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CHAPTER ONE

A KING'S REQUEST

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THE SIGHT OF WHITE AND GOLD sent a shock of fear through her.

There were only two reasons for a Gold Cloak and a Kingsguard to approach a commoner in the middle of the streets of King's Landing and neither were good.

Reyna's heart jumped into her throat as a man she recognized as Ser Rickard Thorne approached her with the hulking silhouette everyone in Flea Bottom had learned to avoid.

His name was Eryth.

Reyna had heard horror stories from every whore, tavern keep, and merchant from across the city, all saying the exact same thing.

He beat a whore so badly she never returned to work.

He threatened to take my cock unless I promised him free drink.

All I asked was for my wares to be returned, he took the thief's head instead.

A vicious, savage man, the only person more feared was Prince Daemon himself, and now he was headed directly towards her.

She knew better than to run.

She only hoped her mother and Ivy were there to greet her when the light of her candle was snuffed out.

"Good day, Sers," Reyna dipped into a small curtsey, eyes pinned to the ground, trying not to look either of them in the eye.

The hilt of their swords gleamed in the bright sunlight. She wondered if the glint of steel would be the last thing she ever saw.

"You've been summoned to the Red Keep." Ser Rickard was an older man of age with Ser Harrold Westerling, his black hair streaked with grey and cut tight against his head. It almost matched the silver of the Kingsguard armor. "We've come to see you there safely."

Reyna furrowed her brow.

"I no longer work for the Red Keep," She corrected, the gold in her pockets still weighing her skirts down. "The Queen released me after the coronation."

The news had come through the silver haired messenger boy, a scroll written in fine, cramped handwriting thanking her for her leal service and releasing her of it following the events of the dragonpit.

"Did you hear us, girl?"

It was the first time she'd heard the Gold Cloak speak, voice forceful and grating as he grasped tight to the hilt of his sword.

Reyna took a step back, knot tightening in her throat.

Ser Rickard held out his hand to stop the giant of a man, disapproval wrought into his face. He turned toward Reyna, features shifting into something more sympathetic.

He'd known her for as long as she'd been serving Princess Helaena and always had a smile and a kind word for her. It was he and Lord Commander Westerling who'd always treated her with a kindness most of the Kingsguard lacked, stopping by the kitchens to discuss history and adventures across the continent or inviting her into the White Sword Tower to give her a tour.

She wondered where Ser Harrold was now.

He'd been dismissed the same time she had.

Her eyes flickered toward the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, where fishmongers were bringing in their fresh catches and selling them for a copper star each, the cheapest prices in King's Landing bar none.

The ship the Queen arranged for her sat tied to a dock bearing no sigils, just the white sails of a trade ship bound to Oldtown before stopping at Starfall.

"The order does not come from the Queen, m'lady," Ser Rickard spoke solemnly, as if he'd regretted the task he'd been given.

Her stomach dropped at his words.

If the Queen was no longer giving the orders, that meant the summons came only from one person.

A face of silver hair appeared in her mind and her skin erupted into goosebumps, feeling her own heartbeat accelerate at the thought of appearing before it.

She wondered what would happen to her if she refused.

The lump in her throat refused to disappear even as she tried to swallow it.

"Then I am honored," She pushed through gritted teeth, speaking the honeyed words she'd learned from watching the nobles at court. Too many times she'd seen tongues taken and bodies beaten for speaking the wrong words in the wrong way.

She did not know if King Aegon would be any different than the sour, spiteful and irritable prince she'd come across half asleep in his cups, but she supposed she would now find out.

Perhaps the crown had given him a sense of purpose. Or perhaps it had exacerbated the madness that already existed within.

What was the saying?

When a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin and the world holds its breath to see where it lands.

She thought it'd first come into being when Maegor the Cruel killed his own nephew in the battle of the God's Eye, but others thought it originated even further back in the Century of Blood.

When Daenys the dreamer took to Balerion and rode to Dragonstone to wait out the Doom of Valyria, her brother Gaemon only following when his father Aenar demanded he listen or die screaming in the flames.

At least, that was the story told amongst the merchants and smallfolk in Essos, the story her mother had told her many a time to lull her to sleep.

Which one King Aegon proved to be would be answered long after she was gone.

The walk from the docks to the Red Keep was one she had taken many times before when sent to fetch fish and porters for Mariel and Cicely.

