The council room emptied hours later, leaving only a handful of us behind. I remained standing my legs aching but unmoving, unsure of what to do next, and it seemed to be the right decision since Rhaenyra hadn't dismissed me along with the others. Daemon stayed as well, his eyes flicking between me and Rhaenyra, before settling on his wife with a look that demanded an explanation.
Rhaenys also lingered in the back of the room, her gaze shifting between Rhaenyra and Daemon, her expression thoughtful and measured. The tension in the room was palpable, like a quiet storm brewing just beneath the surface.
Rhaenyra sighed, a sound heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts, and turned her attention to me. "Remove your hood," she commanded, her voice steady.
I obeyed, slowly lifting the hood from my head, exposing my face to the scrutinizing gazes of Daemon and Rhaenys. The air felt thicker, almost suffocating under the intensity of their stares.
"Who is she?" Daemon's voice cut through the silence, each word deliberate, his eyes narrowing as he spoke.
Rhaenyra met his gaze with a steady calmness, pausing before she answered. "She is the one who warned me about Aemond's attack on Lucerys."
Daemon's eyes narrowed further, suspicion hardening his features. "So she is a spy," he said, his tone sharp and accusing. "You bring a spy into our ranks?"
Rhaenyra shook her head, her eyes locking with Daemon's, a silent conversation passing between them. "Not a spy," she corrected, her voice firm. "But someone who knew of the attack, someone who saved our son."
Rhaenys interjected stepping forward, her voice soft but filled with an edge of curiosity. "And how exactly did she know of this attack? What proof do we have that she is not lying, or worse, playing both sides?"
I felt the weight of their doubts and suspicions pressing down on me, the need to prove myself clear in the tense atmosphere. But how could I explain my knowledge without revealing the truth of my origins, a truth that sounded absurd even to my own ears?
Rhaenyra turned to me, her eyes searching mine for answers. "Speak," she said softly, yet with a commanding presence. "Tell them what you told me."
I took a deep breath, feeling the eyes of three powerful individuals on me, waiting, judging. "I knew of the attack because..." I hesitated, searching for the right words, "...because I have knowledge of events that are yet to happen."
Daemon scoffed, disbelief clear in his expression. "You expect us to believe that you can see the future?"
I shook my head, trying to find a way to convey the truth without sounding insane. "Not exactly," wishing I sounded more confident, but Daemon made me nervous. Rightfully so. "But I do know things—things that have yet to come to pass. I warned the Queen because I knew Lucerys would be in danger if he went to Storm's End."
Rhaenys tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in scrutiny. "And what else do you know? What other events have you seen?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it, the enormity of the situation weighing heavily on me. What could I say that wouldn't irreversibly change the timeline? The future I spoke of was not set in my stone, my presence, my words, they had the potential to ripple in the course of history. I needed to be cautious, yet...truthful?. Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself and spoke, trying to infuse confidence into my shaky voice.
"You all die," I said, my gaze sweeping across the room, meeting each person's eyes before lingering on Rhaenyra. The silence was suffocating, every eye fixed on me, the weight of my words settling like a dark cloud over the room.
Rhaenyra's violet eyes narrowed, filled with a mix of skepticism and something more—a flicker of fear, perhaps? Daemon's expression was unreadable, his stare sharp and penetrating, while Rhaenys looked at me with intensity.
"The Targaryen line is all but wiped out," I continued, my voice growing stronger, my eyes going from Rhaenyra, to Dameon, to Rhaenys. "And the dragons, your greatest allies and symbols of power, are nearly extinguished. The battle between the Greens and the Blacks doesn't just claim lives; it destroys everything you've built. Your families, your legacy...all consumed like a plague."
The room fell into a profound and uneasy silence, a stillness so deep it seemed to swallow every sound. My words lingered in the air, heavy and oppressive, settling like a weight on the shoulders of everyone present. The silence was thick, almost palpable, and it stretched interminably, allowing the gravity of my statements to sink in.
Just when the tension felt unbearable, Daemon's voice erupted with a sudden, violent force, shattering the silence like a thunderclap. "
"Oh, come on, you can't seriously believe this," he roared, his finger stabbing towards me as though it could impale me with his accusations. "This is a trick, a deception! You were sent by the Greens, weren't you?" he turned to Rhaenyra now point at her. "She means to poison your mind with lies and deceit!"
