Chapter Text
Baela I
They came for her at dawn.
Ser Alfred Broome and Ser Marston Waters entered her chamber without ceremony, their armor still stained from battle, their faces set like stone. They gave her no words, only the command to walk.
Baela Targaryen obeyed, though each step seemed to drag her closer to her step-mother’s fate. She could still hear Rhaenyra’s screams in her mind, still smell the stench of burnt flesh and dragonfire. She had watched her be torn apart by Sunfyre, the king’s own mount, while Aegon the Usurper looked on with eyes colder than the Narrow Sea. That memory clung to her now like a shroud.
She broke the silence, her voice sharp.
“You’ll not gloat, Alfred? Not boast of your loyalty? I’ve seen how quick you are to bend the knee to whichever side holds power.”
Ser Alfred sneered. “Best mind your tongue, girl. You’ve little left but it.”
She bit down a retort, though her heart seethed. Traitor. Moondancer had bled and died to keep her alive, yet she was left in the hands of men such as these. Was her sacrifice to be for nothing?
“Aegon,” she asked at last, her voice softer. “Aegon the Younger… my brother. Is he safe?”
The silence that followed was more cruel than any words.
They marched her through the black stone halls of Dragonstone, the castle echoing with a stillness that felt wrong. At last they came to the great hall, and when the doors opened, Baela stopped short.
Her grandfather stood waiting for her.
“Grandfather…” she breathed, tears threatening as relief washed over her. Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself, stood tall despite his years, though his skin had gone near as white as his hair. At his side loitered Alyn of Hull, the bastard they whispered might be his get.
Baela rushed forward, her voice breaking. “How are you here? I thought..”
“It is over, child,” Corlys said, his voice heavy as the sea. “Aegon II succumbed to his wounds in the night. With his passing, the lords allowed me to come for you.”
Baela clutched his hand. “And Aegon, my brother? Please, tell me he is safe, tell me he lives.”
But Corlys’s eyes fell, his face grave. “That is ill news, Baela. None here know where he was whisked away. I had hoped… you might.”
Her breath caught. Gone? She could scarcely understand it. If Aegon was lost, then who remained?
Corlys drew a long breath. “He was the male claimant I wished to uphold. Without him...”
Her heart twisted. “Then I am all that is left.” She swallowed hard, sorrow and dread mingling. “All of them gone… and I… queen?”
She looked at her grandfather, but found no comfort. Corlys and Alyn exchanged a glance, something silent passing between them.
“What is it?” Baela demanded, voice sharp again. “Why do you look so?”
Corlys’s gaze steadied on her. “Because Aegon the Younger is not the last male claimant. There is another.”
Baela’s heart stilled, and the world seemed to tilt.
Daeron I
The night sky burned red above Tumbleton.
Daeron woke choking on smoke, his tent already ablaze. He stumbled to his feet, half-blinded, heat searing his skin as the canvas sagged and collapsed. Only instinct saved him, he threw himself forward, tumbling clear as the pavilion crashed down in a storm of sparks where he had stood a heartbeat before.
Unarmed. Unarmoured. Barely breathing.
A shadow loomed in the firelight, a sellsword in the colors of House Vance, morningstar gripped tight. The man’s eyes lit with recognition and savage glee. “The prince!” he roared, charging.
The spiked ball whistled through the air, meant to cave in Daeron’s skull. He ducked under the swing on pure instinct and hurled himself low, tackling the man’s legs. They hit the ground in a heap, the weapon flying from his grip. Daeron’s hands found the fallen morningstar before the sellsword did, and before thought could catch up to action he brought it down.
Once.
Twice.
Again and again, until the man’s face was nothing but bloody ruin.
When the red haze lifted, Daeron staggered back, chest heaving. The corpse stared up at him with what was left of its head. Bile surged in his throat, and he retched into the dirt.
A sword-point caught the corner of his vision. Another man rushed him, then froze at Daeron’s shout.
“Tom! It’s me!”
The young man-at-arms lowered his blade, face pale beneath the soot. “Gods, m’lord, I mean my prince, forgive me! I thought you another madman in the melee.” It was Tom of Oldtown, sworn to his cousin’s Hightower retinue.
“I need a weapon. Armor. A horse,” Daeron rasped. “I must get to Tessarion.”
“There’s an armory and stable just round the corner,” Tom said, but his eyes darted past Daeron in alarm. Two men bearing the Darry sigil were closing fast. Tom shoved Daeron hard. “Go, my prince. I’ll hold them. Run!”
Daeron hesitated, but only for a breath. He clutched Tom’s shoulder. “I won’t forget this.”
Then he ran.
The town was chaos, smoke and steel and the screams of the dying. Not a battle. A slaughter. Daeron prayed the armory was empty.
The Gods must be smiling on him today.