But the walk from the Great Hall to the King's chambers was one she had only made a few times.

King Viserys had been an exceedingly private man, a trait which had grown more prevalent the sicker he'd gotten.

Now Aegon resided in those chambers, with his wife and sister a few doors down in the former chambers of Queen Alicent.

Eryth had been left behind in Flea Bottom, and Reyna found herself flanked by Ser Rickard and Ser Arryk, the only two Kingsguard knights left from the reign of King Viserys.

Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon were on Dragonstone with the other half of the royal family, while Ser Erryk had disappeared following the coronation.

The bronze doors stretched above her, the visage of the three heads of the dragon sending a chill down her spine.

Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes on one side, Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys on the other.

It was meant to be intimidating, the wrought iron handles built to resemble the bodies of the wyrms they rode, obsidian lining the doors with the history of House Targaryen engraved across the frames.

They opened up into an expansive room draped in red and black.

Although she could see most of it had been removed, green and gold rising to take its place.

"Your Grace," Ser Rickard Thorne obscured her vision, but she could still see the old King's model of Valyria.

It had remained untouched.

"Your guest has arrived."

Ser Rickard stepped aside, revealing a very drunk prince with the Conqueror's crown tipped to one side on his head, a cup of wine in one hand and an unsheathed Blackfyre in the other. He stood by one of the hearths, the fire already burning out.

"Ah! There she is," Aegon hiccuped, a cruel smile spreading across his face, something dancing in his lilac eyes. "The Savior of the Realm, the Kingmaker ! The great Reyna of Starfall." His bow mocked her, treating her like a lady of the realm when she was anything but. It was a jape she knew well, but hearing it from a King didn't make it hurt any less.

He held out his goblet, lips curling into a smirk.

"Drink with me."

The door shut behind her.

She thought she saw a bout of regret cross Ser Rickard's face.

Ser Arryk didn't even give her a glance.

Her heart plunged into her stomach.

"I am not thirsty, Your Grace," She spoke with an even tone, betraying nothing as she stood stone faced by the door, hands clasped behind her back.

Aegon laughed, "I did not offer you water," He placed his goblet down and poured another glass, the wine a deep scarlet.

She wrinkled her nose as the scent of the arbor wafted past her.

"I am a King now, and you put me on the throne," He held the glass out toward her, Blackfyre dangling carelessly at his side, rubies glittering in the sunlight. "You deserve a celebration. Drink."

It was not a request.

His eyes scanned her figure.

The smart thing would have been to grab the goblet and drown her sorrows with him.

To sink into her cups and let the pain which had been lingering in her chest overtake her.

It would appease the king and it would allow her to wallow once more.

The way she had every night since the Dragonpit.

There were rumblings amongst the smallfolk of justice being denied.

For if Princess Rhaenys could kill hundreds and go unscathed, what would Rhaenyra bring down upon them?

There were a few beggar brothers who'd come to see the dragon as an omen. A punishment from the gods for crowning the wrong king. But it was Brother Lazarus who spoke louder than them all, preaching death to dragons and a restoration of the faith of the seven.

Most of the people agreed with him.

He cared little for omens and Targaryen dreams. People had been killed and he, like most of King's Landing, was angry.

If there was any doubt the smallfolk had about their new King, it was extinguished when Meleys erupted and killed hundreds in wanton destruction.

Yes, it would have been smart to join the Prince in his revelry.

But she was in no mood for it.

"No."

His face dropped, lilac hardening into stone, "No?"

She felt the cold grip of Valyrian steel against her neck.

"I could have you killed for defying me." His face was stone but his voice wavered. The way it had the morning he disappeared, "All it would take is one sweep of the blade and your head would decorate the walls of the castle before you could refuse me."

He stumbled, dropping Blackfyre to his side and leaning on it for support. The blade nicked her neck and a single drop of blood dribbled down the blade, as sanguine as the rubies decorating the hilt.

He gulped down the goblet he'd just poured, slamming it on the table.

The faces of her mother and Ivy flashed across her mind.

"You'd have to stop stumbling first."

Her voice was cheer and laughter, but her legs shook, hands balling themselves into fists with white knuckles.

The King's gaze remained focused on hers.

The circles around his eyes are the same dark purple reflected in his irises, heavy and hollow. The familiar tracks of tears streak his cheeks.

