The Sept, Dragonstone.
Night had fallen. Inside the Sept of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra knelt before the statues of the Seven.
She did not pray. She knelt. Those two black iron chests sat by her knees.
Candlelight flickered before the icons, casting shifting shadows across the face of the Mother.
Rhaenyra's gaze fell upon the feet of the Mother's statue.
There, a small inscription was carved:
"She hears all lamentations."
She hears all lamentations.
Rhaenyra gave a tragic, hollow laugh: her beloved eldest son, her heir, her pride.
Jacaerys.
And Joffrey. Joffrey was only ten, snapped up alive by a dragon in a single bite...
Rhaenyra closed her eyes. She could hear her own heartbeat, slow, heavy.
That hatred flowed eternally through her blood; it would never be extinguished.
Extremely light footsteps sounded outside. The door was pushed open gently. She did not turn back.
"Your Grace," a handmaid said cautiously, "the messenger from Rook's Rest has arrived."
Rhaenyra did not move. The handmaid waited for a moment; she saw the Queen standing motionless in the candlelight like a stone statue. She quietly withdrew.
After another moment, Rhaenyra opened her eyes. She looked down at the two black iron chests by her knees.
Each lid bore an engraved name: Jacaerys Velaryon. Joffrey Velaryon.
Velaryon.
Rhaenyra reached out, her fingertips touching the cold metal lid. That chill spread from her fingers, through her veins, and reached her heart.
She remembered when little Jace was small, how he would always pester her, asking:
"Mother, why is my name Velaryon and not Targaryen?"
How had she answered him then?
"Because you will be the future Lord of High Tide, the heir to your grandfather, the Sea Snake."
Jace had blinked and asked, "Then will I be a dragonrider?"
"Yes," she had smiled, kissing his forehead.
"You will be a dragonrider."
Rhaenyra's fingers curled, gripping the lid tight.
"Jace," she whispered. No one answered. "Joffrey."
There was no response in the Sept.
She remembered Princess Rhaenys once telling her: "Men would sooner put the Realm to the torch than see a woman ascend the Iron Throne."
Perhaps she had been wrong from the start; perhaps she should never have fought for Jacaerys to have that Iron Throne.
Perhaps then, none of these tragedies would have happened.
"Mama will avenge you."
She placed her hand over the cold lid.
"I swear it."
Those words tumbled from between her teeth.
She stood up. Her knees had grown numb from kneeling; she stumbled for a moment, steadying herself against the altar.
The wooden surface was cold. She raised her head. The Seven looked down upon her. The Mother's face was compassionate yet distant.
The statues' eye sockets were deep, the candlelight dancing within them like mercy, or perhaps like pity.
Rhaenyra looked into those eyes and suddenly remembered the night many years ago after her mother, Aemma, died.
She had knelt just like this, looking up at the Mother. She was only eight then.
At eight, she had knelt before the Mother and prayed over and over, praying for her mother to return, praying for her father not to be so sad, praying for her newborn brother to live.
She had prayed the whole night. And then? Her mother did not return, and her brother lived only a single day before dying.
Her father locked himself in his chambers, refusing to see anyone.
Afterward, the ten-year-old Rhaenyra Targaryen was called before Viserys I and told she would be the heir to the Iron Throne.
Rhaenyra stared at the statue.
"Did you protect my mother?" she asked.
The Mother did not answer.
"Did you protect my sons?"
The candles burned silently. "You are nothing."
Her voice was soft, as if speaking only to herself.
"False gods."
The Mother remained silent. Queen Rhaenyra withdrew her gaze. She turned and walked toward the door.
As she passed the entrance, she saw the handmaid.
The young girl stood by the door, head bowed, her shoulders trembling slightly.
The handmaid looked up, her eyes rimmed with red. "Your Grace."
Without looking back, Rhaenyra said, "Send the order. Convene the Black Council."
------------
The Great Hall, Dragonstone.
Molten light flowed beneath the painted table, bathing the hall in a crimson glow.
That grand map of the Seven Kingdoms was carved with every castle, every river, and every forest from the North to Dorne.
After the Targaryen family arrived at Dragonstone, it was their ancestors who ordered this map to be forged.
Rhaenyra walked up the dais. A handmaid had already brought the crown, the Valyrian steel crown of Viserys I, heptagonal in shape.
She attempted to place it on the Queen, but Rhaenyra took it herself and set it upon her head. The crown forged of Valyrian steel was light, yet she felt it to be impossibly heavy.
She turned to face the hall. Corlys Velaryon already stood to her left.
The old man's back was still straight, as it had been when he stood at the prow of his ship facing storms in his youth. His gaze was calm and unfathomable, like the sea.
Princess Rhaenys stood to the right. The dragonrider of the Red Queen, Meleys, the woman people called "The Queen Who Never Was."
Her beautiful black hair had turned to ash-white, but her violet eyes seemed to still be burning. She looked at Rhaenyra and nodded slightly.
The vassals of Dragonstone were lined up in the hall. They wore their respective House colors; some bore their sigils, others stood bare-handed.
Rhaenyra recognized every face, House Celtigar, House Massey, House Bar Emmon...
Many of them had been loyal to her since the time of her father, Viserys I, and remained loyal to her now.
