Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[center]Maekar VIII[/center]

Storm’s End slept beneath the storm that had named it. Wind clawed at the ramparts, moaning through arrow slits like the voices of old kings long gone. The sea beat the cliffs below in a fury of white foam and black waves, as if trying to reach the keep that defied it. But even the storm’s rage could not pierce the silence that had settled over the castle since Lady Cassana’s passing.

The torches guttered in the hallways. The servants spoke in whispers. Even the garrison—those who had fought and bled for the Stormlands—moved as though burdened by something heavier than armor.

Maekar lay in bed and watched the candlelight flicker against the curve of his wife’s back.

Betha had curled into herself again, knees drawn up beneath her nightgown, her hair a tangle of black spilling across the sheets. The candle’s flame painted her face in trembling light—the faint sheen of sweat at her temple, the shadows beneath her eyes, the salt track of tears drying on her cheek. Her breath came unevenly, hitching now and again as if she were still crying even in sleep.

He had seen her weep before—out of anger, grief, exhaustion—but never like this. Never so small. Never so utterly lost.

The night pressed against the windows, all storm and darkness. The world beyond the walls had quieted; the Reachmen had retreated, their banners torn down from the borders, their raids along the Mander ceased. Storm’s End stood secure. The Stormlands were theirs again.

But victory had no taste.

The momentum that had driven them had been shattered after his goodmother’s death. She had been the heart of this place, and now that heart had stopped.

Maekar turned onto his side, studying the woman beside him. His hand itched to reach out—to brush the hair from her face, to trace the freckles at her shoulder, to remind her that he was here—but he didn’t. Not tonight. He’d tried before. Each time, she had flinched, or whispered, “Please, don’t,” in that quiet, broken way that made him feel like a stranger in his own marriage.

So he simply watched.

The wind moaned. The waves roared.

He thought of Lady Cassana–he genuinely didn’t know her that well, and they’d met only twice. First, the day he, his Father and brother came to see Betha- bind her to Rhaegar in a betrothal. The second, when they all travelled to congratulate the Baratheons on Renly’s birth. She’d always been warm enough to him– especially when he made sure a boar didn’t get Betha the second time.

Betha shifted in her sleep, curling tighter, her breath catching. Her lips moved—words without sound. Maekar leaned closer, catching fragments: “Mama… I’m sorry…”

He closed his eyes, his chest tightening.

She’d barely spoken since the funeral. Even the day Lady Cassana’s body was laid to rest in the crypts, Betha had stood apart, her face hidden under her locks, her hands clenched till her knuckles bled. She had only wept, not making a sound. 

Since then, she hadn’t gone to the hall. Hadn’t eaten with her brothers or spoken to her father. When Rhaelle tried to reach her, Betha had turned away. When Jeyne knocked, she’d kept silent. Everything seemed to pass through her like wind through grass.

It frightened him.

Maekar sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. The candle had burned low; wax pooled at its base, spilling over the iron stand. The smell of smoke and sea salt filled the room.

He rose, pulling his shirt over his shoulders. The floor was cold beneath his feet, the stone holding the chill of the sea. For a long moment, he just stood there, watching her.

Betha’s breathing hitched again, and she shifted slightly, curling further into herself as if to hide from the world. Her hand—her strong, calloused hand—lay beside her face, trembling faintly with each breath. Maekar reached out, hesitated, and let his fingers brush her knuckles. Even in sleep, she flinched. The touch died between them.

He wanted to say something—to tell her she wasn’t alone, that she didn’t have to keep bleeding inside herself—but what words could fix this? Lady Cassana had been her mother, yes, but also her tether. Betha had always spoken of her as the one constant in a life full of storms, the one person who had loved her for herself, the one person who was the most patient with her. Now that tether had been cut.

Maekar stood, the boards creaking softly beneath his weight. Betha didn’t stir. Her hair fanned out across the pillow like spilled ink, glinting blue-black in the candlelight.

He turned away before he could lose his resolve.

The door opened with a soft groan, and the cold air of the corridor rushed in. Storm’s End was always cold at night, but tonight the wind carried something sharper. Grief, maybe. Regret. It filled every corner of the keep.

He stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him.

The passage outside was lit by only a few torches. Their flames sputtered in the draft that came howling through the arrow slits. The stone walls wept moisture, dark with condensation. A servant passed him with her head bowed, a bucket of seawater clutched in her hands. She didn’t speak, didn’t even look at him. Nobody did, these days.

The silence was unnatural.