Bitterness stirs in her chest. She wishes she was someone higher, someone with enough power to take the King by the throat and knock some sense into him.

He holds all the power in the realm.

He holds access to all the knowledge in the world.

He has a dragon.

And still he weeps and moans and squanders it all on drink and whores.

To have the power of a god at your fingertips and waste it all...

He raises Blackfyre to her neck once more.

The tip of the blade wavered.

The King laughs. "You're funny," He almost sounds genuine in his compliment, but the slurred words make Reyna wary, "I like funny."

The sword drops behind her and he pulls her close, entrapping Reyna in the grasp of the Valryian blade.

His hands wrap around her waist and pull the sword taut against the laces of her bodice, a wicked smile stretching across his face as his fingers play with it. She swears she can feel the edge of the blade press into her skin. His eyes remain focused on hers.

She refuses to turn her gaze away.

Lust glitters in his eyes and for a moment she wonders if he'll slip his hand under her skirts and take her by the fireplace.

Something rumbles in her abdomen at the thought, but her mind is too busy focusing on the King towering above her to pay attention to what it is.

She wants to pull away but knows she cannot.

There is no other reason for a King to summon a maidservant to his chambers.

And she will not be able to say no.

Either she will be coerced or she will be forced.

For who could say no to a King?

He releases her and she almost thinks she spies restraint in his face.

Breath returns to her lungs.

He gestures to the seat across from him with Blackfyre, picking up his goblet from the table.

"Sit."

It is an order.

She did as he commanded.

He slouched down beside her.

His gaze was now firmly locked on the burning embers of the fire in front of him, as if seeing something in the flames no one else could see.

"He never liked me."

She didn't need to ask who he was talking about.

"It was the one constant I could rely on. The sky was blue, my sister would be heir, and my father would go to his grave despising my very existence," He drained the cup and reached for another, "A wastrel, unworthy...I'm sure he threw in a few more choice words. Usurper probably added to the list."

Reyna focused her gaze on the floor.

A rueful smile crossed the King's face, "And then my mother gave me a crown and called me King." He poured himself another cup, draining it just as quickly. The smell of Arbor Red clung to him like perfume.

Reyna resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose.

"Defended me from a dragon," His laugh was as sour as his temper. His lips dropped into a scowl. "Out there, they call me Aegon the Usurper."

Bitterness coated his words like a poisoned knife, digging deeper into his lungs with each breath, "I'm sure my father is laughing from the depths of the Seven Hells."

Aegon sets his jaw and Reyna finally summons the courage to look at him.

He is paler than the grave with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes from a lack of sleep and an overindulgence of wine.

He reminds her of the ghosts believed to wander the halls of Starfall, a shell of a man with his insides scooped out and replaced with a responsibility he'd never asked for.

A puppet with his strings cut.

"It was all a lie," He mutters into his cups, taking another gulp, "I can see it in their eyes. None of them wish for me to sit on that throne, to bear the crown they plotted to place on my head. My grandfather wishes for my father back and my mother..." A bitter chuckle escapes his lips, "My mother wishes for the days of her childhood companion. When I was still a dream in my father's mind and not the miserable wretch I am now."

Reyna is unsure how to respond.

Aegon snapped his head to face her, tear tracks shining in the light of the dying embers.

"I am miserable am I not?"

It takes her a moment to realize he expected an answer.

Reyna stared at the man before her.

He was ill-tempered and bitter and wretched in every sense of the word. His silver hair shone in the fading sunlight, an ethereal beauty to him that seemed to grace the face of every Targaryen past and present. With high cheekbones and wide eyes that seemed to shift colors with his temper, perhaps she would have thought him cut from marble at one point.

The perfect image of a Targaryen prince.

There were many who'd once held such ideas about him before he'd revealed his true nature.

Yes, miserable fit him, she supposed.

Hair cut to his shoulders, uneven and jagged as if he'd taken the shears to it himself, his tunics unbuttoned to reveal the ragged undershirt she suspected he'd been wearing since the night he ran.

Aimless was a more apt description.

"Permission to speak freely, Your Grace?"

Aegon raised his brows and took another sip of his cup, gesturing for her to proceed.

Somehow it didn't calm the storm brewing inside of her.

She leaned forward, hands clasped together with pinched lips. "I don't think you have ever known true misery."

