The new day began with constant movement. Storia brought food to my room and we both broke our vast. After we ate she would help me prepare handing me my clothes and telling me to watch out for the servants.
Energy thrummed through the walls of the Drakon's estate. The servants were moving with percision sweeping, polishing, hanging crimson banners embroidered with the black wings and three-headed flame of our crest. And unlike most noble households I'd studied, they weren't sullen or tired. They worked with smiles. Actual smiles. Laughter, even. As though they were happy returning.
I stood on the stone veranda before the great ironwood door, dressed in my cleanest tunic—deep black with a silver sash tied at my waist. The air was sharp, the marble beneath my sandals freshly washed. Beside me stood Storia, tall and composed, her arms behind her back, armor glinting in the morning sun.
Her Lioness Pack she called them stood adjacent her left and right of the entrance. Each woman was distinct, varying shades of skin, different heights and builds, but all lean and carved with muscle. Most bore scars. But they were all still very beautiful.
Two stood out immediately.
One was a lithe, cold-eyed blonde with her hair drawn back in a tight bun. Her expression was unreadable, like a blade just before the draw. The other was tall—almost taller than Storia—with dark brown skin and braided in a ponytail. Both had lilac-colored eyes like mine.
So that's what Storia meant. Distant relatives who earned their names. .
"The Lioness Pack," Storia had once told me, "handles assignments that require finesse, speed, or overwhelming force with surgical timing when in the free cities. And they show no mercy."
They were terrifying and beautiful as well as brilliant from what I seen. And most of all, I could feel the Force in them. Everyone wielded it instinctively with with precision from the way they move, to fighting. Their swordplay wasn't just martial arts or taught from experience. They were lightsaber forms adapted for steel and constant battles.
Then it happened I felt them. A surge in the Force like the air shifted. like two storms were approaching. Storia snapped into readiness. The Lionesses followed all move without a word said, falling into sharp formation. Their spears angled and eyes locked forward.
She turned to me, gestured. "Ready position." I nodded and stepped into stance. Back straight. Chin up. Hands folded before me like a true heir.
The great doors swung open and they arrived two figures at the front.
A man and a woman and behind them an entourage. Merchants in fine robes, foreign dignitaries with scrolls and gifts, and warriors men and women in black and gold armor. Two lieutenants flanked them a serious man and woman dressed in combat robes behind the male lead, and a short but broad-shouldered knight behind the woman, his blonde-white hair cropped close and his armor wore from travel and battle.
But I barely noticed them. Because at the front were my parents.
To the left: Sarmin Drakon, my father.
He was tall, stoic, and ruggedly handsome his smooth skin was a rich light-brown,. He had a well-kept beard and mustache that made him look more mature. His silver-platinum hair was pulled into a ponytail, long and gleaming beneath the black robes he wore. Subtle accents silver embroidery, that marked him as noble.
His amethyst eyes were deep and beautiful. He wore no armor, yet I could sense his presence pressing on the air the room meaning nothing could escape his sight. He was dressed like a scholar, but built like a warrior, his robes couldn't hide the muscle frame beneath. Looped black earrings shimmered in his ears, and at his neck hung an ebony pendant with a single amethyst gem set at the center. He said nothing just stood with his eyes locked on me.
To his right, Maran Drakon, my mother. She is stunning here's no other word for it. She looked younger than twenty-five. Skin soft, almost glowing, yet her armor told a different tale—black, form-fitted steel, etched with the Drakon crest in blood red across her breastplate. She wore dual short blades at her hips. Her face was striking plump lips, high cheekbones, and silver platinum blonde hair that curled at her shoulders like threads of sunlit silk.
Her eyes were more clam and relaxed, but still felt calculative from how she observed the room and everyone in it.
Storia's voice rang out, crisp and sharp: "House Drakon welcomes back the Dragonlords." THUMP-THUMP-THUMP, the Lioness Pack struck their spears three times in unison, the sound echoing across the entrance and courtyard.