A few weeks ago, this place would have been alive with noise—soldiers bellowing, steel clanging, noise spilling from the kitchens. Even if it was tense, even if some of it was because of panic. Because over all of it, there remained some hope. Now all that remained was a hollow hush. The banners still hung from the battlements, the stag and dragon side by side, but they were limp in the damp air. The victory that should have meant something—should have been theirs—felt like ashes.

He walked the length of the corridor and climbed the narrow stair to the outer wall. The wind hit him like a living thing, salt-stung and cold. He braced a hand against the parapet and looked out.

Below, the sea boiled and roared against the cliffs, waves crashing in bursts of white. Beyond the surf, the horizon was just a smear of black cloud and silver rain. Somewhere out there, the Reach began—a land of flowers and sunshine and the men who had fled from his banners only days ago.

They’d won. The Stormlands were whole again. Steffon’s men had driven the Tyrell banners from the borders, the Baratheon stag ruled the Stormlands as of old, and their lines of supply were strong enough to hold through winter. On paper, everything looked perfect.

But Maekar knew better. The castle might have stood unbroken against the sea, but grief had found its cracks.

He leaned over the wall, letting the wind whip his hair into his face.

When his mother had given birth to Daenerys, he’d been in the field, returning from Essos. The Windblown had only just landed when the message reached him: the queen was in labor, and it wasn’t going well. He’d ridden through half the night to reach Dragonstone, half mad with the fear that he would arrive too late. He remembered that hollow feeling in his chest, the desperate prayers to gods he didn’t even believe in anymore.

But when he’d reached the gates, the cries from within had been of life, not death. His mother had survived. Dany had lived. The relief had broken him then; he’d laughed, wept, and vomited all at once.

Betha never got that.

Lady Cassana had fought the storm until her heart gave out. Overwork, they said. Fatigue. She’d been helping organize the evacuation when the first reports came of the Reach’s push south—refusing to rest until every child and mother was safe behind the walls.

Betha blamed herself for that.

Why exactly, he had no idea. She hadn’t started the war. She hadn’t burned Jon Arryn alive. There was nothing she could have done

The courtyard was empty save for one man.

Lord Steffon stood beneath the arch of the inner gate, his cloak drawn close against the wind, the torch beside him guttering as if the storm itself sought to snuff it out. His head was bowed, silver threads catching what little light remained. He might have been carved of the same stone as Storm’s End—broad, proud, immovable. Yet something about the way he stood, hands clasped behind his back, made him seem smaller than Maekar remembered.

Maekar hesitated on the steps, half-hidden in shadow. He hadn’t meant to come here. He’d only meant to walk, to find a stretch of quiet stone where the wind could batter him without words or eyes. But there Steffon was—alone, like the storm’s last survivor.

He stood there for a while, uncertain. Steffon Baratheon had always been suspicious of him, back when he was still the Hand, Betha still Rhaegar’s betrothed, and Maekar still the second son. Of getting too close- which was true. But now, even though that animosity didn’t exist anymore, approaching Lord Steffon didn’t feel any easier.

He took a breath, meaning to turn away, when a voice drifted from the shadows beside him.

“I had the same thought, lad.”

Maekar turned sharply. From a low stone bench beneath the arch, an older man rose with a grunt. His hair was thin and white, his face lined deep by sea wind and years, but his eyes—green-gray and sharp as broken glass—still held something fierce.

“Lord Andrew,” Maekar said, straightening. “Forgive me. I didn’t see you there.”

The old man smiled faintly, the motion pulling at the creases of his face. “Aye, you’re a very large man. I could forgive you for it.”

Maekar managed a small huff of breath, something close to a laugh. “I suppose I would.”

Andrew Estermont’s smile faded as quickly as it came. “Not many here who still bother to laugh.”

“No,” Maekar said quietly. “No, there aren’t.”

They stood in silence for a few heartbeats, the surf below them roaring faintly in the distance. The smell of salt and wet stone filled the air.

“I meant to offer you my condolences again,” Maekar said after a pause. “For your son. For Lady Cassana. I can’t imagine—”

“You can stop there, lad,” Andrew murmured, his voice rough with age. “No one can imagine it. Losing one child… you tell yourself it’s the way of things. War takes what it will. But both?”

He exhaled, long and low, as though trying to empty himself of something that clung too deep. “Lomas first, and now my little girl. The gods have a queer sense of mercy.”

Maekar bowed his head. There were no words that would fit.

