From Storms to Thrones (Part 1)

Chapter 39: The Clash of Titans

He bowed deeply, his voice steady but laced with respect.

"Your Grace," he greeted, his tone filled with unwavering fealty. As he straightened, his gaze met hers. "I had expected you before sunset."

"Lord Strong," Rhaenyra acknowledged with a nod, her expression unreadable. Her eyes flicked to me, and without a word, she gently passed the child into my arms.

Lord Strong's brow lifted ever so slightly as he watched the exchange, curiosity flickering across his features, but he dared not voice his thoughts. He stood quietly, eyes shifting between us, waiting for Rhaenyra to speak.

She stepped forward, the authority in her posture unmistakable.

"Our lateness is due to a raid on a village in the Riverlands," she said, her voice laced with controlled anger. "Men flying my banner were slaughtering innocents."

At that, Lord Strong paled, his face betraying his alarm. His posture stiffened, and he lowered his head once more, almost apologetically.

"It has grown worse in recent weeks, Your Grace," he murmured, his tone humbled by the gravity of her words. "Your arrival is... fortuitous. I feared this chaos might spread unchecked."

His eyes flicked briefly to the dragons again, the weight of their presence not lost on him. Rhaenyra's gaze never wavered, but there was a tightening in her jaw, a reflection of the fury simmering just beneath the surface.

"Then it stops now," she said coldly, her voice sharp as iron.

Rhaenyra's gaze hardened, her lips pressed into a thin line. The air around us felt charged, as if the very ground beneath us bristled with the tension she carried. She took another step forward, her voice cold as ice.

"Take me to Daemon," she commanded, her words brooking no argument.

Lord Strong hesitated, his eyes darting nervously between Rhaenyra and the dragons looming in the shadows. He seemed to weigh his options, but there was no mistaking the command in her voice. With a grim expression, he bowed his head.

"Your Grace," he began, his voice low and careful. "The King—" he stopped, correcting himself, "Prince Daemon is... sleeping."

"Wake him," Rhaenyra interrupted, her tone sharp and unyielding.

Lord Strong's eyes widened ever so slightly, but he quickly hid his surprise, bowing again more deeply this time. He did not dare protest further.

"Of course, Your Grace," he murmured, straightening and gesturing for us to follow him.

***

I sat nervously at a large wooden table in the center of large room, the baby nestled in my arms, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of my tunic. The room was heavy with an oppressive silence, the kind that seemed to fill every corner, leaving no space for comfort. My heart pounded in my chest, the tension between us so thick it felt suffocating.

Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her posture rigid, her eyes locked on the door. Her expression was one of cold determination, a fierce queen waiting to confront the man who had dared raise armies under her banner without her consent. The firelight flickered in the brazier beside her, casting harsh shadows across her face, only sharpening the intensity in her gaze.

The baby stirred slightly in my arms, her soft cooing the only sound that dared break the silence. I glanced down, grateful for the small distraction, but the child's presence didn't soothe the growing unease in the pit of my stomach. My eyes drifted back to Rhaenyra. She hadn't moved since we arrived, her focus completely trained on the door. It was as if she were preparing for battle once more, but this time, the enemy wasn't some faceless horde—it was her own husband.