"Long life to the Dragonlords! Long life to House Drakon!" they shouted.
Then silence. Sarmin raised an eyebrow.
"Wive?" he said in a voice that was smooth deep voice. "Did we become dragonlords while we were away?" Maran tilted her head. "No, dear husband our blood is noble, yes but our dragons have long since vanished."
They looked to Storia and chuckled lightly. "Enough," Sarmin finally said, "at ease, all of you. We return from our long journey and battles. We bring home your children, lovers with stories, riches, and empty bellies so let us feast."
Storia stepped forward. "You heard the Lord help the Blades unload, then meet in the dining hall. Servants help the merchants to their designated rooms move. "
The warriors peeled off in perfect order. Servants scrambled in waves and the entrance was cleared in a matter of minutes.
Then they stood before me eyes still locked on me with no readable expression. I proceeded to give them the proper greeting that Storia taught me. "Welcome home, my Lord's. I am Samar Drakon. It is a honor to be in your presence.
Sarmin and Maran then knelt down and they hugged me tight. It was weird at first then it started to warm and real I decided to stop fighting it. "We know who you are, son," Sarmin said, voice low. "We're sorry we've been gone. But that ends now."
Maran smiled softly, brushing a lock of hair from my eye. "Yes. Things needed to be… handled." There was a thin line of blood on her cheek. She didn't even try to wipe it away. "But now," she whispered, "we stay. For a long time."
I didn't know what to say so I just nodded. "Good I would like to get to spend some time with you two." They smiled then Samir grabbed my left hand and Maran my right and walked down the hall together.
We dined like kings.
Roasted duck, fire-kissed lamb, steamed clams and honeyed bread filled the long stone table. Wines from Dorne, cheese from the Vale, and spiced meats from the Summer Isles. My parents didn't leave my side once, eating, laughing, speaking with the Blades and the Merchants.
Everyone loved and adored them. Even the toughest warriors looked at my mother like she was a goddess. Even the most hardened traders addressed my father like he was the sun around which coin revolved. Some people left early arm and arm. probably to make up for lost time.
By the time the moon had risen high, my belly full and mind buzzing from the exactment of the feast, I wandered to the training hall, unable to sleep.
There, I practiced—slashing at a wooden post with my training sword. Sharp swings. Proper form. Focused breath.
strike, flow, reset, I did this multiple times until I was covered in sweat. Then I heard footsteps approaching, and then, she entered. Maran, dressed in simple training robes. Storia entered behind her, both holding dulled sparring swords.
My mother smiled. " Practicing on your own?" I nodded. "Just working off the food."
"Good," she said. "But your grip needs adjustment." She came behind me, adjusted my elbow, corrected my stance. I swallowed my nerves and focused on the movement. I went back into my rhythm again. It was harder to stay with the adjustment Maran made to me. But I kept at it chipping away at the post. I stopped a few minutes later sweaty and out of breath but I felt accomplished.
Then, I stepped back and I had to see them. Maran and Storia sparring. They began slowly with strikes and parry's. Then their paced became faster and faster.
Steel on steel moved in blurs and sparks flew with the sound of metal clangs . Footwork slid across the stone with such speed I could barely keep track. They weaved, struck, parried, countered, each movement echoing lightsaber forms I knew from Star Wars lore, but it felt different like more refined and brutal.
It's like they were dancing with their blades, but never once drew blood and It was beautiful. After what felt like twenty minutes, they stopped, breathing heavy, sweat beading down their faces.
"That was a good warm-up," my mother said. "Agreed," Storia replied, wiping her brow.
Then, in unison, they looked at me. and they could tell how aww struck I am covered in sweat. "Bed. Now." They looked at each other and smiled.
I groaned internally. Are you kidding me, this was getting so good but I didn't argue. "Yes, ma'am," I muttered. As I turned, my father appeared in the archway, leaning on the stone frame with a smirk.
