𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 - 𝑰𝒗𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔

38

A raven flew this morning. The Sea Snake's fever had broken, and he had left Evenfall, the maester reported quietly. Daemon's sharp gaze fixed on the man.

"Where is he sailing?" the Rogue Prince asked.

"That much is unclear, my Prince."

Daemon's lips tightened. "We will send ravens to our nearest allies — Lord Darklyn, Massey, and Bar Emmon."

From behind, Jacaerys's voice rumbled, low and urgent. "Daemon."

Ser Lorent stepped forward. "Do you wish to speak to the maester, my Prince?"

Before Daemon could answer, Daenaera stepped closer to the stone table, her tone steady. "I will fly to the Riverlands myself. I will affirm Lord Tully's support."

"You will do no such thing," Jace interjected sharply. All eyes turned to him.

"My mother has declared no action while she's abed," Daemon said, glancing between Daenaera—whose face was taut with irritation—and Jace.

"It's good you're here, young Prince," Daemon continued. "You're needed to patrol the skies on Vermax."

Jace's voice rose. "Did you hear what I said?"

Daemon's attention flicked to Lord Bartimos, standing near the table, uneasy.

"The ravens, Lord Bartimos," the lord stammered, clearly unsettled by the chaotic energy radiating from the Targaryens. "I shall see to it."

He hurried away, and Daemon turned back, voice commanding. "Summon Ser Steffon. Our Kingsguard are needed on Dragonmont."

He gathered Dark Sister in his hand and strode out alongside Daenaera.

"Come with Jace," Daenaera instructed, her gaze steady. Jacaerys fell into step behind them.

Daemon's voice dropped, resolute. "We'll show you the true meaning of loyalty."

They stood on a cliff overlooking the roiling sea. Daemon and Daenaera faced two Kingsguard knights, a few paces away stood Jace.

"You swore an oath as knights of the Kingsguard," Daenaera began, her voice cold and firm.

"As do all who wear the white cloak, my Princess," one knight answered, helmet held beneath his arm.

"To whom?" Daemon pressed.

"I first swore to King Jaehaerys, my Prince," the knight said, voice steady, "and then to His Grace King Viserys, when he succeeded him."

"Do you acknowledge the true line of succession?" Daenaera asked, unflinching.

"Yes."

"Yes, my Princess," Ser Lorent replied, the younger of the two.

"Do you recall who King Viserys named as his heir before his death?" Daenaera's questions cut sharper than any sword.

"Princess Rhaenyra," the older knight answered without hesitation.

Daemon glanced at Rhaenyra, standing nearby, and nodded. "I'm grateful for your long service to the crown."

Daenaera's voice dropped to a warning. "So I present you with a choice."

From behind the cliff, the sudden roar of Sylvarion shattered the tense stillness. The knights staggered in surprise and fear.

"Swear your oath to Queen Rhaenyra, to Prince Jacaerys as heir to the Iron Throne, or, if you support the usurper, speak now—and you shall have an honorable death. But betray us, and you will die... screaming."

⸻

The hollow silence of grief filled the chamber. Rhaenyra knelt on the cold stone floor, tears streaming as she wrapped her infant daughter's tiny body in pale linen. The child she had longed for, now gone.

Daemon entered quietly, saw his niece broken and sobbing, and without a word, retreated into the shadows.

The Rogue Prince felt hollow and useless, his soul heavy as he sat alone on a rocky shore. Daenaera found him, calling softly, urging him to come to the funeral.

At the cliff's edge, Daemon stood beside Rhaenyra, whose eyes remained locked on the fire consuming her daughter's small body.

Suddenly, a figure ascended the cliff—a knight. Daemon's gaze followed as Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent drew their swords.

"I mean no harm, brothers," Daemon said, stepping forward toward where Daenaera stood.

The knight removed his helmet—it was one of the Cargill twins. Ser Steffon lowered his sword as the Cargill knight produced a bag slung across his shoulder and drew forth Viserys's crown.

He knelt before Daemon and presented the crown with solemn reverence.

"I swear to ward the Queen," Ser Erryk Cargill vowed, voice steady and fierce. "With all my strength. To give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honour."

Daemon approached Rhaenyra, placing the crown carefully upon her silver-gilded hair before kneeling low.

"My Queen," he intoned.

Daenaera followed suit, kneeling. One by one, the others bent their knees in solemn pledge—everyone, save Rhaenys, who stood aloof on a distant rock, giving only a brief nod of acknowledgment.

⸻

The council assembled as Rhaenyra entered the hall, Ser Erryk announcing her arrival.

"Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Heads bowed in respect.

"Your Grace," Daemon greeted as she approached the stone map.

"Wine, my Queen?" Rhaena offered gently, holding out a goblet.

"Thank you, Rhaena. Come," Rhaenyra said, beckoning her sister to stand close.

"What is outstanding?" the Queen asked, voice steady despite the weight on her shoulders.

"We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms," Daemon reported, eyes on the map. "Dragonstone is easily defended, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves much to be desired. I have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. Support will come, though I cannot say how many."

"We have declarations from Celtigar, Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon," the maester added.

"My lady mother was an Arryn," Rhaenyra said, pointing to the Vale on the map. "The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin."