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~CHAPTER XIV~
The night at Dragonstone was still, the kind of quiet that enveloped the ancient fortress like a shroud. The sea beyond the castle walls murmured its eternal lullaby, a soothing backdrop to the inhabitants' dreams. Aelora lay in her chamber, the gentle warmth of the hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Her breathing was soft and measured, the rhythm of sleep that knew no disturbance.
But as the moon cast its pale glow over the island, shadows detached themselves from the darkness, moving with a purpose known only to them. The men, cloaked in secrecy and sworn to silence, slipped through the corridors with the stealth of predators on the hunt. Their presence was a whisper against the stone, felt but unseen.
Aelora remained unaware, her dreams a tapestry of warmth and love, woven with threads of anticipation for the life she carried within her. But the peace of her slumber was a fragile thing, poised on the edge of a precipice that she did not yet perceive.
The men entered her chamber with practiced ease, their movements synchronized and deliberate. The leader, a man with eyes as cold and hard as the steel they carried, signaled for silence, his hand a shadow against the moonlight. They approached the bed, where Aelora lay in serene repose, her silver-gold hair splayed across the pillow like a halo.
In an instant, the tranquility shattered. A hand clamped down over her mouth, the grip firm and unyielding. Aelora's eyes flew open, shock and disbelief colliding with the adrenaline that surged through her veins. She thrashed instinctively, her body reacting to the violation of her sanctuary with a fierce, primal resistance.
"Hold her still," the leader hissed, his voice a harsh whisper that cut through the darkness.
Aelora's heart pounded in her chest, her mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion. The men were strong, their hands relentless as they sought to subdue her. She fought with every ounce of strength she possessed, her limbs a flurry of motion as she struggled against the bonds of her captors.
But she was outnumbered, her pregnant form no match for the force they wielded. In the chaos of the struggle, one of the men lost his grip, his elbow striking her head with a force that sent pain arcing through her consciousness.
"You fool!" another man hissed, his voice sharp with anger and fear. "If she's hurt, Prince Aemond will have our heads!"
The man who had struck her recoiled, his eyes wide with panic. "It was an accident," he stammered, his voice trembling with the weight of his mistake.
Aelora's vision swam, the room spinning as darkness crept at the edges of her sight. She fought to remain conscious, to cling to the awareness that was slipping from her grasp. But the pain was a relentless tide, pulling her under into the depths of oblivion.
The leader cursed under his breath, urgency sharpening his command. "We need to move. Now."
The men worked quickly, their haste a testament to the fear that drove them. With Aelora unconscious in their grasp, they retreated from the chamber, their movements a shadowy dance that left no trace behind. The corridors of Dragonstone, silent witnesses to their passage, offered no resistance to their escape.
As they slipped into the night, the weight of their actions hung heavy in the air—a silent promise of consequences yet to come. The sea, vast and indifferent, swallowed their presence, leaving no evidence of the crime that had been committed.
In the stillness that followed, Dragonstone lay untouched by the knowledge of what had transpired within its walls. The moon continued its vigil, casting its pale light over the fortress and its sleeping inhabitants, unaware of the absence that would be discovered with the dawn.
The men, driven by a purpose known only to them and the one who commanded their loyalty, disappeared into the night, leaving behind a void that would soon be felt. Aelora, spirited away under the cover of darkness, was a pawn in a game of power and revenge, a catalyst for events that would soon unfold.
★
In the early hours of the morning, as the first light of dawn began to tease the horizon, Dragonstone lay silent. The chill of the night lingered in the stone corridors, wrapping the castle in an eerie quiet. Yet, within the heart of the fortress, a storm was brewing that would soon shatter the fragile peace.
Rhaenyra Targaryen and her husband, Daemon, lay entwined in the warmth of their chambers, the fire in the hearth reduced to mere embers. It was a rare moment of peace in a world fraught with tension and uncertainty. But as the clock ticked ever closer to dawn, a sharp knock at the door disrupted the quiet.
Daemon stirred first, his instincts honed by years of battle and intrigue. "Who disturbs our rest at this hour?" he called, his voice rough with sleep yet edged with authority.
The door creaked open to reveal a guard, his face drawn and pale in the dim light. "My lord, my lady," he began, his voice trembling with urgency. "A raven has arrived. News from Storm's End."
Rhaenyra, now fully awake, sat up, her heart a cold weight in her chest. She exchanged a glance with Daemon, whose expression mirrored her apprehension. "Speak," she commanded, her voice steady despite the fear that coiled within her.
The guard stepped forward, his eyes shadowed by the grim tidings he bore. "Prince Lucerys... he was killed. The dragon Vhagar, ridden by Prince Aemond, attacked him. There were no survivors."
The words hung in the air like a death knell, each syllable a hammer blow to Rhaenyra's heart. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt, the very ground beneath her threatening to give way. She felt Daemon's hand on hers, a steadying presence amidst the tempest of grief and fury that threatened to consume her.
"Lucerys..." she whispered, the name a keening wail in the silence of their chambers. Her son, her sweet boy with eyes like summer skies, was gone. Snuffed out like a candle in the wind, his life stolen by the cruelty of power and ambition.
But even as the horror of the news sank in, another, darker realization took hold. Her gaze snapped to the guard, her eyes blazing with fierce determination. "Wake Aelora," she ordered, her voice a sharp command that brooked no argument. "I need my daughter by my side."
The guard hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Your grace... The princess is not in her chambers. She is missing."
Rhaenyra's heart stopped, the breath catching in her throat as if the very air had been stolen from the room. "Missing?" she repeated, the word a dagger in her heart. "What do you mean, missing?"
"We've searched the castle," the guard replied, his voice strained with the weight of his failure. "She is nowhere to be found."
A roar of anguish tore from Rhaenyra's throat, a primal sound that echoed through the stone halls of Dragonstone. "They killed my son," she cried, her voice cracking with the raw edge of grief, "and now they have taken my daughter!"
Daemon, his own grief a silent shadow in his eyes, wrapped an arm around Rhaenyra, his presence a fortress against the storm that raged within her. "We will find her," he vowed, his voice a low rumble of promised retribution. "And we will have vengeance for Luke. Blood will answer for blood."
Rhaenyra drew strength from his words, the fire of her rage a beacon in the darkness that threatened to swallow her whole. She turned to the guard, her expression one of fierce resolve. "Rouse the castle. Search every inch of Dragonstone and beyond. We will not rest until Aelora is found. I will search for Lucerys' remain myself."
The guard nodded, his steps quick and purposeful as he retreated to carry out her orders. As the door closed behind him, Rhaenyra allowed herself a moment to gather her shattered composure, her mind a tumult of grief and fury.
Lucerys, her brave and beautiful son, was gone. And Aelora, her precious daughter, was missing, her fate unknown. The realization was a bitter poison in her veins, fueling a fire that burned with an intensity that demanded action.
"We will not be broken by this," Daemon said, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. "We are Targaryens. We are forged in fire, and we will rise from these ashes stronger than before."
Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes alight with the fierce determination of a mother who had lost too much but refused to be defeated. "They will pay," she vowed, her voice a steel blade cutting through the air. "For every drop of blood they have spilled, for every tear we have shed, they will pay."
As the first light of dawn broke over Dragonstone, casting its pale glow over the castle, Rhaenyra stood with Daemon by her side, her heart a maelstrom of grief and fury. The storm that had been brewing in the night had broken, and its fury would be felt far and wide.
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