Dragonstone.
Night. In the sept of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra knelt before the Seven.
She was not praying. She was simply kneeling.
Two black iron chests rested on her knees.
Candlelight flickered before the Seven, illuminating the Maiden's face. Rhaenyra's eyes fell upon the base of the Maiden's statue, where a line of short words was carved: She hears all sorrows.
Rhaenyra smiled bitterly.
Her beloved eldest son. Her heir. Her pride.
Joffrey. Joffrey had been only ten years old when a dragon took him alive...
Rhaenyra closed her eyes. She heard her own heartbeat—slow and heavy. And that hatred would always flow in her blood, never fading.
Very light footsteps sounded outside the door. The door opened carefully.
She did not turn around.
"Your Grace," a handmaiden said softly. "An envoy has arrived from Rook's Rest."
Rhaenyra did not move.
The handmaiden waited for a time, and saw the queen motionless in the candlelight, like a stone statue. She quietly withdrew.
After a while.
Rhaenyra opened her eyes.
She looked down at the two black iron chests beside her knees. On each lid was carved a line of words: Jacaerys Velaryon, Joffrey Velaryon. In High Valyrian.
Rhaenyra reached out, her fingertips touching the cold lid. The cold spread from her fingertips, through her veins, to her heart.
She remembered when Jacaerys was a child, always pestering her with questions. "Mother, why must I be called Velaryon, not Targaryen?"
What had she answered then?
"Because in the future, you will be the lord of High Tide, heir to your grandfather the Sea Snake."
Jace had blinked and said, "Then I will be a dragonrider?"
"Yes," she had smiled and kissed his forehead. "You will be a dragonrider."
Rhaenyra's fingers tightened, gripping the lid of the chest.
"Jace," she said softly.
No one answered.
"Joffrey."
No one answered in the sept.
She remembered what Princess Rhaenys had told her: Men would sooner burn their kingdoms to ash than see a woman ascend the Iron Throne.
Perhaps she had been wrong from the start. Perhaps she should not have fought for the Iron Throne for Jacaeris...
Perhaps none of these tragedies would have happened.
"Mother will avenge you."
She covered the cold lid of the chest with her hand.
"I swear."
These three words left her lips, passed through her teeth.
She stood. Her knees were numb; she staggered and caught the icon platform. The wooden top was cold. She looked up.
The Seven looked down at her.
The Maiden's face was merciful and distant. The stone statue's eye sockets were deep; candlelight flickered in them, as if with compassion and pity.
Rhaenyra looked into those eye sockets and suddenly remembered that many years ago, the night after her mother Emma died, she had knelt here too, looking at the Maiden's statue. She had been only eight years old.
At eight, she had knelt before the Maiden and prayed again and again—praying for her mother to return, for her father to be less sad, for her newborn brother to survive. She had prayed all night.
And then? Her mother did not return. Her brother lived only one day before dying. Her father locked himself in his chambers and saw no one.
After that, ten-year-old Rhaenyra Targaryen was summoned to Viserys the First and told she would be heir to the Iron Throne.
Rhaenyra looked at the Maiden's statue.
"Did you bless my mother?" she asked.
The Maiden did not answer.
"Did you ever bless my sons?"
The candle burned quietly.
"You are nothing."
Her voice was very soft, as if speaking to herself.
"False gods."
The Maiden was silent.
Queen Rhaenyra looked away. She turned and walked out the door.
Passing the door, she saw the handmaiden. The young girl stood by the door, head bowed, shoulders trembling slightly.
The handmaiden looked up; her eyes were slightly red. "Your Grace."
Rhaenyra did not look back, and said, "Go and give the orders. Summon the council."
---
In the Great Hall of Dragonstone.
Lava flowed beneath the table with the map, illuminating the whole hall with a ruddy glow. The great map of the Seven Kingdoms was carved with every castle, every river, every forest from the North to Dorne. After House Targaryen came to Dragonstone, their ancestors had ordered this map made.
Rhaenyra ascended the high platform.
A handmaiden already held the crown. Viserys the First's Valyrian steel crown, the seven-pointed crown. She tried to place it on the queen's head, but Rhaenyra took it herself and put it on.
This crown of Valyrian steel was very light.
But she felt it unbearably heavy.
She turned and looked at the hall.
Corlys Velaryon already stood to her left. The old man's back was still straight, as if he stood at the prow of a ship, facing the storms of his youth. His gaze was still calm, inscrutable, like the sea.
Princess Rhaenys stood to her right. The dragonrider of the Red Queen Meleys, known as the "Queen Who Never Was." Her beautiful dark hair had greyed, but her violet eyes still seemed to burn.
She looked at Rhaenyra and nodded slightly.
The vassals of Dragonstone were arranged in order in this hall. They wore their house colors—some with family sigils, others with plain surcoats.
Rhaenyra recognized every face: House Celtigar, House Massey, House Bar Emmon...
Many of those who had been loyal to her in her father Viserys the First's time remained loyal to her.
The handmaiden beside her stepped forward and cleared her throat.
"Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, of her name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms."
Her voice echoed through the hall.
All bowed their heads in greeting.