Daeron tore on a half-suit of light armor, belted a sword, and burst into the stable. His hands shook as he saddled a frightened horse, the neighs drowned out by roars overhead.
Dragons.
Silverwing wheeled in the sky, massive and riderless, locked in combat with a smaller pale-grey dragon, Seasmoke. The smaller beast bore a rider, silver-haired, no older than Daeron himself.
“Tessarion,” Daeron whispered.
He found her in the yard, bound and bleeding, her wings tattered by arrows. A ring of archers closed in, loosing shafts meant to end her. Rage lit his chest. He raised his voice in High Valyrian, screaming the word for fire. Tessarion’s eyes snapped open at his command, and flame poured from her jaws, scattering men like leaves.
Daeron ran to her side, pressing a hand to her scaled snout. “I’m safe, my girl. I’m here. You saved me. Now we fly.” He loosed her chains with trembling hands.
The sky was chaos. Silverwing shrieked, banking to strike. Daeron mounted Tessarion, heart hammering. “We have to fight, or all is ash.”
They soared. He drove Tessarion at Silverwing’s flank, striking from the rear. The older dragon bellowed in fury, swerving wide, but not fleeing. Not finished.
Daeron turned his gaze to the pale dragon and his rider. Even battered and bloodied, they were preparing to strike at him, wings beating, teeth bared, ready to tear Tessarion apart. The boy’s face twisted in doubt, pain in his eyes as Seasmoke struggled beneath him.
“She’s too strong for one! We must strike together!” Daeron shouted across the maelstrom.
The rider hesitated. “Why should I trust you?” he called back.
“Because if we don’t, both sides burn!” Daeron roared. “Together, we can take down Silverwing!”
Seasmoke and Tessarion surged closer, the dragons circling in a deadly dance. Their riders’ eyes met, for the first time, an understanding passed between them. Alone, neither could stop the she-dragon. But together… they had a chance.
The battle was terrible. Silverwing fought like a beast possessed. Flame and claw and thunderous wings shook the air. But together, Tessarion and Seasmoke drove her down, tearing at her neck and belly. In her death-throes, the great she-dragon turned on Tessarion, her jaws clamping around the younger dragon’s throat.
“No!” Daeron screamed.
But before Silverwing could rip Tessarion apart, Seasmoke lunged, teeth closing around Silverwing’s neck. The smaller dragon twisted, dragging the greater with him, and both plummeted from the sky. They struck the ground with an impact that split the earth, killing them both.
Tessarion’s wings faltered. She crashed down hard, screaming in agony, blood pouring from her torn neck. Alive, but broken.
Daeron slid from her back, hands shaking as he pressed them against her scales. “Tess… it’s me. Breathe… you’re safe. Stay with me… just breathe.” He stayed there for a long, terrified moment, feeling the shallow rise and fall of her chest, willing her to live. Only when he finally saw the boy rider amidst the wreckage, grievously wounded but still breathing, did he leave his dragon.
“Addam Velaryon,” the boy whispered, blood staining his lips. “Newly knighted… heir to Driftmark.”
“Rest, Ser Addam,” Daeron murmured. “You fought with honor.”
Addam seized his hand weakly. “And so did you… for a Targaryen.”
Daeron gave a faint, tired smile. “And you are brave… for a Velaryon.”
For a long moment, silence stretched between them, a quiet acknowledgment of shared courage amidst the ruin around them.
Then Addam spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “Promise me. Spare my brother… if ever he stands against you. Promise.”
Daeron swallowed the lump in his throat. “I promise.”
A faint smile touched Addam’s lips. “In another life… perhaps we’d have been friends.” Then he was gone.
Daeron bowed his head, whispering a prayer. “Too many good men died today.” He ordered Addam’s body borne to Driftmark, with all honors.
That night, in the remnants of his tent, Lord Unwin Peake entered, his face lined and grave. “Ulf the White lies with his throat slit by a whore. Hugh Hammer fled after an attempt on his life. Both betrayers are gone. The realm is rid of them. We won the day, the Greens have triumphed.” His eyes gleamed as he bowed.
Daeron’s head snapped up. “Not without great cost,” he interrupted, voice raw.
“Nevertheless, Your Grace, we must make haste to King’s Landing. The Iron Throne awaits.”
“I am no king,” Daeron said, his voice heavy with grief.
“Your brothers are dead,” Unwin replied flatly. “You are the last trueborn son of Viserys. You are king whether you will it or no.”
When Lord Unwin left, after Daeron told him to make plans for their march to Kings Landing, he remained alone in the dark, the smell of smoke and blood thick around him. He buried his face in his hands and wept. For all his lost kin. For the dragons. For Tom of Oldtown. For Ser Addam. For the boy he no longer was.
For the king he must now be.