I flinched not just at his words but at the venomous intensity with which they were delivered, each accusation aimed squarely at me. The sharp edge of his fury cut through the air, and panic clawed at my insides. I turned to Rhaenyra, my heart racing as if it might burst from my chest. I had saved her son. I had warned her about Aemond. Surely, that had to count for something, didn't it?
"This is a ploy!" Daemon's voice was a dangerous growl, filled with barely contained fury. "It reeks of Otto Hightower's scheming! Or his cunt of a daughter." Dameon started walking towards me. "I will see this woman's head on a pike and her remains sent back to the Greens!"
Panic surged through me, my thoughts scrambling for a way out. Desperation drove my actions, and before I could fully consider the consequences, I reached out and gripped the Queen's shoulder with a fierce urgency. She tensed at my touch, but I held on, my fingers clutching the fabric with a white-knuckled grip, before leaning down.
"Your father was right," I whispered in her ear, my voice trembling but low enough for only her to hear. "The song of ice and fire is real. Winter is coming, and only a Targaryen can stop it. I can help you. Let me help you."
Rhaenyra's reaction was immediate. She whipped her head around to face me, and in that instant, our noses almost brushed. Time seemed to freeze, the world narrowing to the space between us. Her violet eyes, so unlike anything I had ever seen, held me captive. They were beautiful, intense, and filled with a mixture of shock and something else—an emotion I couldn't quite place but felt deeply drawn to.
The room around us was silent, every breath held in the wake of my words. The tension was so thick it felt as though the air itself had become solid.
The sound of Daemon's sword being unsheathed shattered the silence, a metallic clang that echoed ominously. I flinched, my heart racing, but my grip on Rhaenyra's shoulder only tightened.
That seemed to startle the Rhaenyra enough, as she was pulled out her inner thoughts and whipped her head towards Dameon.
"No," she commanded, as I felt her hackles raise under my hand. "You will not touch her."
Daemon paused in his pursuit of me, his eyes flashing as his voice rumbled with a menacing edge, this time directed not at me, by the Queen herself.
"And who commands me, my wife or the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?" His words cut through the tense silence, each syllable dripping with contempt and defiance.
Rhaenyra stiffened at his question, the weight of his challenge visibly pressing down on her. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw setting with an unyielding resolve. "They are one in the same, Daemon," she said, her voice carrying a chill of authority that brooked no argument.
The air in the room seemed to crystallize, the tension palpable as Rhaenyra's words hung heavy in the silence. Her gaze, fierce and unwavering, was a stark contrast to Daemon's seething fury. He glared at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and distrust, before spinning on his heel. His anger crackled like lightning, a storm of fury that he unleashed with a final, disdainful glance. His cloak flared out behind him, a dark, billowing shadow that seemed to echo his tempestuous mood.
With a resounding slam, the heavy door was thrown shut behind him, the echo reverberating through the chamber and leaving a thick, uneasy silence in its wake. The sound seemed to linger, a stark reminder of the chaos and conflict that had just unfolded.
Rhaenys, by contrast, watched Daemon's departure with an almost practiced nonchalance. Her demeanor suggested that such dramatic exits were routine, a part of a familiar pattern she had long grown accustomed to. Her eyes, though calm, held a spark of curiosity as they lingered on me for a moment before, she turned on her heel and began to leave as well.
The echo of the door slamming shut seemed to reverberate through the chamber, leaving a charged silence in its wake. As I watched Rhaenys exit, my thoughts raced, the gravity of the situation settling heavily on my shoulders.
The sound of someone clearing their throat broke my reverie, pulling my attention back to Rhaenyra.
She was looking at me pointedly, her eyes sharp and direct. Confused, I followed her gaze to her shoulder, where my hand still rested, gripping the fabric with the same intensity as when I first reached out to her. The realization hit me, and I quickly withdrew my hand, the warmth of her presence lingering on my fingers.
"Oh," I murmured, surprised and a little flustered. I could feel a blush creeping up my neck, threatening to spread across my face. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean..." My words stumbled over each other, awkward and uncertain.
Rhaenyra's interruption was both a relief and a comfort as she stood. "It's alright," she said, her voice softer now, the edge of command giving way to something more gentle. Her eyes, those captivating violet eyes, held a flicker of something unspoken—a hint of curiosity, perhaps, or a trace of something more tender. The moment stretched, the air between us thick with a subtle tension.