"Next time, son," he said. "But just you wait until tomorrow I have a surprise for you." His eyes gleamed. The kind of gleam that said: tomorrow, everything changes.
I walked back to my room, the warmth of the training hall still in my muscles and the weight of my parents' presence lingering in my thoughts. My arms ached in a good way, and my stomach was full, but I couldn't help but feel a strange tension knotting inside me.
They were my mother and father in name and blood, but strangers in truth.
In one hand I held a warm bucket of water. In the other, a simple bar of black soap laced with summer mint. I set them down by the basin near my bed and stripped down. With practiced motions, I scrubbed the sweat and dust from my skin, washing the day away in slow, rhythmic strokes. The silence was comforting. The water soothing. When I finished, I dried off, crawled into bed, and lay under the covers—still warm from the earlier sun. Sleep came instantly and I welcomed it ready for the next day.
King's Landing – The Red Keep (5 hours earlier)
The torches flickered along the curved stone walls of the Small Council chamber, casting long shadows across the floor. The air was thick with the scent of parchment, old wine with a hint of political plotting.
King Robert Baratheon sat leaned forward on the table, thick fingers gripping a golden goblet half-filled with wine. His royal cloak hung crooked over one shoulder, his attire looking slightly tight on him bulging not muscle but fat beneath it. He was looking less and less every year like the old warrior-king. He was still broad, dark-haired, with a storm behind his eyes, but even now, seven years after the rebellion, the crown still sat on his head like an unwanted yoke.
Across from him sat his Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, composed as always, and the ever-watchful Varys, the spider, draped in soft lavender robes and the same unreadable smile he wore like a second face.
Robert growled. "Any word on the location of those Targaryen brats yet?" Varys bowed his bald head slightly. "Still in Essos, Your Grace. My little birds sing of movement, but nothing conclusive. However… they are not under the current protection of House Drakon."
Robert raised an eyebrow, his voice rising. "Drakon? Those silver-haired bastards are always in something. Will they kill the dragon fuckers for us, or turn them over if we ask?"
Varys' smile widened, just barely. "They've refused to offer further assistance regarding the Targaryen children. A formal statement was sent via raven from Volantis."
The goblet slammed onto the table with the wine spilling on the Roberts hand and the table. "What?" Robert bellowed. "They were with us during the Rebellion! What do they want now more coin?!"
Jon Arryn finally spoke. "They claim, Your Grace, that they will not help in the murder of defenseless children. If the Targaryen survivors seek asylum and prove themselves to House Drakon's standards, then… they will be accepted. Beyond that, they say, what happens within their house is no one's concern but their own."
Robert pushed away from the table, pacing in frustration. "Fucking silver lizards, the lot of them! They speak like knights and act like gods. Monsters on the battlefield, sharper merchants than the Braavosi, and richer than half the damn realm."
Grand Maester Pycelle, nodding along, added with a wheezy chuckle, "And do not forget their medicine, Your Grace. Their healing arts rival anything in the Citadel and maybe even surpass it. I've read volumes on their blood purification, bone-binding tonics, and even their surgeries without needing milk of the poppy. Remarkable."
Robert grunted. "Aye. They are what the Targaryen Dynasty should have been after Aegon reign. But I losing their dragons humbled them not one bloody bit."
Stannis Baratheon, brooding near the back, arms crossed, interjected. "From what I've gathered, House Drakon held a higher status than the Targaryens in ancient Valyria. Perhaps they never needed dragons to prove their power."
The room fell quiet for a moment Robert exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Well, doesn't matter now," he muttered. "Keep your ears open, Varys. The moment those dragon spawn crawl out of their hole , I want to know."
Varys inclined his head. "As you wish, Your Grace."
Winterfell – The Godswood
Lord Eddard Stark stood beneath the weirwood tree, arms folded, his eyes fixed on the training yard beyond. Jon Snow and Robb Stark, both five years old, clashed wooden swords under Ser Rodrik's guidance. Robb was laughing, quick on his feet. Jon moved with quiet concentration, his strikes clean but restrained.
