The Power Of Prophecy

Dragons, Desires and Destinies

Daena entered the castle, her steps echoing through the stone halls as she began to climb the spiral staircase. The haze of adrenaline from her reckless feat — taming Vermithor — began to lift, leaving behind the weight of her actions. What she had done was foolish, impulsive: running away, taming a dragon on her own, defying Aemond... Before, the rush had made her bold, driven by the anger she still harbored against him. But provoking Aemond was never wise, not with his volatile temper. Still, Daena would deal with the consequences tomorrow. Right now, she was exhausted, filthy, and all she wanted was a bath and sleep.

At the top of the stairs, a tall figure in a white cloak awaited her. Ser Harlen. Her heart tightened at the sight of him. His gaze was distant, but his clenched jaw betrayed his thoughts. Daena opened her mouth, perhaps to apologize, but he cut her off.

"Your Grace, I will escort you back to your chambers," he said, his voice cold. With that, he turned, walking behind her down the corridor.

She would make amends with him later. When they reached her chambers, Daena asked Ser Harlen to send the maids to prepare her bath. As she waited, she sat on the edge of her bed and sighed, the reality of her actions sinking in. She had a dragon. A massive, powerful dragon that obeyed her commands. The power was intoxicating, but Daena knew what it meant. She had given in to Aemond’s will.

Before Aemond entered her life, Daena had been the master of her own decisions. They were all she had — no family, no legacy, no grand purpose, just her own will. Then he came, wanting to marry her to strengthen his hand in the war with a dragon she could tame. She had sworn she wouldn’t let him use her, yet here she was, his wife, a dragonrider, and poised to become his pawn.

Anger flared within her chest. She remembered Helaena’s words: Aemond was furious that she refused to fly with him into battle. She had defied him and lived, but Helaena was his sister. What would happen to Daena if she did the same? Could she even resist him? How long before he broke her and forced her to fight for him, too?

Daena didn’t care about the war, but she didn’t want to kill anyone. She didn’t care about Rhaenyra, or who sat on the Iron Throne, or even seeking revenge against her father. But she didn’t want to fight them. She didn’t want to burn innocents. And yet... it seemed inevitable.

Her thoughts drifted to Cregan, fighting alongside Rhaenyra because his honor demanded it. She could never fight against him...

Her reflection was interrupted by the soft sound of the door opening. Meris and two other maids entered, carrying steaming buckets of water. They bowed quickly before preparing the bath. Daena began to undress without waiting for assistance, too tired and desperate to rid herself of the stench of ash and decay clinging to her skin. She approached the tub, watching the spirals of steam rise into the air as she moved to step in.

"My queen, it’s too hot!" Meris cried as she saw Daena’s intention, but Daena was already lowering herself into the water. The heat wrapped around her like a heavy blanket, soothing her aching muscles. "It’s fine," she murmured, waving off the other maids and dismissing them. Meris, looking uneasy, remained to scrub her.

Daena’s body began to relax, the grime of her reckless night washing away. Her mind, however, remained restless. She could only think that tonight had been the beginning of her true story — of who Daena Targaryen would become.

The dim chamber was thick with steam, the air heavy with the scent of lavender and damp stone. A faint crackling from the hearth was the only sound, aside from the soft sloshing of water as Meris washed the grime from Daena’s skin. Her movements were tentative, her eyes flitting between Daena’s face and the task at hand, as if something unsaid lingered between them.