He narrows his gaze, as if searching for a lie that is not there.

Anger flashes in his face and Reyna wonders if he will take Blackfyre to her head himself.

"And you are so certain of this?"

"I am certain a King can always carve out his own pleasures, whereas people like me have to find what little they can."

Aegon dismisses her with a scoff, but she can see the words dig into his skin, writhing like leeches in his bloodstream. "You speak of things you know nothing about."

"It was not you who buried friends and family outside the Grand Sept."

Her words are biting, teeth sharpened on the whetstone of grief, tears threatening to spring to her eyes. She forces them back down with a gulp. The boldness spurring her on has practically placed her head on the chopping block already, but the King does not seem determined to call for justice quite yet. "And it is not you who will suffer the most should the realm go to war."

His gaze shifts to something pensive and Reyna wonders if this is the last thing she'll ever see.

"So, no, I do not believe you are miserable, Your Grace." Reyna picks at the threads of her skirt, refusing to meet his gaze, "Wretched, maybe, but not miserable."

The chuckle that left his lips was unlike anything she'd heard.

It almost brought a smile to her face.

"You're quite good," He downed the rest of his cups and the fire of his gaze came to land on her once more, drifting down to her lips for a brief moment, "You almost had me believing it." Aegon lifted his goblet in mock cheers, "To Aegon...the Wretched."

She knows she has crossed a line. But something inside of her is pleased.

Pride surges in her chest.

The smallfolk had been at the mercy of nobles and kings alike for far too long, if it was to be death for her regardless, at least let her try and slap some sense into this wastrel of a King before she lost her head.

Still, the instinct to survive kicks in.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, I shouldn't have—"

"No," He cuts her off with a sigh, "I'm afraid you are right. My mother and sister share your sentiments. It is why they keep pushing me to peace rather than war." His exhale blows a lock of silver hair out of his eyes, "The soft hearts of women often prevail in situations like this."

An involuntary chuckle escaped her lips.

The King creased his brow.

"I have not known many soft women, Your Grace," Reyna admits with a smirk, hands still playing with her skirts, "Most are all too happy to cut out the throats of others over an insult rather than make peace with the offender."

Her mind flew to memories of Starfall.

Lady Dayne's curled lip and Septa Elsabeth's wrinkled nose.

The cramped quarters they'd forced her in and the harsh names thrown at her like they were in Westeros and not Dorne.

But Lady Dayne hailed from the Reach and had brought her horrid Septa with her, and thus the blooming garden of love she'd been promised had been trampled under her foot and withered in the shadows.

She thought of Myr, where she recalled her mother fighting with a fierceness she'd passed down to her daughter. A knife in her hand as pirates attempted to sack their village and take what little they held dear.

She remembers seeing the mangled body of one tied to a cross in the center square, crabs ripping apart his skin while the bright teal of his robes was stripped and sold for lots.

No, women were not soft. At least, not the ones Reyna knew.

Aegon eyed her curiously.

She found herself staring back.

What did he see when he looked at her? Was he a cat playing with his food before devouring it? Or perhaps he was like every man who laid eyes on her.

Only searching for what was under her skirts, what she'd already given away before she'd even set foot in King's Landing.

It was a feeling she knew well.

She recalls the hands around her waist, the pads of his fingers digging into the layers of fabric, playing with the laces as if he could untie them at any moment.

Reyna has sold herself before, and she does not wish to do it again.

His eyes wander a little too low and she wishes he would just get it over with. The King flexes his hand and reaches for another cup of wine, downing it and averting his gaze.

Her hands moved up to grasp her pendant.

She slid it back and forth, wondering what her father would say if he could see her now.

A whore in noble's clothing, Lady Dayne had called her one day. Her best bet is to seduce a great lord and provide him with the same pleasure she's provided me.

She snatched her hand away.

"Where did it come from?" Aegon asked with a slight slur to his words, his voice low as the goblet hangs from his side. She creased her brow. He blatantly stared at her neckline. "Your necklace."

Oh.

"Myr." She answers curtly, trying not to think about the circumstances that warranted its creation. Her back still ached from the incident. "My father commissioned it for me on my nameday."

"Dornish?"

She nodded.

"A Dayne?"

Her silence was answer enough.

"That's why my mother was sending you to Starfall. To send you out of her sight and out of my mind."

