chapter twenty-five.

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ACT THREE

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ACT THREE. chapter twenty-five.
harrenhal and mercy

The next morning dawned gray and cold, clouds hanging low over Dragonstone like a shroud

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The next morning dawned gray and cold, clouds hanging low over Dragonstone like a shroud. The sea wind whispered through the open windows of the fortress, carrying the scent of salt and smoke — a reminder of the endless war beyond the island.

Queen Maegora walked briskly down the long corridor, her dark brown gown swaying with each determined step. Ser Rowlan Storme followed a few paces behind, trying his best to keep up. The young Queen's face was tense, her expression unreadable but her frustration evident in the tightness of her jaw.

"Your Grace," Ser Rowlan said softly, "perhaps you should rest. The Maester said you must take care, in your condition—"

"I have rested enough," Maegora interrupted, her tone sharp but weary. "And I am not some fragile glass figure to be tucked away when things become difficult."

The knight lowered his gaze. "Of course not, Your Grace. Forgive me."

She sighed, running a hand through her brown curls. "No, Ser Rowlan... forgive me. I know you mean well. But I cannot sit idly while he shuts himself away from the world."

Her voice softened as she said it — the firmness melting into concern.

They turned down another hallway, the stone walls lined with tapestries of dragons and Kings of old. Maegora's mind, however, was elsewhere. She had heard the news — that the so-called Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen, had burned Sharp Point to its stones after their confrontation. The thought should have stirred fury in her, but it barely registered. Not now. Not when her own husband had been avoiding her, consumed by anger and hurt.

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