Rhaenyra was silent. She looked at the envoy kneeling in the hall.
The envoy from Rook's Rest. He was a young man in grey leather armor, kneeling on the stone floor, his face flushed. He raised his head and looked at the queen on the high platform; his lips moved, but no sound came.
"My loyal man, tell me," Queen Rhaenyra looked at him.
The envoy drew a deep breath and spoke urgently.
"Your Grace! Lord Staunton reports that the Green army has begun its march from Antlers. In three days, these armies will arrive at Rook's Rest. The killers—Aemond's dragons—those two beasts. Several days ago, they soared over Rook's Rest, harassing and breathing fire. We have lost more than a hundred people... Your Grace, Lord Staunton begs for reinforcements. The sooner, the better!"
The words fell, and silence filled the hall.
Rhaenyra looked at the envoy. The young man knelt on the floor, hands on the ground, forehead pressed to the stone. His back trembled slightly—not with fear, but with exhaustion. He must have ridden from Rook's Rest with almost no sleep.
"What is your name?" Rhaenyra asked.
The envoy looked up. "Sam, Your Grace. Lord Staunton's chamberlain."
"Sam," said Rhaenyra, "you have done well. Go—take him to rest."
Sam was taken aback for a moment. "Your Grace, but the reinforcements..."
"I will send reinforcements," Rhaenyra said. "You need rest now."
Sam opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but finally lowered his head. "Yes, Your Grace."
Two guards stepped forward, helped Sam to his feet, and led him from the hall. The doors closed.
Rhaenyra turned to the map table.
She descended from the platform and walked to the table. The vassals automatically yielded. She stood before the map and looked down at the location of Rook's Rest—the northeastern edge of the Crownlands, the entrance to the Crabclaw Peninsula, very close to Dragonstone. On dragonback, it would take less than two hours.
Her fingers tapped lightly on Rook's Rest. She looked at them all.
"We must meet this battle."
She raised her gaze and looked around.
"Lord Staunton could have bent the knee to Aegon the Second, surrendered hostages, and kept his lands, like the other Crownlords. But he did not. He chose the oath he swore long ago—to be loyal to me."
Her voice was not loud, but every word was clear.
"Such a vassal—I will not let him face the Greens' wrath alone."
The vassals exchanged glances. Some nodded, some were silent.
Rhaenyra turned right. "Princess Rhaenys, what do you think?"
Princess Rhaenys did not answer immediately. She looked down at Rook's Rest on the map.
"This battle," Princess Rhaenys said slowly, "even if you cannot kill Aemond, if you can strike him hard and hold Rook's Rest, you will declare to all the Crownlords that the Blacks can protect those who are loyal to us."
She looked at Rhaenyra.
"At that moment, the other Crownlords will understand that the Greens are not the only option."
Rhaenyra nodded.
The best outcome: kill Aemond, defeat this army, and hold Rook's Rest. If that were achieved, how would the Greens fight them further? Aegon and Sunfyre, Daeron and the Blue Queen were too young, and Helaena and Dreamfyre had never been in battle. Only Aemond was different. The twin dragonrider, who had nearly killed Bronze Fury Vermithor. That battle with the bastard rider for Dragonstone had proved his talent for dragon control.
Just kill Aemond.
"Your Grace."
Princess Rhaenys looked up.
"Let me lead Meleys on the expedition."
Her words broke the silence in the hall.
Corlys stood to the side, watching his wife. He was silent, his gaze fixed on Rhaenys's face. He had seen that face for forty-five years and knew every line. But at this moment, he suddenly felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. Something burned in her eyes.
He had seen it before. Forty years ago, when she first mounted Meleys, there had been something special in her eyes.
Burning.
Rhaenyra looked at Rhaenys.
"Princess," she said, "this battle is too dangerous..."
Rhaenys shook her head.
"I do not ask you as a princess or a lady."
She paused.
"I am a grandmother. My son died in lies and plots. My grandchildren died by Aemond's hand. My husband's House Velaryon—its centuries of foundation—he burned. Velaryon people are killing each other..."
She lowered her head.
"This is a grievance I must end with my own hands."
Rhaenyra looked at her for a long time.
"Very well."
She turned to Corlys.
"Lord Corlys."
Corlys bowed slightly.
"You will lead the fleet to Crabclaw Bay. If the Green fleet dares to sail north to reinforce, I want every one of them at the bottom of the sea."
Corlys lowered his head.
"As you command."
But his gaze never left Rhaenys.
Rhaenys did not look at him. She simply lowered her head and gently stroked the wedding ring on her finger. A line of small runes carved on the inside of the ring—she had long memorized it: Fire and blood, sea and sky.
She herself had carved it when she was young.
Princess Rhaenys proudly raised her eyes.
"Perhaps... it is time for me to prepare."
She turned and walked toward the door of the hall.
Corlys stood in place.
He looked at the door.
The heavy oak door was carved with the Targaryen Valyrian saying—Blood of one blood, fire of one fire.
He did not stop her.
He had never stopped her in his life.
After a long time.
He said quietly.
"Rhaenys."
She could no longer hear.