The sea wind battered the black walls of Dragonstone, carrying the tang of salt and the distant rumble of thunder. Within the ancient fortress, tension crackled like a gathering storm. The Blacks had gathered in the grand hall—a place of basalt columns and flickering torches, each flame dancing in uneasy harmony with the sullen mood.

Daemon Targaryen stood near the fire, his silver hair gleaming in the ruddy light. He wore a grim expression, arms folded over his chest as he listened to the latest report. Around him, Rhaenyra's loyal supporters occupied the carved chairs and benches—lords, knights, and trusted captains of her cause. Yet it was Daemon who held the room's attention, for Rhaenyra was away, searching desperately for any trace of Lucerys.

In Rhaenyra's absence, matters of strategy fell heavily on Daemon's shoulders. Now, a nervous messenger—one of the Velaryon men from Driftmark—relayed the newest rumor from King's Landing. Words tumbled out about the so-called "Princess in Green," her sudden rise in public favor, and the compassion she'd shown by giving coin to feed hungry children. Some said she was a gentle counterbalance to Aegon's apathy; others claimed she was cunning, playing a long game in the Greens' service.

Daemon listened, jaw clenched. At one point, he slammed a hand down on the table, making the lanterns clink. "Enough," he snapped, voice echoing off the basalt walls. "We do not need more of these tales spun by Hightower rats and fools enthralled by Aegon. The woman is Aemond's wife—her hands are stained by association."

Rhaenys stood at the far end of the hall, arms crossed, her expression tightening. She had come to Dragonstone to lend her support after Lucerys's tragic end. The rage and sorrow she felt for her grandson's death smoldered beneath her composed exterior—but when it came to her daughter, Princess Lyanna, she was fiercely protective. She stepped closer, capturing Daemon's glare with a regal tilt of her chin.

"That woman," Rhaenys said coolly, "is also my child. Mind how you speak of her, Daemon."

The hall fell silent, the tension drawn taut between them. Daemon turned, the torchlight dancing across the planes of his face, revealing the flicker of anger in his eyes. "Your child," he repeated, voice low. "But a woman who stands beside the Greens, does she not?"

Rhaenys's lips thinned. "She stands beside her husband. There is a difference. We do not know her heart."

A lesser knight might have cowered, but Daemon Targaryen was no timid man. He paced in front of the hearth, each stride a vivid expression of his barely contained ire. "Her heart should be with Lucerys, who is lost to us," he growled, anger flaring. "If she has chosen to side with the Kinslayer, what does that say of her loyalties?"

A murmur rose among the assembled lords, some shifting in their seats, uncertain. The messenger from Driftmark broke the hush, timidly offering more detail. "Pardon, my lord, my lady," he said, bowing to Daemon and Rhaenys. "But the stories from King's Landing paint a different picture. They say she defied the Hand of the King in open court... gave her own gold to feed orphans. Her kindness is widely praised—some call her the Sea Princess still, others a saint among snakes."

Daemon inhaled sharply, his anger momentarily tempered by intrigue. "A saint among snakes," he echoed bitterly, then snorted. "Lies and exaggerations. The Greens know how to dress a pig in pearls. They parade her about to appear virtuous while the realm bleeds."

But Rhaenys looked thoughtful. The flicker of pride in her eyes was unmistakable. "Her compassion has always been genuine," she said softly, remembering the little girl who once tended to wounded birds and stray cats around Driftmark. "She was never one to ignore suffering."

Daemon's eyes narrowed, recognizing the note of longing in Rhaenys's voice. "You see what you wish to see. But do not forget she's tethered herself to that savage, the one who cost Lucerys his life."

At this, Rhaenys's composure faltered. Emotions warred beneath her regal facade: heartbreak for Luke, grief that her daughter was trapped in the enemy's court, guilt that she had not kept them all together. "I do not forget," she said, voice trembling. "Nor do I forgive. Yet I refuse to condemn Lyanna without understanding her plight."

Daemon sneered, pivoting to the broader assembly. "And what plight is that? She's a princess in green, welcomed by Aegon, coddled by Otto. If she truly mourned Luke, she would have fled that den of vipers. Or taken a stand against them."

An uneasy silence weighed upon them. Some remembered tales of Lyanna's open defiance in the throne room, while others had only heard rumor. The messenger cleared his throat, exchanging a glance with Rhaenys for silent permission to continue. She nodded, urging him on.

"Some say," he said, voice low, "that Princess Lyanna is the only reason King's Landing hasn't descended into riot. That she's intervened in endless small matters—sponsoring an orphanage, upholding justice in the streets where the Gold Cloaks fail. Even the smallfolk speak of her as a balancing force against Aegon's... indulgences."

Daemon listened, his lip curling. "She is a bandage on a festering wound," he retorted. "While the true infection remains Aegon's rule. A bandage cannot stop a limb from rotting."

Rhaenys exhaled, steadying her voice. "Perhaps not. But neither can we ignore that her influence helps some. Lyanna was always strong-willed—a trait she no doubt inherited from both her parents. We cannot claim she stands idle and allows the Greens free rein."

