𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧

𝘕𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯

Viserra sat at the foot of the Iron Throne, her eyes glassy but focused. The crown she had worn during the ceremony had been discarded on the ground beside her, forgotten.

"Three assassins inside the Keep," she said aloud. "One nearly slit my niece's throat. Another reached the nursery."

Her voice was level, but fury rippled beneath every word.

Daemon stood beside her, arms crossed, his knuckles bloody. "They wore the colours of no house. But they carried coins stamped with the sigil of Oldtown. Hightower silver."

Cregan Stark, stoic and unmoving, spoke from the shadows. "They mean to end your line. This was no warning. This was a first strike."

Rhaella rose, her gown still torn where Renly had shielded her. "My wedding was used as cover for a massacre." Her voice was not angry—it was ice.

"Then let the realm know this: House Baratheon will stand with House Targaryen. The Stag has married Fire. And Fire will not burn alone."
Renly stood beside her. "We will raise our banners. Send riders to Storm's End by dawn."

It was Maenora who stepped forward next, her voice surprisingly calm. "They came for me. For the children. Not just to kill us—but to silence our names. They feared the line of Viserys still has power." She raised the bloodied dagger. "And they're right to fear it."

Baelon who had come into the room stepped beside her. "Let them come again. I will not be a prince of peace. I will be a sword in my family's hand."

Viserra looked between them both. Two heirs. Two blades. Two dragons not yet grown, but no longer children.

The queen rose.
"Otto Hightower has declared war in all but name. Then I will give him what he so clearly desires. We will get Prince Aegon and Alaenys back to us."

She turned to Daemon.

"Summon the Black Council. Every loyal lord, every sworn dragonseed, every fleet. The war for the realm has begun."

To Rhaella:

"Rhaella, your marriage is now more than alliance. It is a shield. Stand with Renly. Hold the Stormlands."

To Cregan:

"Return North. Arm Winterfell. Send word to Aeliae. If she cannot fight, she must prepare the realm's last stronghold."

To Maenora and Baelon:

"Train. Learn. Harden yourselves. You were nearly slain as children. You will rise as weapons."

She turned then to the Iron Throne, its sharp edges glinting in the firelight. Her father's seat. Her birthright.

"I will not sit while dragons are hunted in their own lair. Let fire answer treachery. Let the realm burn, if it must."

And across the halls, the dragons roared.