A handmaid took a step forward and cleared her throat:
"Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms."
The voice echoed through the hall. The assembly bowed their heads in respect.
Rhaenyra did not speak. She looked at the messenger kneeling in the center of the hall, the courier from Rook's Rest.
He was a young man in grey boiled leather, kneeling on the ground with a face full of anguish. He looked up at the Queen on the dais, his lips moving, but no sound came out.
"My loyal subject, speak," Queen Rhaenyra said.
The messenger took a breath, speaking urgently.
"Your Grace! Lord Staunton says the Green army has begun its march from Antlers. In three days, they will reach Rook's Rest. The kinslayer Aemond's dragons, those two beasts, have already been circling and harassing us from the sky, breathing fire. We have already lost over a hundred people to the flames... My Lord begs for Your Grace's reinforcements, as quickly as possible!"
As his voice fell, silence gripped the hall. Rhaenyra watched the messenger.
The young man knelt with his hands braced against the floor, his forehead touching the stone. His back was trembling slightly, not from fear, but from exhaustion.
He must have ridden from Rook's Rest without rest.
"What is your name?" Rhaenyra asked.
The messenger looked up.
"Sam, Your Grace. Squire to Lord Staunton."
"Sam," Rhaenyra said, "you have worked hard. Someone, take him below to rest."
Sam faltered. "Your Grace, but the reinforcements..."
"I will send reinforcements," Rhaenyra said.
"What you need now is rest."
Sam opened his mouth to say something, but finally lowered his head.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Two guards stepped forward, helped Sam up, and led him out of the hall.
The doors closed. Rhaenyra turned toward the map table. She stepped down from the dais.
The vassals automatically cleared a path.
She stood before the map, looking down at the location of Rook's Rest, on the northeastern edge of the Crownlands, the entrance to Crackclaw Point, very close to Dragonstone.
By dragon, it was less than two hours away.
Her finger tapped lightly on Rook's Rest as she looked at the crowd.
"In this battle, we must strike back." She looked around.
"Lord Staunton could have knelt to Aegon II like the other Lords of the Crownlands, handed over hostages, and kept his lands. But he did not. He chose the oath he once swore, to be loyal to me."
Her voice was not loud, but every word was clear.
"A vassal such as this, I will not leave to face the Greens' wrath alone."
The vassals looked at one another; some nodded, others remained silent. Rhaenyra turned to the right.
"Princess Rhaenys, what is your view?"
Rhaenys did not answer immediately. She looked down at Rook's Rest on the map.
"This battle," Rhaenys began slowly, "even if we cannot kill Aemond, if we can heavily wound him and hold Rook's Rest, it will announce to the entire Crownlands that the Blacks have the power to protect those loyal to us."
She looked up at Rhaenyra.
"At that time, the other Lords of the Crownlands will understand that the Greens are not the only choice."
Rhaenyra nodded. The best outcome would be killing Aemond, crushing this army, and holding the castle.
If all that were achieved, how would the Greens fight them afterward? Aegon and Sunfyre, Daeron and Tessarion were too young; Helaena and Dreamfyre had never seen a battlefield.
Only that monster Aemond was different.
The rider of two dragons. Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, had nearly died at his hands.
That battle above Dragonstone against the bastard riders had already proven his talent as a dragonrider.
As long as Aemond was killed...
"Your Grace." Princess Rhaenys raised her head.
"Let me lead Meleys to war."
As her voice fell, silence filled the hall. Corlys stood to the side, looking at his wife. He did not speak; his gaze rested on Rhaenys's face.
He had looked at that face for forty-five years; every wrinkle was familiar to him. But at this moment, he suddenly felt as if he were seeing her for the first time.
There was something burning in her eyes. He had seen it before.
Forty years ago, when she first mounted Meleys, that same thing was in her eyes. Burning.
Rhaenyra looked at Rhaenys.
"Princess," she said, "this battle is too treacherous..."
Rhaenys shook her head. "I am not asking as a Princess or as your lady." She paused.
"I am asking as a grandmother. My son died in lies and conspiracy. My grandsons died at Aemond's hands. My husband's House, a century of legacy, was put to the torch by him. The Velaryon kin are slaughtering each other..."
She lowered her head and said, "This is a debt I must settle with my own hands."
Rhaenyra watched her for a long time.
"Very well." She turned to Corlys.
"Lord Corlys, you shall lead the fleet to the Bay of Crabs. If the Green navy dares to sail north for reinforcements, I want them all at the bottom of the sea."
Corlys bowed slightly. "As you command."
But his eyes never left Rhaenys.
Rhaenys did not look at him. She simply looked down, gently stroking the wedding ring on her finger.
She had long ago memorized the small words engraved on the inner band: "Fire and Blood, Sea and Sky."
She had carved them herself when she was young.
Princess Rhaenys raised her head with pride.
"Perhaps... I should go and prepare."
She turned and walked toward the hall doors. Corlys stood where he was.
He watched that door, the heavy oak door carved with the Targaryen motto of Valyria: Fire and Blood.
He did not call out to her. In all his life, he had never called her back.
After a long while, he whispered: "Rhaenys."
She could no longer hear him.
-----
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