Beside Ned stood Catelyn, wrapped in her thick wolf-fur cloak, her brow creased. "I still don't understand why Jon must train with Robb," she said quietly.
Ned's eyes didn't move.
"He is my blood."
"He is a bastard he will never be heir of Winterfell."
"He will know our ways. He will know the sword, the faith, the North. That is final, Catelyn. Don't question me on this again." She tensed but said nothing more. After a moment, she turned. "The Drakon Merchant Envoy arrives in five months. We will begin preparations for their stay. Samir Drakon said he will bring his son with him."
"Good are boys should meet," Ned said, finally glancing at her. "If any house can make winter more tolerable, it's theirs."
"I'll make sure Sansa is prepared as well," Catelyn added, nodding once before walking away.
Ned stood in silence. His gaze returned to Jon, then Robb, then back to Jon. A thought gnawed at him, quiet and persistent. Should I ask Samir to take Jon with him? He would be safer and more free to have a life.
The godswood whispered with wind and falling snow. Ned said nothing, but he did not turn away.
Morning light filtered through the high, slitted windows of my chamber, casting a gold-tinged warmth over the polished obsidian floor. I rose slowly, stretching, half-expecting to hear Storia's voice calling me to break our fast as usual.
But the hall was quiet. I descended into the dining chamber, it wasn't Storia who waited, but my mother and father.
Maran and Samir, already seated, casual and composed in their morning garb. My father sipped from a dark clay cup, a steaming broth of bone and spices. While my mother was slicing a thin cut of meat, neither of thier gazes left their plates.
I paused at the threshold, confused. "Good morning mother and father, where's Storia?" I asked, taking my seat.
"Good morning son. She's been granted a short vacation," Samir replied, without looking up. "And then she'll be heading to Westeros. She's doing a job for me. Don't worry, you'll see her again."
His tone was simple and calm. I wonder what's going on and why Storia has gone to Westeros.
"From now on," Maran added, her voice soft and serene. "we'll be handling your education. At least for a while."
I smiled. "Great!" But internally I'm nervous as hell. I could learn alot from them but who knows how they act with their abilities.
The week that followed was beyond enlightening. They didn't just teach me, they challenged me and I welcomed learning from them. Every subject taught was layered, testing more than my critical thinking and reflexes.
History with Father was a vivid recollection of war and strategy. He didn't just speak of the Dance of the Dragons, he dissected it. He was like a historian, philosopher, and a war general in one.
When he taught math, he used merchant ledgers and real currency, walking me through currency exchange, profit margins, and the art of negotiation. At times, he treated me like a business apprentice. Other times, like a rival merchant.
Mother, on the other hand, brought a different approach. She is the definition of tiger mom. She tough, patient, fair and supportive all at the same time.
She pushed me harder than Storia ever did. My technique and basics had to be flawless it didn't matter if I was five bane days olds. She expected great things from me cause she new I was capable of it. My strikes had to be smooth and strong and my defense strong yet adaptable.
Every time I improved, even slightly, she acknowledged it.
"Good parry, now again." Then we switched to strikes. I was dueling two trainees' at once. I told to stop over committing my strikes. So I decided to listen to the Force. When I reached out mid strike I could feel a pulse and then I waited instinctively for the right moment. Then moments later in two clear strikes I disarmed both opponents at once.
"Better. You're learning. Your control is still loose, but your instincts are solid." Then came the tests. They were unspoken, unannounced. But I felt the shift in the air whenever something wasn't right.
One day, they took me through a crowded part of Volantis, rich and poor, merchant and mercenary alike. I was told nothing. Just to walk beside them. I reached out into the force and felt it. their were eye's on me. But there was no intent for harm so I did not but watched and observed.
Later that night, Father asked, "How many men followed us?" "Three," I said. "Two soldiers, one merchant spy. The merchant peeled off near the spice bazaar."
He nodded, pleased. "Good son, but you missed the woman in the tower." I nodded. "Yes sir."