Andrew’s gaze lifted toward the gate where Steffon still stood, unmoving, as the torch beside him flickered. “He hasn’t spoken much since the funeral. Eats only when that maester of his nags him. Sleeps even less. He spends hours down there, by her crypt. Sometimes I think he’s waiting for her to come back up.”

“I thought…” Maekar said slowly, “I thought perhaps I should speak with him. I don’t know what good it would do, but—”

“Betha?” Andrew interrupted gently.

Maekar nodded. “Aye. She’s… I don’t know how to reach her. She hasn’t spoken more than a handful of words in days. Not to me, not to anyone.”

Andrew’s eyes softened. “Grief takes strange shapes, lad. Your wife’s a stormchild. They feel everything too deeply. It’s what makes them strong—and what breaks them fastest.”

Maekar’s gaze drifted to the stone floor. “I thought I’d learned to give her space. To wait. But this… I’ve seen her withdraw before, back in Volantis. She almost didn’t come back from that. I won’t stand by and watch her drown again.”

He realized too late how raw his voice had gone, how close to pleading. He straightened, uneasy. “Forgive me, my lord. It’s not my place to burden you with that. You’ve lost enough yourself.”

But Andrew only waved a hand, the gesture slow, deliberate. “Don’t apologize for loving her. Cassana would have liked that about you. She worried that her girl would marry someone who could never understand her. But you—” He squinted at Maekar through the wind, measuring him. “You’ve got the storm, aye, but you’ve also got the sea. Deep. Patient. Dangerous, if stirred.”

Maekar wasn’t sure if that was meant as comfort. “I’m not sure patience is helping her.”

“No,” Andrew admitted. “But it might help you.”

They stood side by side now, both looking toward Steffon, who hadn’t moved. His cloak rippled faintly with the wind, the torchlight painting him gold and shadow by turns.

Maekar’s throat felt dry. “So what do I do, then?”

The old man looked at him, his expression unreadable. “You do what your kind always do. You keep standing. Even when it feels like the world’s gone soft beneath your feet. You keep standing till she remembers how.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind howled through the battlements, and far below, the sea broke itself again and again upon the cliffs.

“Go on, then,” Andrew said at last, with a weary sort of fondness. “If you’re set on speaking with Steffon, best do it before the rain comes. I doubt he’ll welcome it, but he won’t turn you away. He’s too much of a fool for pride.”

Maekar inclined his head. “You’ll join me?”

Andrew shook his head. “No. He’s my goodson. He needs someone younger. Someone who still believes words can fix what life has torn apart.”

There was no mockery in it. Only truth.

Maekar hesitated a moment longer, then started down the steps. The old lord watched him go, eyes glinting in the torchlight.

The courtyard stones were slick beneath his boots, salt and rain already seeping into the air. As Maekar neared, he could see how still Steffon’s hands were, clasped tight behind his back, the knuckles white. For a heartbeat, Maekar thought of turning back again—of leaving the man to his silence.

But he didn’t.

He stopped a few paces behind him, uncertain whether to speak or wait. The wind filled the silence, howling through the parapets above.

Steffon spoke first, without turning. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“No, my lord,” Maekar said quietly.

Steffon turned then, slow, deliberate, his face drawn but steady. The torchlight caught the hollows beneath his eyes, the salt streaks dried on his cheeks. “Neither could she, once. Cassana. Never did learn how to rest when the storm was up.”

His voice cracked only once, like a mast under too much wind.

Maekar lowered his gaze. “I wanted to tell you… I’m sorry. I didn’t know her well, but she was—”

“Better than the rest of us,” Steffon said simply. “She had a way of making this place feel alive. Now it feels like a tomb.” He turned back toward the sea. “You’ve come about Betha.”

Maekar blinked, surprised. “Aye.”

Steffon nodded once. “She’s her mother’s daughter. Carries her pain where no one can reach it. She won’t talk to me. Won’t talk to her brothers. You’re the only one she might still listen to.”

“I don’t know that she will,” Maekar admitted. “She looks at me, and it’s like she’s somewhere else entirely.”

“Then go there,” Steffon said. “Wherever it is she’s gone. Bring her back if you can. Gods know I can’t.”

Maekar looked at him, and for the first time saw not the Lord of Storm’s End, not the stern father who’d raised Betha with iron and thunder—but a man broken by love.

He nodded once. “I’ll try.”

Steffon gave a faint, tired smile. “That’s all anyone can do.”

