Dragonstone, Guest Chambers.
Cold.
Then came a searing pain, as if countless needles were piercing his back simultaneously.
Every breath he drew tugged at the charred flesh of his spine.
Lucerys opened his eyes in the darkness. His vision was blurred at first, but slowly the black stone ceiling came into focus, the unmistakable architecture of Dragonstone.
He tried to turn his neck, but a sharper spike of pain forced a muffled groan from his lips.
"Don't move."
A low voice sounded beside him. Lucerys turned his head with great difficulty to see a weathered face.
It was Ser Robert Quince, the acting Castellan of Dragonstone and one of his mother's most trusted old knights.
Robert was dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth, his gaze heavy with complex emotion.
"You've been unconscious for two days," Robert said quietly.
"You washed up on the beach. Your leather armor had melted halfway into your back."
Memories surged back like a tidal wave.
The fire in the Dragonpit. Joffrey's scream. The horrific sight of Tyraxes being torn apart by that black demon, Morghul. And then, the icy seawater.
The last thing he saw was his own dragon, Arrax, being ripped asunder in a single bite by Vhagar.
"Jacaerys? Where is he?" Lucerys rasped.
Robert remained silent for a few seconds before answering with a trembling voice.
"His head, and Joffrey's, were hung upon the outer walls of the Red Keep two days ago. The raven arrived last night."
"The Greens say they were killed in the act of dragon-theft and arson. They demand our immediate surrender."
Lucerys closed his eyes. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, soaking into the bandages on his scorched face. He wanted to wail, to scream, to tear the world apart, but the agony in his back was so great he couldn't even manage a deep breath.
The door pushed open. Two girls hurried in, Rhaena and Baela, the daughters of Prince Daemon. Both wore practical leather riding gear, their faces pale.
"Lucerys is awake?" Baela reached the bedside first.
"Thank the Seven, Luke. You're alive."
"Cousin," Rhaena's voice was steadier, though her eyes were rimmed with red.
"How do you feel?"
Lucerys didn't answer, merely staring at them.
Robert stood up and looked out the window at the gloomy sky before turning back with a sudden, sharp urgency.
"Listen, children. We have no time. The Greens have killed Jacaerys and Joffrey; they are parading their heads. This is war. They aren't fools; they will strike first."
Robert tapped a map on the table.
"Dragonstone and High Tide. These will be their primary targets. You three must leave immediately."
"There is a fast ship in the harbor ready to sail for Tyrosh. You leave with the tide tonight. Rhaena, Baela, you go with Lucerys and return to your father and Princess Rhaenyra."
Baela bit her lip.
"And you, Ser?"
Robert offered a weary smile of acceptance.
"Princess Rhaenyra entrusted Dragonstone to my care. My duty is to hold this island and the dragons upon it. I am not leaving."
"You'll die," Lucerys hissed.
"Every knight knows why he holds a sword." Robert leaned over the bed.
"I served your mother for thirty years, watching her grow from a girl into the Heir. Now someone has killed her sons and seeks to steal her home. I may be too old to ride a horse, but I can still stand in this hall and tell those Green curs they'll have to step over my corpse to take this island."
The room fell silent as the children looked at the old knight's resolve.
Suddenly, a frantic knocking came from the door. Before Robert could answer, it swung open.
Sara entered first, the bastard girl Jacaerys had favored.
Her face was swollen from crying, and her hand instinctively guarded her belly.
Behind her were the two silver-haired youths, Valos and Mirax. Behind them, a dozen others filed in.
They all shared a common trait: silver hair and varying shades of purple eyes.
They were the Dragonseeds. Some had paler hair or blue-tinted eyes, but all undoubtedly carried the blood of the dragon.
Two figures among them stood out: a massive silver-haired man in his late thirties, nearly two meters tall with muscles that strained his tunics, and a plain, dark-haired girl of twelve with freckles and a flat, almost homely face.
Robert's face darkened with suppressed rage.
"Bastards? Who gave you leave to enter?! And you, Sara! I've said before, no one enters the inner sanctum!"
"You should be fortifying the defenses, not disturbing the Prince!"
Sara flinched at his roar, but she didn't retreat. She stepped forward, pointing to her slightly rounded stomach.
"Ser," she whispered, her voice trembling, "I carry Lord Jacaerys's child."
The room went deathly still. Lucerys stared at her womb.
Baela and Rhaena looked on in disbelief.
Robert's expression shifted from fury to shock, then back to a more turbulent anger.
"What did you say?!"
"It has been three months. Lord Jacaerys said... he said he would marry me. He said his child would be a Targaryen."
Sara fell to her knees. Valos and Mirax followed suit, and eventually, the rest of the bastards knelt, filling the center of the room.
Sara looked up through her tears.
"Ser, Prince Lucerys... we are not here to provoke you. We have something important to report."
"What could be more important than war preparations?" Robert barked, his hand on his sword.
"If you are here to mourn Jacaerys, I understand, but, "
"We have tamed the dragons," Sara interrupted.
The sentence struck like a thunderclap. Robert's hand froze on his hilt.
Baela and Rhaena gasped.
Lucerys, forgetting the pain in his back, struggled to sit up before collapsing back with a pained groan.
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