Helaena leapt from Dreamfyre, gliding through the sky and carried down gently by curling flames that blossomed beneath her feet.
Beside her descended a fist, larger than her person, forged entirely from fire.
Its fingers remained tightly clenched around something hidden within its grasp as it followed her from the sky.
With a soft thud, Helaena's boots touched the earth as the flames beneath her feet scattered into drifting embers.
Above her, Dreamfyre released a thunderous roar before the great blue dragon wheeled through the skies, her immense wings beating against the air.
Hearing another roar, Helaena noticed the bronze silver forms hovering overhead, too.
Vermithor and Silverwing.
For a brief moment, the Bronze Fury simply watched her or more specifically, the fist of flame that had already fallen to her side.
As though…reluctant to depart.
Helaena met the dragon's gaze as he gave a small nod. Vermithor rumbled softly, and only then did the great beast turn away.
His mighty wings beat once. Twice. Then he climbed into the clouds alongside Dreamfyre and Silverwing, and soon the dragons disappeared into the distance.
Silence settled over the estate. Or at least as much silence as a man could muster from her seeing her previous entrance.
The servants stood frozen. All of them. Gardeners. Stableboys. Maids. Guards.
Every single one stared at her.
Thankfully, her powers weren't exactly a secret, especially not in Dragon's Bay and eventually, one servant recovered enough sense to bow.
"Y-Your Highness." The others followed suit almost immediately.
A sea of bent heads greeted her.
"Your Highness."
"Princess."
"Your Highness."
Yet even as they greeted her, their eyes kept drifting toward the fist beside her in open curiosity.
Helaena acknowledged them with a small nod.
Normally, she may have offered a few kind words, but today she did not.
A frown marred her delicate features.
Too much had gone wrong. Far too much.
Without another word, she hurried into the estate, and the fist of flame followed in haste while servants quickly scattered from their path, hugging walls as they sought to reduce their presence.
Hallways passed in a blur for Helaena.
Stairs. Corridors. The lot of them.
At last, she reached the bedroom.
The moment she entered, the fist drifted toward the bed, hovering there for several seconds.
Then its fingers slowly unfurled, like a flower in bloom before collapsing into innumerable sparks as it disappeared.
The sleeping figure it carried thumped onto the mattress, his clothes scorched and eaten by flame. However, he remained whole. Well, physically at the very least.
Yet the cleverness that usually danced behind his eyes was starkly absent.
The mischief. The schemes. The endless plans.
Gone. All of it.
He simply lay there…like some sleeping princess from tales of old.
"You and your damn plans..." Helaena muttered through gritted teeth.
Everything had gone wrong.
The ritual…did it succeed or fail? Helaena truly had no answer.
All she knew was that something in the process had gone wrong, and she was scarcely in the mood to care if it succeeded.
Worse still, after the clone disappeared into Baelon, she had searched for the Codex afterwards, but she had found nothing.
Only a pile of ash that sat mockingly where the ancient tome once lay.
Still, the implications alone were enough to make her stomach twist with anxiety. If the Codex was gone…where was Kael'thir?
She looked at the unconscious Baelon and already had a faint guess.
Thankfully, she had enough sense to bring him back to the Prince's Estate.
Even more so, she was thankful; the sleeping idiot had anticipated such disasters.
The sort of preparations only he would spend months devising. She could only hope they worked; otherwise, it truly would not bode well for either of them.
Slowly, Helaena sat upon the edge of the bed.
For several moments…she simply watched him. At the rise and fall of his chest. At proof that he remained alive despite the mess they had found themselves in.
Carefully, she reached out and brushed a stray lock of silver hair from his forehead.
Knock!
Knock!
Knock!
Helaena was given a start by the knocks on the door. Throwing a glance toward the bed, Helaena sighed and rose to her feet.
No matter what happened, she could not allow word to spread that something was amiss with Baelon.
Whether they liked it or not, Dragon's Bay revolved around him.
From the merchants to the people, to even their foes, wherever they may be. They all revolved around Baelon.
Without him, Dragon's Bay would likely still survive beneath her supervision.
But survival and peace were not the same thing. Far from it. Westeros had taught her enough of that.
Others would only see weakness in his absence, whether justified or not. After all, in the eyes of many fools, she was but a woman.
Helaena crossed the room and cracked open the door.
The moment she saw who stood beyond it, her expression softened.
Carefully stepping into the hallway, she pulled the door shut behind her.
"Mother!"
A blur of silver-gold hair launched itself at her.
Helaena barely had time to brace herself before Daenys collided with her waist and wrapped her tiny arms around her.
"Your Highness." Maela nearby dipped into a respectful bow. "The Princess heard the servants speaking of your arrival and insisted upon greeting you immediately."
Helaena's gaze lingered upon the woman. The years had touched Maela more heavily than they had touched her.
Fine lines marked the corners of her eyes. Grey had begun creeping into her dark hair. The servant they had rescued from the Dothraki all those years ago was no longer a frightened woman.