Another hush followed. The mention of Lord Corlys, still grievously injured and absent, hung like a silent lament. If he were here, might his perspective differ?

At last, Daemon let out a dismissive snarl and faced the gathered lords. "We wait for Rhaenyra's return. This council cannot proceed without her voice. But I warn you," he said, eyes flicking briefly to Rhaenys, "that we cannot let sentiment cloud our tactics. One good deed or a thousand cannot repay the blood the Kinslayer spilled."

His words struck raw chords. Whispers rippled through the hall—mixed reactions of anger, concern, or curiosity about Lyanna's fabled deeds in King's Landing.

Rhaenys drew herself up, regal and unbowed. "I am not blind to Daemon's truths," she said, addressing the room. "Luke is lost, and for that we lay blame at Aemond's feet. But do not mistake my daughter for a villain. Mark my words: if she stands with the Greens, it is not out of malice. She is tangled in their web. There is more to this, I feel sure."

Daemon ran a hand through his hair, briefly looking weary beneath his anger. "Then let her prove it," he said in a softer voice. "When Rhaenyra returns, we shall see what path the Queen must take. And if the so-called 'Princess in Green' stands in our way, no matter her good intentions..." His eyes flashed with a lethal glint. "...We will do what must be done for the realm."

A charged stillness weighed on them again. Rhaenys's expression hardened, but she did not respond. She refused to engage him in yet another bitter exchange, especially with half the hall watching. Instead, she turned on her heel and strode away, chin lifted, leaving Daemon to fume by the fire. A few loyal Velaryon knights exchanged glances, then followed in her wake.

As the ancient basalt walls loomed, the hall's torches sputtered like shifting alliances. Daemon lingered, staring at the dancing flames as though seeking answers within them. Outside, waves crashed against the shores of Dragonstone, echoing the rage and sorrow festering inside these walls.

In Rhaenyra's absence, no final decision could be made, only seething resentment and half-formed plans. And across the sea, the "Princess in Green" unknowingly continued her quiet crusade in the heart of the enemy. If Daemon's rage was anything to judge by, that alone was enough to sow a fresh tempest in the Blacks' stronghold. Yet the rumors of her kindness took root among Rhaenys and some of the lords, coloring their view with cautious hope—hope that Lyanna, though caught in the Greens' net, might still harbor loyalty enough to remember her family, and perhaps her wounded realm.

The great basalt doors of Dragonstone's grand hall shut behind Princess Rhaenys with a dull boom. The echoes seemed to trail after her as she made her way down the torchlit corridor, her posture proud and unyielding despite the turmoil in her heart. A handful of Velaryon knights followed at a respectful distance, uncertain whether she desired their company or preferred solitude. For now, she neither dismissed nor acknowledged them, lost in her own thoughts.

Daemon Targaryen remained in the hall, seething in silence for a time. Servants crept about the edges, dousing torches and tidying the clutter of half-finished documents and maps. Yet no one dared approach him, for his posture screamed danger: fists clenched, gaze burning into the crackling hearth. At last, with a low growl of frustration, he swept from the chamber as well, leaving only the servants to exchange wary glances.

Meanwhile, Rhaenys took a winding path toward the courtyard overlooking the sea, needing to breathe in the brine-laced air. Night was falling, and the sky glowed with dying light—a haze of purples and streaks of fiery orange. The sea below roiled against jagged rocks, echoes of thunder occasionally rolling in from distant storms.

From this vantage, she could see the dark silhouettes of distant dragons perched on Dragonstone's ledges, watchful and restless. The sight tugged at her heart, reminding her of Vhagar's monstrous roar, of Meleys, and of the tragedy that had befallen Lucerys. A wave of sorrow and anger crashed anew within her. How had the realm come to this?

Yet what troubled her almost as deeply was the news of Lyanna, her daughter, flourishing in King's Landing as the so-called "Princess in Green." Rhaenys shut her eyes, recalling the messenger's words about Lyanna's generosity, her quiet acts of compassion that had filtered through the gossips of the capital. It stung that Daemon dismissed such tales so easily—perhaps because it was easier to hate a faceless enemy than admit there might be goodness in the Greens' midst.

A soft shuffle of footsteps behind her announced the arrival of one of the Velaryon knights. "Princess," he greeted, bowing low. "Is everything... do you require anything?"

She turned, her gaze distant. "No. But inform the stewards I desire no one's company for a time. I must think."

He hesitated, concern flickering over his features. "Yes, my lady," he murmured, retreating.

With the courtyard to herself, Rhaenys reached out to rest a hand against the rough stone of the battlements. Memories floated through her mind: Lyanna as a child, dark-haired and bright-eyed, running through the halls of Driftmark with boundless curiosity. She remembered the day Lyanna first told her she wished to learn swordplay from Daemon, how the girl had practiced in secret so as not to seem less a lady. A faint, wry smile tugged at Rhaenys's lips. Lyanna had always had that mix of fierce determination and gentle soul.

