Chapter Text
High above the churning waters, Rhaenyra Targaryen cut through the air on dragonback, her figure a dark silhouette against the clouded sky. The wind whipped fiercely around her, tugging at her hair and clothes with cold fingers, but the queen paid it no heed. Clutched tightly in her grasp were the remnants of Lucerys’ life—a set of clothes once warm with the life of her son, now twisted and tangled in a cruel net alongside the remnants of Arrax’s wing. Each thread, each fiber screamed of the unspeakable loss she had endured, an echo of her son's last agonizing moments.
Tears streaked down Rhaenyra’s cheeks, lost in the wind as quickly as they appeared. Her grief was a living thing, a beast that clawed at her heart with sharp talons, leaving her breathless with its ferocity. She had sobbed for her father, for her daughter, but nothing had prepared her for this—the raw, wrenching agony of losing Lucerys, her beautiful boy whose laughter had once filled the halls of Dragonstone.
Her dragon, sensing the turmoil within its rider, let out a low, mournful cry that resonated through the misty air, mirroring Rhaenyra’s own sorrow. The rhythm of its mighty wings beating against the dense air was the only sound that accompanied her grief-stricken sobs. Each flap was a heavy, labored thud in the vast silence that hung between the sea and the sky.
The vast silence that enveloped Rhaenyra was broken only by the heavy, labored flaps of her dragon’s wings as they cut through the dense, misty air. Each beat resonated like a mournful drum, echoing the depth of sorrow that gripped the queen’s heart. With each sob that shook her frame, Rhaenyra was drawn deeper into a sea of memories, each wave crashing against her with relentless force.
She remembered the day Lucerys was born—the fierce joy and boundless hope that had lit up her world. He had come into life with a cry so strong and vital it had echoed through the halls of Dragonstone, heralding his arrival like a prince destined for greatness. Those first moments, holding her son, feeling his tiny heartbeat against her skin, had been pure, untainted by the complexities of the crown.
Then there was the day he first mounted his dragon, Arrax. Rhaenyra's heart had swelled with pride and fear as her young son, with a mixture of trepidation and awe, reached out to touch the dragon’s snout. Arrax had lowered his great head, accepting the boy with a gentleness that belied his immense power. The look on Lucerys’ face as they took to the skies for the first time had been filled with exhilaration—a dragonrider in truth, his destiny manifesting beneath the spread of leathery wings.
How eagerly he had embraced his role as her envoy, his young face serious yet bright with the honor of the trust she placed in him. His determination to make her proud, to prove himself worthy of his lineage, had been palpable. And now, those bright futures Rhaenyra had envisioned for him—his marriage to Rhaena, his rule over High Tide—would remain just that: visions, never to be realized.
As Rhaenyra wept for all that had been stolen from her son, from herself, a darker thread of thought wove through her grief. Could this be her punishment? Each sob brought with it a flood of guilt and doubt. Was the loss of Lucerys a reckoning for the choices she had made?
Secretly, she pondered whether her actions had led to this cruel fate. Her union with Harwin Strong had brought her three beautiful children, but had it also woven a curse into the fabric of her joy? And what of Laenor—encouraging him to live his truth had been a liberation for them both, allowing her to wed Daemon. Yet, had these selfish desires set them all on a path of divine retribution?
Her father, Viserys, had been left in King’s Landing, surrounded by the encroaching influence of the Hightowers. In her ambition, had she abandoned not just her father but the very principles that should have guided her? The weight of these thoughts pressed down upon her, intertwining with her grief to form a heavy shroud of despair.
The rhythm of her dragon’s wings became a backdrop to her turbulent thoughts, each beat a reminder of the unstoppable passage of time and the irreversible nature of her decisions. Rhaenyra's tears flowed freely, lost to the wind as she clutched the tattered remnants of Lucerys' clothes, the fabric soaked with the essence of her son.
As they neared Dragonstone, the formidable castle emerged from the fog, its spires clawing at the sky like the fingers of a desperate hand reaching upward. It was a sight that once brought comfort to Rhaenyra, a symbol of her power and legacy. Now, it stood as a reminder of all that had been taken from her. Alicent and her sons—their greed for power, their ruthless scheming—had stripped her of pieces of her heart one by one. What more would they take?
Rhaenyra’s grip tightened on Lucerys’ clothes, the fabric wrinkling under the force of her grasp. Her grief morphed slowly into a smoldering rage, a fiery pit that burned in her stomach, fueling her desire for vengeance. Aemond, with his one good eye and heart full of malice, had robbed her of her son. The thought of him spurred a bitter, burning hatred that coursed through her veins like wildfire.
Amidst her vows for vengeance, Rhaenyra’s thoughts drifted to the gods—those entities she had never truly believed in, never truly worshipped. Yet, in the days following Lucerys’ disappearance, she had found herself whispering prayers into the cold, unfeeling wind. Prayers that had brought her a semblance of comfort, fleeting and fragile, like the last leaves clinging to a winter branch.
Now, as Dragonstone loomed closer, the chill of the stone and sea seeped into her bones, a cold reminder of the solitude awaiting her. The walls of her home, once filled with the echoes of her children’s laughter, would now reverberate with the hollow sounds of mourning and the soft whispers of courtiers too timid to speak their fears aloud.