For a moment, Helaena found herself staring.
How many years had truly passed?
How many battles?
How many schemes?
How many times had she and Baelon challenged the world itself with all the wisdom of two stubborn fools?
More than she cared to count.
Her hand drifted down and began absentmindedly rubbing Daenys' head.
"Mother...?"
The young girl blinked up at her.
"Where is Father?"
Helaena paused.
"Why do I not see him?"
Those bright violet eyes so similar to her own stared back at her.
"Your father?" Helaena asked as she quickly composed herself. "Let us say he is a bit busy at the moment."
Daenys blinked.
"Busy?"
"Very busy."
"With important things?"
"Unfortunately."
"I'm sure he'll return soon."
Maela's gaze shifted toward the closed door as a strange look crossed her face. One that told Helaena the woman understood far more than her silence would let on.
Helaena resisted the urge to sigh. It wasn't as though she could hide everything.
Vermithor alone made secrecy nearly impossible.
The Bronze Fury had long ago reached a size where he could swallow several elephants and still complain about being hungry.
And where Baelon went, Vermithor inevitably followed. A dragon that large appearing without its rider raised questions.
Questions clever people would eventually ask. Thankfully, someone here…wasn't so clever.
Daenys nodded immediately, hearing her mother's words, apparently satisfied. Not a single suspicious thought behind those eyes of hers.
Instead, she launched into what was clearly a very important matter.
"Mother, do you know what happened whilst you were gone?"
Something told Helaena she was about to find out regardless.
"No."
"Uncle Rhevos fell into a pond."
"...How?"
"He was chasing after a sheep. It had run off with his shoe."
Helaena closed her eyes.
Of course, it had.
Still, Helaena had concerns. Many concerns.
Goats and sheep were raised near the Black Cliffs as a means of feeding the three great beasts in their family, but they were all usually kept fenced in.
So…
"How did this sheep escape?"
Daenys shifted slightly.
"The gate was open."
"The gate was open?"
"Only a little."
"Daenys."
"Perhaps I may have tripped and knocked it open. Still, I made sure to close it afterwards, though Daemon had already escaped."
Helaena pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Daemon…?"
"Right. Father called him that. The sheep. The black one." Daenys gestured with her hands. "He said it was fitting but never told me why."
Helaena felt the corner of her lips twitch. Truly, the man's pettiness knew no bounds. Even if he could not immediately take revenge, he would find his way to sate his frustration.
Still, as she thought about the mess presented to her by Baelon's absence, she found herself growing tired.
Oh, what in the Seven Hells was she supposed to do now?
***
Outside Duskendale's pale walls, Ser Criston Cole wiped the warm, stubborn blood that clung to his sword.
Around him, soldiers moved through the aftermath of battle.
Bodies were being gathered whilst wagons rattled across the muddy ground. Elsewhere, the wounded groaned whilst maesters hurried between them.
Above it all, green banners of House Targaryen snapped in the wind. The true king's banners. As they should.
Criston's jaw tightened. He could scarcely understand it.
How could any man fail to distinguish right from wrong?
Duty from ambition?
Law from theft?
Yet they did.
Time and time again.
Even now, there were fools willing to throw away their lives for a wretch like Rhaenyra Targaryen.
A woman who had stolen her brother's birthright.
A woman whose lies had plunged the realm into war.
Houses Rosby and Stokeworth had possessed enough sense to bend the knee when his men passed.
Bloodlessly at that.
Gunthor Darklyn, however, had chosen differently. The oaf of a Lord refused to bend the knee with even his gentlest of attempts, berated by the stubborn fool.
The result?
The Lord of Duskendale had now become a fresh corpse without a head. The fool remained stubborn in death as well.
"Isn't this Ser Criston? Enjoy murdering the helpless?"
The voice instantly soured his mood.
Criston turned and found a smug face framed by tousled brown hair.
On that face sat an expression of begging to be struck.
Ser Gwayne Hightower.
Criston suppressed a sigh as the name popped into his head.
Had merit mattered more than birth, the man would never have been permitted near this campaign. Unfortunately, House Hightower was far too crucial for their plans to go without.
The Greens stood upon foundations built by Oldtown gold, knowledge and prestige.
"What is it that you want?" Criston asked flatly.
"Nothing in particular."
Gwayne shrugged.
"Merely astounded."
His gaze drifted toward the distant walls of Duskendale. What was once a squat, bustling port city now lay in silent mourning, exuding a sense of desolation that could not be concealed by even distance.
"I did not expect the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to be so...unrighteous."
Criston's eyes narrowed.
"Unrighteous?"
"Well, Lord Darklyn was hardly a threat after he'd been bound."
"He refused the King's Law."
"He was unarmed." Gwayne shrugged.
"He rebelled."
Gwayne smiled faintly.
"And now he's dead."