Something in her gut churned at his words.

Aegon sighed and took another gulp of his cups. Not as deep than his previous ones, but still substantial.

Perhaps he was like the lords Lacey told her about.

The ones who had to get drunk enough to stick their cock in a woman they didn't know.

It takes the guilt off their shoulders, Lacey had said with a roll of her eyes. Convinces them they're still right in the eyes of the gods.

"I didn't call you here to fuck you," He speaks as if reading her thoughts. Despite the sincerity in his voice, she's not sure she believes him. He always sounds as if he's one word away from some lewd joke.

Reyna chanced a drink from the goblet he'd poured for her, "Is that not always why men call Dornishwomen to their chambers, Your Grace?"

Drunken laughter spilled from his lips.

"Are the men of Westeros so transparent?"

"Only when it comes to matters like these, Your Grace."

His laughter makes her smile, and Reyna's fear is assuaged for a brief moment until he turns to look at her.

Want gleams in his eyes. It is the same gleam he wore the day of his coronation, right before the world erupted into applause and debris.

A lust for acceptance, a lust for appreciation.

A lust for love.

The crackling of the fire is all that stands between them now.

He slumps back in his seat.

"You Dornishwomen are as infuriating as you are tempting," He mutters under his breath.

Reyna resisted the urge to laugh.

She wasn't about to tell him why she agreed to head to Dorne in the first place.

Spice traders from Myr often stopped by Starfall on their way from Oldtown, and for the right price, they would take on extra cargo.

It was the only reason the gold was still burning a hole in her pocket.

Her gaze wanders to the open window facing the Narrow Sea, and she thinks she spies the white of a trade ship.

"What is it like?'

The question catches her off-guard. "Your Grace?"

His eyes moved back to the flames, "Dorne. Some say it is a pit of vipers and scorpions waiting to strike at your heel. Others tell me it is the most beautiful place in the Seven Kingdoms. I do not know which to believe."

Longing stings in her chest, the thought of home cooling her blood and stemming her nerves.

She recalls little of the castle itself. It is made of the same white stone as the High Tower but draped in lilac and silver as opposed to gold and green.

When she dreams of home she dreams of the rush of the Torrentine, the blistering winds of the Red Mountains and the Summer Sea. She dreams of the soft sand beneath her feet, the frogs and fish swimming beside her as she jumps from the crag into the depths. The water is cool enough to refresh her, yet warm enough to lounge lazily in until the sun bathes the island in pink and lavender.

She has never been outside of Starfall, but her sister would tell her stories of Sunspear and Hellholt. How their castles spiraled high until they pierced the bluest of skies, the most delectable fruits ripe for the picking.

Ester had brought home a bushel of blood oranges and lemons from Lemonwood one day and they'd feasted until Lady Dayne caught them on the terrace, her nose wrinkled in disgust like it always was when Reyna was around.

But then the memory shifted and she imagined the golden sands and beautiful oases that waited outside the white walls, wondering if one day they would swallow her whole.

All this she tells the King, who looks at her as if she'd pulled open a treasure chest, a hint of a smile tugging on the edge of his lips.

It is easier to tell him things when she imagines he is someone else.

A drunk at a tavern or a cook in the kitchen.

Anything but a King who could have his way with her at any moment.

She tells him of the waterfalls that flow endlessly into the Summer Sea, taller than any mountain and more powerful than any dragon.

She tells him of the glass merchants who craft lamps and jewelry that project rainbows on the wall if the light hits it just right. Of candlemakers whose scents burned of jasmine and amber and bergamot. Of the river rafters who took brave souls through the rapids for a price, crowning them King or Queen of the Torentine afterwards like her ancestors of old.

His smile returns and he has abandoned the wine completely by the time her story comes to an end.

It is a curious thing, she thinks, to hold a King's attention so fiercely.

His rapt gaze sends pink to her cheeks and she falters as her eyes lock with his.

They are no longer darkened steel, but a soft lavender, much like his sister's. It is the color of the sun as it sets over Starfall, she thinks. Of the hyacinths that decorate the trellises of the Dornish garden, of the crocuses and asters that grow in the spring following a hard winter.

She wonders if his children share the same eyes.

He does not look the lustful man who hungered for her earlier.

Instead, he resembles a boy.

It is a stark contrast from the bitter man she'd grown used to.