Another day, I was tasked with retrieving a scroll from my room. When I returned, it was gone. The scroll had been hidden in the secret seam of a candle base, a lesson in misdirection and spatial awareness.
They were watching how I reacted. What I sensed. What I felt. And when we sat to eat, I finally asked.
" Father have you ever heard of… the Force?" Samir's eyes flicked up from his cup. It was subtle but I saw it. He took a deep breath followed by a short pause.
Maran stopped slicing her fruit. "Where did you hear that word?" my father asked. I hesitated I need to be careful about what I saw. They could probably tell if I'm lying. I took a deep breathe Then spoke carefully.
"I had a dream. There was a man, tall, brown-skinned, broad, in heavy robes with armor. He held a sword made of light. There was a woman with him, silver hair like ours. She looked Valyrian."
Silence took the room. My parents exchanged a looks with each other. Then turned to me, eyes intense, yet unreadable.
"Come," Samir said. "I believe it's time." We walked down the long open hallway towards the family library. Guards stood aside with a slight bow as we passed through the iron-banded doors. I'd never been allowed in, not without head lords permission. But today, I walked between them like I belonged.
The room was vast but dimly lit the windows were closed and covered. Rows of polished mahogany shelves stretched like pillars into the shadows, lined with books chests, scrolls, and weapon racks decorated the sides. Ancient Drakon relics gleamed behind enchanted glass. A long oak table stood at the center, and at it sat a woman I had never seen before.
She looked to be in her thirties. Silver-platinum pixie cut hair, dressed in black merchant robes with blue lining. Her skin was pale and smooth, her eyes the color of sapphire's.
She was reading a scroll, and writing on a parchment of paper. She looked up as we entered. "Good morning, my Lords," she said respectfully.
"Good morning, Seris," my father responded. "And please it's just us here no need to be formal. This is our son. Samar. Samar this is your cousin Seris she is the Drakon family scribe. she knows the majority of our families histories and ensures no knowledge is lost and is maintained for future generations."
She stood and bowed slightly. "It is a honor cousin." I stepped forward, uncertain. "Nice to meet you."
She smiled, then looked at my parents. "What brings you here?" Maran spoke, recounting my dream. Seris stilled. Then she turned to me, and I felt it. a small flicker like a beacon. She can use the force as well. She noticed my expression
"So… he's awakened." Without another word, she moved to the far bookshelf, her fingers brushing over the bindings like keys on a piano. She pressed three in a specific order.
Click. The shelf shifted, sliding open to reveal a passageway a hidden chamber. I was speechless. Smokey white crystals glowed along the walls, illuminating a long hallway that led to a door—not wooden or stone, but mechanical. Ancient. Ornate. Covered in etched symbols and metal reliefs.
Seris gestured to the panels. "These are the towers of Old Valyria… the deserts of Essos… and this" she pointed to a hooded figure carved in obsidian," is the man from your dream. He came from the stars with the woman. Together, they saved our ancestors from the Doom and gave us the knowledge to star anew."
Seris turned to me. "This door only opens to those of our blood. Would you like to try?"
I swallowed hard. "What do I do?" Samir knelt beside me. "Close your eyes. What do you feel?" I exhaled. Let the Force guide me. "I feel… something. It's small and shimmering behind the door."
"Good," he said. "Now make it brighter." I raised my hand and imagined the light swelling. I pictured it growing, shining, pushing outward then. Click. Clack. CHURN.
The door moved. Figures etched into the door came alive, dragons taking flight, warriors marching through sand, a man rising to the sky. Then the door opened
The vault was massive. Filled with piles of bags filled with coins. Shelf stocked with numerous scrolls and books. Armor and weapons on stands, even dragon bones in the far back and they were huge. Their a few chest around the vault and some were open showing them filled with jewels.
In the center of the fault was a podium with single book on it. It looked large and heavy. Bound in black lining, stitched with amethyst High Valyrian script. The Drakon sigil blazed across the cover in shimmering blood-red ink.