"How could she be part of this now?" Rhaenys muttered to the wind. "Standing beside the Kinslayer, the one who took Luke from us?"

The wind answered only with a hollow gust. But Rhaenys forced herself to acknowledge that the girl she'd raised might be maneuvering through a web of court politics as thick and deadly as any battlefield. She pictured Lyanna refusing to bow to Otto Hightower's whims, or feeding orphans out of her own purse. It felt right that her daughter would do such things—more than rumor, it resonated with the child Rhaenys remembered.

She cast a glance toward the direction of King's Landing, though it was too distant to see. "Perhaps you are a prisoner in all but name," she murmured to the absent Lyanna. "If so, I pray you keep your head down, child. Daemon's wrath is no small thing, and our realm teeters upon war's edge."

A swirl of footsteps broke her reverie again, this time accompanied by Daemon himself striding forward with a face carved of stone. Two guards lingered at the far end of the courtyard, uncertain whether to follow. Daemon dismissed them with a wave, approaching Rhaenys alone.

She straightened but did not turn to face him, keeping her gaze fixed on the turbulent sea. The silence between them was tense and unyielding, filled with the echoes of their recent argument.

"Rhaenys," Daemon said at last, his voice subdued but laced with residual anger. "I'm sorry if my words in the hall wounded you."

She tilted her head to cast him a sidelong look. "Wounded, yes. But your words are not my main concern, Prince Daemon. The realm is perched on a razor, and you speak as though there is only the sword to guide us."

He bristled, crossing his arms over his chest. "The Blacks must match the Greens' aggression, or we'll be overrun." His tone grew sharper. "I understand your grief, truly I do, but we cannot waver just because Lyanna performs a few charitable acts in King's Landing."

Rhaenys clenched her teeth, retorting, "She was once your kin by marriage as well. And though she stands with Aemond, perhaps not all of it is her choice. Or have you forgotten how unkind the Red Keep can be to those who oppose its will?"

A flicker of regret crossed Daemon's features, but it hardened quickly. "The child who was once my sister by law is now a grown woman, and she's chosen her bed. You cannot deny that. If she sways hearts in the Greens' favor, she strengthens Aegon's claim."

Rhaenys shot him a piercing look. "Have you even heard what the messenger said? She undermines Otto Hightower whenever possible, invests her own coin to feed the poor. Is that truly enmity to us?"

"She is not feeding the poor from Dragonstone," Daemon replied bitterly. "She does it under the Greens' banner, no matter how noble her intentions."

He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a murmur: "I do not seek to be cruel, but these are cruel times. She stands with the man who killed Lucerys. If your daughter were to appear on the battlefield, would you strike her down yourself or let her kill your friends, your allies? War does not spare soft hearts."

The words cut deep, and Rhaenys closed her eyes, swallowing hard. She remembered Lucerys's laugh, the bright smile he always wore, now extinguished forever. A wave of anguish threatened to drown her. "If it comes to the battlefield," she said, voice trembling, "gods forbid we meet as enemies. I only pray my daughter has sense enough to keep herself—and her children—far from it."

Thunder rumbled in the distance, as though the island itself responded to the tension. Daemon studied her a moment, then exhaled slowly. "I am sorry for your loss," he muttered, his anger momentarily softened by genuine sorrow. "For Luke, for the realm, and yes, even for the path Lyanna treads."

Rhaenys nodded, appreciating that brief flicker of shared grief. "We must wait for Rhaenyra's return, Daemon. Then we decide our next move. Until then, do not speak ill of Lyanna in my presence. I have lost too many loved ones already."

Daemon gave her a long, measured look. The moonlight cast harsh shadows on his angular features, accentuating the turmoil in his eyes. "Very well," he said quietly. "But know that if she stands between us and victory, no ties of blood will save her. The Blacks cannot afford half-measures."

She clenched her fists but let the threat linger unchallenged. Arguing further would yield no better outcome. The night air grew colder, and the crash of waves against Dragonstone's crags seemed to intensify as if heralding the war to come.

They stood in silence a moment longer—two powerful figures united by grief, yet divided in outlook. Finally, Daemon turned away, his cloak swirling around him as he stalked toward the keep. Rhaenys remained, breathing in the salty wind, grappling with the knowledge that the realm's rifts ran deeper than even she had imagined.

Before her, the sea stretched endless and dark, and in her heart, she feared that both sides of this conflict—Greens and Blacks—were hurtling toward ruin. And caught somewhere in the middle was her daughter, Lyanna, forging her own legend in a den of lions. If only the faint hope that Lyanna truly was as compassionate and defiant as rumored could bridge this ever-widening chasm.

Lightning flashed over the horizon, illuminating the towers of Dragonstone for an instant. In that flicker of brightness, Rhaenys could almost imagine a time before such discord, before Kinslayers and grieving mothers. Then the thunder rolled, and the light vanished, leaving her with only the dark and the echo of distant war drums in her heart.