same way the rats in the Red Keep must feel. Unfortunately, Ser Criston awakens, still wobbly and woozy from his injuries. He looks across the burning and char-filled battlefield, attempting to touch a bannerman, only to find nothing but ash inside of the armor. The small coastal keeps now belong to the Greens, the fallen body of the Red Queen having officially broken the barrier and allowing the soldiers to flood inside.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was has died a dragon riders death.

But the king lays with his dragon, burned and hardly breathing, a sad excuse for living as he merely exists with Sunfyre's tail wrapped around him. And if it wasn't for Ser Criston's intervention, Prince Aemond would have both burned his brother alive and ended his life that same day.

Instead, the king lives, barely and painfully, whilst Prince Aemond Targaryen walks away from the battlefield with both Blackfyre and the Valyrian steel dagger that holds the prophecy King Viserys only shared with his one true heir.

Rhaenyra.

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