The night air was cold and sharp against Rhaego's face as he soared high above the clouds. Moonlight bathed his wings in silver, turning the membranes into living stained glass, charcoal at the base, fading into deep crimson and gold along the edges.
Each powerful stroke carried him further west, the wind roaring in his ears like an old friend.
Even so, the endless darkness gave him too much time to think of something else.
Home.
The word came unbidden.
He thought of home for a moment, the distant warmth of Meereen, the smell of incense and dragonfire, his mother's voice calling him back from the sky. But those thoughts were quickly pushed aside.
Not yet, he told himself. The mission first.
Margaery and Loras Tyrell. He had to get them out before the Faith Militant tightened its grip any further. If he pushed hard enough, he could reach King's Landing before sunrise.
After all, he was faster than his siblings… Drogon's raw power, Rhaegal's agility, Viserion's grace. He had always been the quickest when he truly tried.
Hours passed in silence.
The stars wheeled overhead as the land below blurred into darkness. Then, finally, a faint orange glow appeared on the horizon.
Rhaego blinked, gliding through a thin layer of clouds. There it was.
King's Landing.
The city sprawled like a living beast beside the Blackwater Rush, a vast tangle of lights, smoke, and stone. The Red Keep stood proud on its hill, torches flickering along its walls.
Even from this distance, the sight was magnificent, exactly as the stories had described: grand, chaotic, and impossibly alive.
"There it is," Rhaego whispered to himself, awe mixed with determination.
After being trapped in this world for so long, seeing King's Landing with his own eyes felt surreal. This was the heart of the realm he always read about.
The wind rushed through his silver hair as he glided between drifting banks of cloud, his wings stretched wide behind him. Far below, ships drifted across Blackwater Bay like scattered lanterns upon black water. Somewhere in that city, bakers were preparing ovens for the morning.
Gold cloaks were changing watches. Drunkards staggered home from taverns.
An entire city slept beneath him.
And none of them knew a dragon flew overhead.
The thought almost made him smile.
Almost.
Then his gaze found the Great Sept of Baelor, his smile vanished. Even from above, the sept dominated the city. Its pale marble gleamed beneath the moonlight, serene and majestic.
A monument to faith.
A monument to lies.
Rhaego stared at it longer than he intended.
Wildfire. The word came unbidden.
He remembered green flames consuming stone. Remembered screams. Remembered thousands dying in an instant.
Or perhaps remembered was the wrong word.
Those events had not happened here.
Not yet… Perhaps they never would.
This was not the same story anymore. Too many things had already changed. He existed, for one and yet... The sight of the sept still left a knot in his stomach.
If the wildfire remained beneath the city… If Cersei remained desperate enough… How many of those lights would one day vanish in green fire? How many innocent people would die without ever understanding why?
His jaw tightened.
Not today.
He climbed higher, staying near the clouds as he approached. From above, the Great Sept of Baelor gleamed like a white jewel, its seven towers reaching toward the sky. He circled once, twice, scanning carefully for Sparrow guards on the rooftops and battlements.
Where are you? he thought, eyes sharp.
He drifted toward the Red Keep next, staying high enough to appear as nothing more than a distant bird against the night sky. His gaze swept over the Maidenvault, the tower where highborn ladies were often kept.
A single candle still burned in one window.
Rhaego's heart quickened. He spotted it, a carefully folded handkerchief placed near the sill, embroidered with a golden rose. A Tyrell symbol.
There.
He circled once more to check for watchers, then folded his wings tight and dropped silently, cloaking himself in the long dark cloth he had prepared. He landed lightly on the narrow ledge beside the window, catching the stone with strong hands.
For one terrifying second his foot slipped.
Then he recovered.
"Damn… that was close," he muttered.
He pressed himself flat against the wall and glanced downward, glancing down at the sheer drop below.
Slowly, carefully, he raised his head and looked through the window.
A candle still burned within.
And beside it sat a young woman in a loose sleeping gown.
Awake.
Waiting.
As though sleep had abandoned her hours ago.
It was Margaery Tyrell, she sat at a small writing desk, a candle flickering beside her, staring at a half-written letter she would never be allowed to send.
Her face was pale, her usual warmth dimmed by exhaustion and worry. Two septas sat in the corner, watching her silently like hawks. The air in the room felt heavy with tension, the weight of waiting for a trial that could end in disgrace or death.
Rhaego's breath caught. He had found her.
He stayed hidden in the shadows of the window ledge for a moment longer, observing. Margaery looked tired but unbroken, her fingers tapping restlessly against the desk as she tried to think of a way out of this nightmare.
Rhaego took a slow, quiet breath.
Inside, the two septas continued their vigil.
At first, they were attentive. One stood near the door, arms folded, eyes occasionally flicking toward Margaery as if expecting the girl to unravel into defiance or tears. The other sat in a carved wooden chair beside a small brazier, hands folded over her lap, lips moving in silent prayer to gods Rhaego did not care to name.
Time, however, was not kind to vigilance.
It wore it down slowly, like water against stone.
The seated septa's prayers grew softer, then less frequent. Her head began to dip, only slightly at first, as though she were merely considering her next word to the gods. Then it dipped again, slower this time, lingering too long before she forced herself upright.
The standing septa noticed.
