From Storms to Thrones (Part 1)

The cold air of early morning clung to us like a shroud as we walked, a silent procession toward the waiting dragons. Each step echoed in the stillness, the crunch of gravel underfoot mingling with the distant calls of birds just beginning to stir.

The time had come.

Rhaenyra had laid out the plan with a calm authority that belied the storm brewing within her, taking input from everyone present. Even the lords, who had initially been skeptical, had offered their suggestions with surprising deference. Rhaenyra had accepted their adjustments with a grace that spoke volumes, not only about her tactical mind but about the respect she had earned.

It wasn't just her title that commanded obedience; it was her presence, her ability to lead not just by power but by earning loyalty.

The plan was now etched into my mind, as permanent as the scars of battle that marked the lives of every Targaryen. I had to ensure that every detail was flawless—there was no room for error. The core of the strategy was simple yet fraught with the reality that any of us could die today: Rhaenys and Meleys would fly to Rook's Rest alone. I had seen it, just as she did in the story. Rhaenys would provide aerial support for the troops, keeping them safe until Aegon arrived.

I could still feel the weight of the lords' eyes on me when Rhaenyra informed them that I had foreseen Aegon's presence at Rook's Rest. The air had been thick with tension as she spoke with unwavering confidence, declaring that Aegon would indeed come and that Rhaenys and Meleys would defeat him in battle. But the weight of what I had seen didn't end there. I had also seen something darker: Aemond and Vhagar, descending like a storm upon Rhaenys and Meleys, intent on killing her.

"So this is where I die in your little vision?" Rhaenys had asked, her voice calm, her gaze sharp as steel as she looked directly at me. There was no fear in her eyes, only a deep, piercing curiosity. She hadn't forgotten what I had told Rhaenyra, Daemon, and her when I first arrived—that in my vision, they all died.

I nodded, unable to soften the truth. "Yes."

Rhaenys had given me a sad smile, a smile that spoke of acceptance rather than resignation. "Then I die the death of a dragonrider," she had said, her voice carrying the quiet pride of someone who had long made peace with her fate. "I am okay with that."

"I am not," Rhaenyra had interjected, her tone brooking no argument. Her gaze was like ice as she looked at Rhaenys, her words cutting through the tension. "You will not engage Aemond and Vhagar alone. Is that understood?"

The command in her voice was unmistakable, a stark reminder of the authority she wielded. The Queen that Never Was and the Queen of Westeros faced each other, the air between them thick with unspoken words, the tension almost unbearable as they locked eyes. For a moment, it seemed as though neither would yield, the force of their wills clashing in silence. But then, Rhaenys, her expression still as unreadable as stone, had finally nodded.

"Understood, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra had held her gaze for a moment longer, perhaps to make sure the message had truly sunk in, before nodding back and returning her attention to the map that lay between them. Her next words had been decisive, her strategy clear and unyielding.

"If Aemond plans to set a trap, then we shall set a trap of our own," she had declared, moving pieces on the board with a calculated precision that left no room for doubt. "Listen closely, this is my plan."

Now, as we walked toward the dragons, the weight of that plan bore down on us all, pressing into our shoulders like a physical burden. The chill in the air was nothing compared to the cold certainty of what lay ahead. I had memorized every detail, every contingency, replaying them over and over in my mind until they became as familiar as the beat of my own heart.