Landing on the windswept platform, Rhaenyra dismounted with a grace born of years of practice, yet each movement was laden with an unbearable heaviness. As she walked towards the great doors, her dragon trailing behind, the queen allowed herself one last look at the ocean sprawling beneath the cliffs of Dragonstone. The waves crashed against the rocks in a relentless assault, a mirror to her own turbulent emotions.
Inside, the halls were dimly lit, the torches casting long shadows that danced upon the stone walls. Each step echoed ominously, a stark reminder of her solitude. As she passed her courtiers, their heads bowed in a somber salute, Rhaenyra felt the weight of their gazes, heavy with pity and concern.
Retreating to the privacy of her chambers, Rhaenyra spread Lucerys’ clothes beside her, the fabric still carrying the scent of the sea and smoke. Sitting beside this last vestige of her son, the queen allowed herself to weep openly, her body wracked with sobs that shook the very air around her.
There, in the solitude of her grief, Rhaenyra Targaryen made a solemn vow. The death of her son would be answered by a storm of fire and blood. Aemond and all who stood with him would feel the wrath of a mother scorned, a queen bereft. She would have her vengeance, for every tear shed, for every scream swallowed by the wind.
Her resolve hardened like the stone of her castle; Rhaenyra rose from her mourning, her tears drying on her cheeks, her sorrow turning to steel. She would not falter, would not waiver. The dragons of House Targaryen would roar once more, and all of Westeros would tremble at their fury.
Rhaenyra Targaryen moved with a heavy, relentless purpose, her face smeared with the dirt and sweat of grief-laden days spent searching the skies and shores for any trace of her son. The stench of salt and sorrow clung to her like a shroud, marking the passage of time spent in anguished hope turned despair. She had returned empty-handed, save for the tattered remains of what Lucerys had left behind—reminders of the dreadful cost of her royal ambition.
As she approached the war room of Dragonstone, the murmurs of her council hushed to a reverent silence, punctuated only by the solemn announcement of her arrival. The doors swung open, their weight echoing through the stone halls like the tolling of a bell, signaling not just her entrance but the dawning of a grim chapter in the saga of the Targaryen dynasty.
Daemon was the first to approach her, his face a mask of concern veiled by determination. "Did you find what you needed?" he asked, his voice a low blend of hope and dread.
Rhaenyra only nodded, the muscles in her jaw tightening as she pushed past the comforting boundary of her husband's presence and made her way to the head of the council table. Every eye in the room followed her, tracing the line of her rigid spine and the set of her shoulders, heavy with the mantle of impending war.
Daemon turned to address the assembled lords and ladies, his voice carrying across the chamber with clear, commanding resonance. "The Queen's council is ready. At her command, I will fly to Harrenhal and establish a stronghold in the Riverlands," he declared, his gaze briefly flitting back to Rhaenyra, seeking affirmation.
Rhaenys Targaryen, known as The Queen Who Never Was, spoke next, her tone as sharp and precise as the strategies she laid out. "My lord husband's blockade at the Gullet is moving into place," she reported, her eyes meeting Rhaenyra's with an unspoken promise of solidarity. "Soon, all trade and seaborn travel to King's Landing will be cut off."
The room filled with the low hum of whispered approvals and anxious speculation, but Rhaenyra remained silent, her thoughts a whirlwind of rage and retribution. She absorbed the details of military movements and alliances, her mind working through the tactics and troop placements as if through a haze.
Finally, she stood, the scrape of her chair cutting through the murmurs like a sword through silk. Her voice, when she spoke, was devoid of hesitation, every word etched with cold fury. "I want Aemond Targaryen," she stated simply, her declaration resounding off the stone walls with the force of a royal decree.
No further explanations were offered, no strategies discussed. She turned on her heel, her cloak swirling around her as she strode from the room, leaving her council in a sudden, stunned silence. Her command was clear, her objective singular. The room behind her buzzed to life as her councilors scrambled to put plans into action, but Rhaenyra’s mind was already leagues away, chasing the fire of vengeance that burned through the corridors of her heart.
Outside, the cold air of Dragonstone hit her face, the salt spray stinging her eyes—or perhaps those were tears, born of fury rather than sorrow. She walked to the edge of the battlements, looking out over the sea that had claimed her son. The waves crashed against the rocks with relentless, rhythmic fury, mirroring the pounding of her heart.
"Let them come," she whispered into the wind, her voice carrying across the waters. "Let them all come. I will burn them with dragonfire, and from their ashes, a new kingdom will rise—one ruled by a mother’s wrath."
As the wind whipped her hair around her face, Rhaenyra Targaryen, the realm’s Delight turned its Black Dread, felt the dragon within her stir. It was a beast of profound grief and incalculable power, and it would not be denied. The game of thrones was cruel, its stakes life and death, and she was done playing by the rules forged by men.
Tonight, Dragonstone slept under a blanket of uneasy anticipation, but its mistress stood awake, gazing out at the dark horizon. Tomorrow, the world would wake to a war led by a dragon in all her fury. And woe be to those who had awakened her ire, for their reckoning was at hand.
As the stars bore witness, Rhaenyra Targaryen made her vow. Aemond would be hers to destroy, and through fire and blood, she would reclaim her stolen future. The sea whispered back to her in salty breaths, the waves applauding her resolve with their timeless roar.