She does not realize the two of them have been staring at each other in silence until the creak of the bronze door interrupts her thoughts.

Reyna stands up immediately, nearly hitting the King in the face as she does so.

The Queen is silhouetted by the dying rays of the sun, her mouth tight as her eyes dart between Reyna and her son. He does not turn to look at her.

"There you are, Reyna." She says with a smile of formality, voice steady and sure with each word. Her black mourning robes have been quickly replaced by green velvet and gold cuffs. "Ser Criston has been looking for you. The ship is prepared to leave whenever you are ready."

"I did not dismiss her, mother." Aegon's foul mood has returned and he grabs a bottle and begins to pour.

The Queen eyes her son with disgust before shaking her head. She took a step toward Reyna in casual defiance of the King's decision. "Come, I will have Ser Criston escort you–"

"You will go no further."

The steel of Blackfyre stood between the two women, Aegon's slurred words puncturing the air like the edge of the blade he wielded.

"Aegon," the Queen's tone shifts to something more chiding, a frown crossing her lips, "Reyna has served us well these last few years, she deserves to go home and reunite with her family."

Aegon wobbles on his feet as he stands. "And you have agreed to this?"

The question is directed at her.

Reyna opens her mouth to reply but finds herself cut off by the Queen.

"She has lost enough Aegon, surely you do not mean–"

"Oh, but I do," Aegon's words are sharp, a blaze in his eyes as he aims the words directly at his mother. A tug of war the two have been playing since coronation day, Reyna assumes. Perhaps even beyond that. Aegon remains steadfast. "She is a servant of the crown and she belongs in the Red Keep."

"No she is not," Alicent crossed her hands over her skirts, chin lifted high as she stares at her son with a disapproving sigh on her lips, "I released her this morning."

Aegon scoffs, taking another gulp of wine as he stumbles over to the mantle above the hearth.

For a brief moment there is nothing but silence, the Queen shifting her gaze from the King to Reyna. Her shoulders slumped, frown deepening as the sun began to set behind her.

"Come, the captain is waiting–"

"No, no, SHE'S MINE! "

The wine glass shatters against the wall.

Reyna trembles at the sound of his voice, stomach sinking at his words.

To call her whore and take her as his own was one thing, but to be called his...

To be at his beck and call not as a whore but as something else entirely...

It is a thought she is not allowed to entertain.

A thought she cannot entertain.

Not if she wishes to live.

"Aegon, she is no longer under our employ, we cannot force her--"

"Then you will find a place for her." He orders, Blackfyre pointed directly at his mother. The warmth of the man who'd asked about her home is gone, replaced with the cold callousness of a King. "As Helaena's handmaiden, as yours, it does not matter." He turns to her with wildfire in his eyes.

It is not the steel from before. Nor the jolly of a drunken man looking for a laugh.

His hands are swift and Reyna stumbles back, the stone of the hearth digging into the skin of her back.

Blackfyre is tossed aside carelessly, but Reyna once again finds herself staring down the edge of a Valyrian steel blade.

This one is wrought in dragonbone and bronze, a single glittering ruby matching the one on Blackfyre's hilt. Its dark blade gleams with a hunger, and she almost thinks she can see something written into the steel.

Aegon presses it to her neck, hovering less than an inch above the skin.

His gaze burns with a wild rage, darkened by his mother's presence.

His hand presses into her shoulder, gripping the skin as it pressed her further into the mantelpiece behind her, the heat of the fire lingering near her skirts.

She can smell the wine on his breath, see the shine in his eyes as he clenches his jaw with something akin to determination.

Or perhaps it was the stare of a fanatic, she wasn't sure.

"If she will not abide by it then I will have her head instead."

The threat hangs in the air.

It is the same one he made earlier, but this time Reyna knows her wit will not save her.

She has pushed too hard, gone too far, and she is now at the King's mercy.

Her pulse continues to race.

The gods are waiting to see where his coin lands.

So is she.

Alicent stares at her son with pleading eyes, all sense of decorum gone. Instead, she shakes at the sight unfolding before her.

"Put down the blade, Aegon." She orders.

He does not listen.

The knot in Reyna's chest grows tighter.

"Your Grace," Her voice cracks as the words slip through her lips, saltwater teetering near the corner of her eye. "Please."

The dagger drops from his hands.

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