Seris bowed her head. "This is the Drakon Family Journal. Only you the head lords of the family and who they deem can read from it." She moved to a chest and opened it. Inside I felt the force the moment she open the chest and I instinctively already knew what it was. Even before she said it. As she pulled it out I new it was Revan's Holocron.
She held hexahedron shape holocron gently in her palm. "This was left by the man who saved house Drakon four hundred years ago. It is filled with knowledge, from stars and how to wield them. Teachings for war and philosophy. Only the heir and the heads of House Drakon can access it."
Maran spoke now, voice rich with pride and weight.
"These are the sacred treasures of our house. Knowledge that can give us the power to surpass the dragon themselves." She looked directly at me. "From this day forward, you will study the journal. It will never leave your side while in this home. No one else will be allowed to read this besides me, your father, Seris and you."
"Yes, Mother," I said, breathless. I could barely contain my excitement. I opened the book and the text was in high Valyrian I could read well enough. Later after I get more attuined with the force I will be able unlock the Holocron.
Seris smiled at me. "I will be here to help guide you whenever you need me. If you have questions, ask. That is why I'm here." "Thank you, Seris," I said, sincerely.
As we stepped back into the main hall we heard it. Shouting a voice raised sounding loud and petulant. We moved to the grand entry.
And there he was with hair like silver silk, features sharp and proud and eyes like mine. A boy. Around thirteen name days old. Dressed in worn noble garb, though nothing fit right. Arrogance poured off him in waves as he yelled at the Drakon guards, two massive warriors, both twice his size and three times as calm.
"I demand to speak to the heads of House Drakon!" he shouted. "Do you know who I am?!"
I stepped forward narrowing my eyes narrowed. So it is this asshole I groaned internally."Viserys Targaryen," I said calmly.
He turned, startled, and then his face shifted to shock, followed by that snake-like smile. The same smile I seen in past. The smile of a narcissist.
My parents stepped beside me, silent. He bowed stiffly.
Viserys took a bold step forward, silver-blonde hair swaying with his self-importance, but the twin guards blocking the marble threshold moved like statues come to life, halting him with an thier muscular arms and cross of spears.
He sneered, composing himself with what he probably thought was noble charm. His voice lilted with faux dignity. "It is an honor to stand before you, Lords of House Drakon. Fellow High Valyrian. "
"Stop." I cut in, my voice clear, firm, and distinctly childlike. His words died in his throat. The look he gave me was a flash of irritation, quickly smothered beneath a mask of patronizing amusement.
"I am speaking to your parents, young lord," he said, drawing out the last part like he was talking to a flea.
I new he couldn't handle being challenged especially if he thinks he stronger and in this case he wasn't. I stepped forward without hesitation.
"You said lords and I am a lord and their heir so when you address them, you address me as well." I replied, folding my arms. " I already know what they're going to say."
Behind me, I caught the subtle shift of my father's expression, an amused flicker in his normally stone-set gaze. He gestured subtly with a silent nodded, inviting me to proceed. My mother didn't speak, but gave the same gesture.
I turned back to Viserys, channeling every ounce of disdain I could muster in cold expressionless face and tone. he looked just like his tv show counterpart, but i know how shitty of a person he was in the show and worse in the books. In my shit list he is fourth from the top. Number one being Catelyn Stark.
"Listen, Viserys. None of us here are 'High Valyrian.' Not anymore. We carry drops of that blood, nothing more. My family has grown and evolved our lineage. While your line has become an abomination of nature."
His face twisted with venom. "Excuse me?"
I tilted my head. "Let me clarify. I'm not judging the old customs, marrying siblings and such. It's your family's obsession with it. You locked yourselves in that blood cage and never thought to open the door enough for it to matter. My house? We adapted. We grew. My great-grandparents on were half-Targaryen on both sides, but not siblings. We have become a mighty tree. While yours Viserys has ours rotted in place."