Criston stepped forward, staring into Gwayne's eyes as he spoke. "If my actions offend your delicate sensibilities, Ser Gwayne, perhaps you should take command yourself."
Gwayne raised both hands in mock surrender, hearing this. "Easy now, no need to become so agitated."
Criston merely stared, unimpressed
The silence stretched between them long enough that eventually Gwayne relented.
"Say, Ser Criston, I am indeed rather curious." His expression grew more serious. "What exactly are we doing here?"
Criston frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Duskendale has fallen." Gwayne gestured northward.
"Yet, Harrenhal remains unconquered, and the Riverlords continue to gather their strength." His eyes met Criston's. "So why are we standing still? What do we hope to achieve next now we have calmed the Crownlands?"
It was a fair question.
Annoyingly fair.
Criston remained silent for several moments before answering.
"The Westerlands have declared for His Grace."
"Aye, they have."
"The Lord Hand intends for us to coordinate our advance." Understanding slowly dawned upon Gwayne's face, but Criston continued. "Jason Lannister marches from the west and is to be the main force; we are to consolidate our grasp of the Crownlands."
"Then—?"
"When the Riverlords try to mount an attack against the Westerlands forces, we will simply target their empty territories and reinforce our allies when needed."
"Tactical indeed." Gwayne nodded slowly as a grin spread across his face. "As expected of my father."
Criston resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
Of course.
The Lord Commander grunted in acknowledgement before turning away.
Whatever faults Otto possessed, the man was sharp.
He understood well that the Riverlands could not resist forever. Not with their tendency to infight and their liege lord rotting in bed.
Soon, the Lannisters would cross the Red Fork.
Soon, Harrenhal would stand isolated.
Soon, the rebellion would be crushed beneath the combined weight of the Crownlands, Oldtown, and Casterly Rock.
At least, that was the plan.
Yet as Criston stared northward, an uneasy feeling settled in his stomach, but he could not quite describe why he felt as such.
***
The following afternoon found Ser Criston Cole riding at the head of the column.
The road north stretched before them. Thousands of men marched beneath green banners, and the mood throughout the host remained confident.
Rosby had submitted.
Stokeworth had submitted.
Duskendale had fallen.
The Crownlands were spreading their legs for them like a common whore, ripe for the taking.
Everything was proceeding as planned. Now they only needed to enter the Riverlands and co-ordinate an attack with their main force.
Yet the unease lingering within Criston refused to fade. It sat in his stomach like a stone.
He barely suppressed the feeling when shouting erupted ahead.
"Halt!"
"Enemy!"
Instantly, the column slowed.
Criston's hand fell to his sword as he stared ahead with bated breath.
Appearing before him were black banners. As dark as ink. Dozens of them, standing stark against the pale sky.
Blacks. Traitors.
The realisation struck him immediately.
The enemy had come to them.
Why?
Why here?
Why now?
The Blacks were losing the numbers game. Every report suggested as much.
Their enemies possessed fewer soldiers. Fewer resources. Fewer allies.
An open battle made no sense as Rhaenyra could simply not afford one.
Unless—
The thought struck him like a hammer in a smithy.
Unless she never intended to fight fairly.
Criston's head snapped upward as a shadow passed overhead.
Sunlight danced across gleaming scales as it swept lower and lower and lower.
Syrax.
Criston felt his blood turn cold.
"No..." The word barely escaped him.
He understood the implications of this dearly. If his host perished here, not only would Jason Lannister be without reinforcements, but the capital would be without adequate defence.
His thoughts lasted a mere moment, as the dragon opened its maw and unleashed a torrent of flames that crashed into the Green host.
His men vanished. Like that. In the blink of an eye.
Their horses exploded into screaming ruin.
Even their banners caught alight as the road disappeared beneath a tide of dragonfire.
Criston never even managed to draw his sword as the flames struck him head-on.
Agony beyond comprehension consumed him.
His armour transformed into a furnace that trapped his body in a prison of death.
He could smell himself burning.
Could hear himself screaming.
Yet somehow the pain already felt distant.
Unreal. Everything felt unreal.
As though this could not possibly be happening.
Not to him.
Not here.
Not now.
A voice screamed somewhere deep within him.
This was not how it was meant to be.
It repeated itself again.
And again.
And again.
Not like this.
Alas, Ser Criston did not have the luxury to dwell in his dying thoughts as he felt his own vitality fade from him.
Yet through the inferno, Criston caught sight of a figure above, seated on the golden hellspawn that brought ruin to his ambitions.
A rider, her silver hair whipped in the wind as Criston tried to say her name.
Rhaenyra Targaryen.
But he could not, for all that escaped from his lips was curling smoke.
So, for his dying moments, he looked at her, this woman he so despised. And looked. And then noticed that…she was smiling.
No. Not even smiling. She was grinning. Manically.
A look of savage triumph spread across her face as she watched the Green host burn.
But by this point…Ser Criston Cole was no more.