As the Queen composed herself, she called out for a servant. A young woman entered promptly from a side door, her head bowed slightly. "Yes, My Queen."
"Please see that...." Rhaenyra's words tapered off as she turned to me, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. "I never got your name in all of this."
"Elizabeth," I responded, almost too quickly. "My name is Elizabeth, but everyone calls me Bee," I added, cringing internally at the overshare. I did not just tell the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms to call me by a childhood nickname.
Rhaenyra gave me a perplexed look, and I thought I detected a hint of amusement in her eyes before she turned to the servant. "Please see that Elizabeth is shown to her room."
The servant nodded, and Rhaenyra moved to leave, but a sudden realization made me blurt out, "Wait! You're not sending me back to the dungeons?"
Insert foot into mouth.
Why did I say that?
Rhaenyra paused, her eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my heart race.
"You saved my son," she said quietly, her voice softening with genuine gratitude. "I am in your debt, Elizabeth."
She took a moment, her gaze drifting slightly as if lost in thought. I could see the strain of her position and the personal stakes she was grappling with. The vulnerability in her eyes was a rare glimpse of the woman behind the Queen's facade.
"I would give you this castle if I did not need it currently," she continued, her tone tinged with a hint of frustration.
Rhaenyra turned her attention back to me, her voice firm and reassuring, a promise in her words. "No, Elizabeth," she said with unwavering resolve, "you will not see another dungeon as long as I am alive."
Her words carried a warmth and sincerity that were both comforting and surprising.
I gave a shaky nod, my voice barely more than a whisper as I managed a heartfelt, "Thank you."
Rhaenyra returned the nod with a solemn grace before turning to leave.
I watched her go, a mix of relief and apprehension settling over me. In the story I knew, Rhaenyra's fate was tragic; her death would signify the end of any protection she offered.
The realization struck me with a chilling clarity: for my own survival, I needed Rhaenyra to stay alive.
***
As I followed the young servant through the dimly lit corridors of Dragonstone, the imposing stone walls and flickering torches gave the impression of a living, breathing fortress. The echoes of our footsteps seemed to reverberate through the ages, whispering of ancient battles and forgotten secrets. The servant led me with a practiced grace, her demeanor quiet but purposeful.
Finally, she stopped before an intricately carved wooden door and gave me a polite nod before turning to leave. The door creaked open, revealing a room bathed in soft, golden light. As it closed behind me, I was left alone in the space.
The room was an elegant haven amidst the starkness of the castle. A large, plush bed with velvet curtains dominated one corner, its deep crimson fabric contrasting beautifully with the pale stone walls. Beside the bed, a sturdy wooden table stood against the wall, its surface adorned with a bowl of steaming water and a sponge. I sighed with relief at the thought of cleaning myself from the grime and blood of recent events.
The room's centerpiece was a grand mirror mounted on the wall above a finely crafted wooden desk. The mirror's glass was clear and reflective, offering a stark contrast to the medieval atmosphere. I approached the mirror, taking in my reflection for the first time since the chaos had begun. Despite the turmoil I had endured—tumbling down a mountain, evading dragon attacks, being thrown into a dungeon, and narrowly escaping the threat of putting my head on a pike—I still looked relatively decent.
My face, though weary, retained a semblance of composure. The pale blonde strands of my hair were tangled and stained, and my green eyes, though tired, held the spark of life. I leaned closer to the mirror, my gaze drawn to the rust-colored streaks marring my hairline. The caked blood, remnants of a my fall hard fall down the cliffside.
Reaching up, I peeled aside the strands of blood-streaked hair, I examined the wound on my forehead more closely. To my surprise, it was already in the process of healing. The wound, which should have required stitches, was closing up faster than I would have expected. But what caught my attention even more was the golden hue surrounding the injury. The skin around the wound had taken on a peculiar, almost ethereal glow. As I leaned in further, my breath catching in my throat, I noticed the golden skin had developed a texture.
The scales were subtle but unmistakable, catching the light of the candles with an otherworldly sheen that seemed almost enchanted.
My gaze was riveted to the golden pattern, its iridescence shifting subtly as I moved.
The memory of the black dragon surged back with vivid clarity: the heat of its breath, the press of its nose against my wound, and the strange, almost mystical sensation of its magical flames.
I recoiled from the mirror, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. My eyes, wide with mounting panic, fixed on my reflection.
What in the actual fuck was happening to me?