His mouth opened, then shut again.
I stepped closer. "And don't you ever talk down to our guards again. Some of them share our blood yes, ours. They don't call us 'my lord' because they have to. They do it because they respect us. Something you would never understand that."
I thought back to every scene I knew of Viserys—both from the books and the show. The cowardice. The cruelty. The desperate clinging to dead glories.
"You're pathetic," I said bluntly. "And I know why you're here."
He blinked.
"You came to convince my parents or beg if you have to for help. To take you and your sister in. To take our armies and help you reclaim the Iron Throne."
Viserys went pale, then red, then pale again. "You don't—You DARE—"
"It's been seven years since the rebellion. If House Drakon hasn't taken you in yet, it's because you didn't meet our standards. You don't have the talent. I don't know about your sister, but I'd wager she has more potential than you ever will. Maybe even the makings of a real dragon."
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, CHILD!" he shouted and surged forward.
Before he took two steps, one of the guards moved.
With a casual, practiced motion, the dark-skinned warrior woman with lilac eyes grabbed his arm and slammed him face-first into the marble. The thud echoed.
"Unhand me, you peasant!" he spat, struggling. I knelt in front of him.
"Look." He glared up, furious. "LOOK at her eyes." He hesitated—then obeyed.
Lilac. Just like his. Just like mine. "You see?" I said softly. "She's more a dragon than you'll ever be. And this—your arrogance, your weakness—that's why it's a good thing your line lost the dragons. Power doesn't make you a king or a dragon, Viserys. It reveals what you really are."
" That's enough," my mother said finally, her voice cool and final. She gestured with one hand. The guard lifted Viserys and set him on his knees. He didn't rise, just sat there, seething, eyes locked on me like he wanted to kill me.
And then a voice. Feminine and refined. "Viserys," she called. "Stop embarrassing yourself. And our family."
All heads turned as a woman entered the open door her presence undeniable. She was stunning, regal in black and silver robes, her hair platinum blonde braided tight around her head. Her expression held dignity, but behind it… tiredness. Her eyes scanned the room, resting finally on my parents.
Beside her was a little girl. She was small, only four name days at most, with silver-blonde hair and violet eyes wide with curiosity.
That must be Daenerys. Which means the woman had to be. " Rhaella Targaryen," my father said quietly.
She bowed slightly. "Lords of House Drakon," she said. "Please forgive my son. He still carries many wounds from what was lost."
Samir gestured to the guards. "Let them pass. Close the door behind them."
The heavy doors sealed with a dull thoom. Maran's voice cut through the silence. "Rhaella… what is this? Have we not done enough for your family? And now you bring this to our doorstep?"
Th former Queen bowed her head. "You are right, and I apologize. But I had no choice. Our situation has become desperate."
Before she could finish—
Viserys spoke again. "Kindness? You helped overthrow my father! You backed the usurper! You cast us from our home our kingdom!"
CRACK.
The same guard punched him across the face, knocking him back to his knees. Blood dripped from his nose.
Maran stepped forward, her voice low and filled with fury. "You poor, deluded boy. You don't know, do you? My family is the reason you're still alive."
She knelt beside him, voice softer now.
"Do you think Targaryen loyalists would've protected you forever? Without our coin? Our ships? Without our healers? It was our us who saved your mother's life when she gave birth to your sister. And it was our blades that stopped the Mountain from slaughtering your aunt Elia Martell and her children."
I froze. Wait… what? Elia Martell is alive? Rhaenys and Aegon too?
Did they… stop the Mountain? Is he dead? My mind was racing. A thousand possibilities screaming for attention.
I tried to stay focused—but then something else hit me. A pulse in the Force and It came from Daenerys. So she is strong in the force.
I turned toward her. She tilted her head, staring at me with a curious expression. Her presence was soft not tainted by the the future events. She didn't know it yet, but the Force moved through her like a fire ready to burn bright. And suddenly—a plan began to form in my head to use this to my advantage.