"Sit," she said sharply at last.
"I am not tired," the other replied at once, too quickly.
But even as she said it, her voice betrayed her.
There was no strength in it. Only habit.
The standing septa exhaled through her nose, frustration more than cruelty in her expression.
"You will be useless to Her Grace if you collapse in the corner," she muttered. "I will fetch Sister Ellyn. She is in the lower corridor. She can relieve you."
"I said I am fine—"
"You are not."
There was no argument beyond that.
Duty, in its simplest form, always won in places like this.
The standing septa adjusted her robes and left the chamber without another word, the door closing softly behind her. Her footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by stone.
For a moment, nothing changed.
The remaining septa tried to straighten herself, to reclaim dignity from exhaustion. She muttered another prayer under her breath and rubbed at her eyes as if sheer will alone might clear them.
But will was not enough.
Not here.
Not tonight.
Slowly, inexorably, her head dipped again and this time, she did not fully lift it.
Silence returned to the room.
Margaery Tyrell watched it unfold without comment. She couldn't bring herself to care. She was trapped here, surrounded by enemies at every turn.
What did one sleeping guard matter when the walls themselves felt like a cage?
The candlelight flickered.
Then steadied.
A faint sound slipped through the silence of the Maidenvault.
Scrrrk.
Metal dragged against metal, it was soft at first, almost mistaken for the settling of old stone.
Margaery Tyrell stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim candlelight that still burned beside her unfinished letter. For a moment she did not move, only listened, as if the sound might reveal itself again if she remained still enough.
Then it came once more.
Scrrrk.
Her gaze drifted, calm and measured, toward the barred window. At first there was nothing beyond it but darkness, deep, patient, and absolute. The kind of darkness that made shapes out of doubt and fear.
Then the shadow shifted.
Something clung to the outer ledge of the tower.
Not falling. Not climbing in haste. But held there, pressed against the stone as though the wall itself had accepted its presence.
For a heartbeat, she told herself it was exhaustion playing tricks on her eyes. The kind of illusion that came from too many days of confinement, too many prayers spoken by others on her behalf.
But then the figure moved again.
A hand rose slowly into view, and with careful precision it began to test the iron bars of the window one by one, as if learning their strength rather than forcing them.
Scrrrk.
The sound was softer this time. Deliberate. Controlled.
Margaery rose from her chair without the scrape of wood against stone, her movements practiced in silence long before captivity had demanded it of her.
A dark hooded figure was carefully pushing open the iron-barred window from the outside. With surprising grace, the intruder slipped through the narrow gap and dropped silently into the room.
Margaery's eyes widened in shock. Before she could make a sound, the figure moved with startling speed, crossing the room in two strides and pressing a gloved hand firmly over her mouth.
Firm, but not cruel.
"Shh," the stranger whispered urgently. "Don't scream."
Margaery froze.
Not in fear but in assessment.
Her eyes lifted to his face at once, searching rather than panicking, measuring what stood before her with the instinct of someone raised among vipers in silk.
The hood shifted as he leaned closer, and candlelight caught what lay beneath.
It wasn't one of her brother's men. It wasn't a Tyrell ally she recognized.
Her thoughts stuttered for a moment.
It was a man with striking silver-white hair and vivid violet eyes. His pupils were strangely elongated, almost like a cat's. There was something unmistakably otherworldly about him… Regal, dangerous, and strangely beautiful.
She was more mesmerized than afraid.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he said in a lower voice now, steadier but still edged with strain. "I'm here to take you out of here."
Margaery did not look away from him.
Not once.
She studied him for a long moment, the silence stretching between them like a thread pulled tight. Slowly, carefully, he released his hand from her mouth when he saw she would not scream.
Margaery did not resist.
But she did not trust him either... Not yet.
That hesitation lingered in the slight tension of her shoulders, in the way her gaze stayed fixed on him rather than the window.
Rhaego turned first.
He moved back toward the narrow opening in the stone where he had entered, each step placed with deliberate care, testing sound before committing weight. The iron bars he had forced earlier still stood slightly bent, just enough to allow passage if one was careful.
He reached the ledge and paused, looking back at her once.
A single nod.
Come.
Margaery hesitated only a heartbeat longer. Then she followed. Not hurried. Not panicked.
Measured.
She crossed the chamber in silence, her gown brushing softly against the stone floor. The candlelight flickered as she passed, throwing her shadow long across the room like a second prisoner leaving with her.
At the window, Rhaego extended his hand first, not grabbing, not pulling… Just offering.
A choice.
Margaery looked at it for a brief moment, as though weighing what kind of man would risk this much for a stranger. Then she placed her hand in his.
Warm and steady.
Rhaego guided her carefully toward the opening, adjusting his grip only when necessary, making sure she did not strike the iron or catch her sleeve on the bent bars.
Outside, the night wind pressed against them immediately, colder and sharper than the air inside the vault.
Below them, King's Landing sprawled in sleeping chaos.
Rhaego shifted first, placing one foot onto the narrow stone ledge outside the window, then bracing himself against the wall.
Only then did he pull her closer.
"Careful," he murmured. "Don't look down."
Margaery gave a faint, breathless sound that might have been a laugh or disbelief.
"I rarely do," she whispered back.
And then she stepped through.