The storm swelled again, waves pounding harder against the cliffs, as if demanding to be heard. Steffon turned back toward the darkness. “Go to her, Maekar. She needs you. You know it.”

Maekar didn’t wait till dawn. He turned from the parapet and made for her chambers, boots whispering over cold stone, the wind still chasing him down the corridor as if it feared what silence waited ahead.

The door stood slightly ajar. Candlelight trembled within, dim and uneven. He pushed it open softly.

Betha sat upright against the headboard.
 Not asleep.

The sheets were rumpled around her, her hair unbound and wild, shadows clutching the hollows beneath her eyes. The pillows behind her bore stains darkened by tears.

For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Only her eyes did, glinting wetly in the candle’s glow as they turned toward him. Blue as a storm tide, red-rimmed with sleeplessness.

He stopped at the threshold. “You’re awake,” he said quietly.

Her voice rasped when she answered. “Haven’t slept much.” She tried to smile, but it cracked before it could form. “Didn’t want to, either.”

He stepped closer, unsure if he should sit or stand or kneel—unsure of anything anymore. The air between them felt fragile.

“Do you…” he began, then stopped. His throat had gone dry. “Do you want to talk?”

Betha’s gaze drifted toward the shuttered window. The candlelight flickered across her face, painting her in soft amber and ash.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “These past four days… they’ve been so long. So damned long.” Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her mother’s cloak. “I keep thinking it’ll stop. That maybe when I wake, the sun will be out again, and everything will be as it was. But it doesn’t. It just keeps going. Why won’t it stop? Why can’t it just… end?”

Her voice cracked, and she pressed a hand against her mouth as if trying to hold the words in. When she spoke again, it was smaller. “Why did she have to go, Maekar? Why couldn’t she have waited? Just a little longer? I could’ve—”

She cut herself off. Her shoulders shuddered once, violently. “Gods. What am I saying? Why am I blaming her?” She looked down at her hands as though they belonged to someone else. “It’s my fault. All of it.”

“Betha—”

“No.” She shook her head hard, tears spilling anew. “No, don’t. You don’t understand. I’m a fucking disgrace.”

He moved toward the bed, but she went on, voice gathering a desperate rhythm, the words spilling too fast to catch.

“I failed her. I failed everyone. Twice over. Two lives, two chances, and I’ve ruined both.” Her breath hitched; she laughed once, hollowly. “I was a terrible son, a terrible brother, a worse husband, a worse father, and an even worse king. I was cruel, selfish, drunk on my own pride, and when I got another chance, when I could’ve been something better, something worth saving, I still—” She swallowed a sob. “I still managed to fail.”

Her fingers clenched the cloak tighter, knuckles white. “Now Mother’s gone, and I wasn’t even there to hold her hand. I’m a horrid, unworthy daughter. I failed Father, too, and my brothers—gods, Stannis and Renly, they deserved better than me. And I’ll fail you as well, just give it time. You’ll see.”

She laughed again—quiet, broken, hopeless. “I’ll be a horrid wife. A horrid mother. I won’t even blame you when you decide to set me aside. The world would be better off without me in it.”

“Betha.”

But she didn’t stop. “No, listen to me—”

“Betha.”

His voice cut through the air, firm and low. She froze, the words dying on her tongue. He moved forward and knelt before her, the floor cold against his knees.

“Don’t,” he said softly but with a tremor that made her look at him. “Don’t ever say that again.”

Her lips parted, but he went on, voice breaking only once. “That is the one thing I will never abide hearing from you. Do you understand me?”

Betha’s eyes filled again. “Maekar, I—”

“No.” His hands came up, trembling slightly as he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re not a disgrace. You’ve never been that. Not to me. Not to anyone who truly knows you.”

She stared at him as if she didn’t believe it. He could see her mouth forming a thousand arguments, each one a wound she’d kept open inside herself.

“Please,” he whispered, “if you can’t believe it for my sake, then believe it for Mya’s. She needs you. She needs you, not some ghost of who you were. You’re the best mother she could ever have. I know this is probably not the kindest thing to say to you, but it’s what I can manage.”

Her breath shuddered. “Mya…”

“When we return to King’s Landing,” he said gently, “she’ll be waiting for us. She’ll be waiting for you. The moment she sees you, she’ll run to you. You know that.”

Betha made a sound between a sob and a laugh, one hand coming up to cover her face. Her shoulders shook once, twice—and then she broke.

Maekar caught her before she could fall forward. She collapsed against him, her body racked by quiet, desperate sobs that soaked through his shirt. He held her tight, one arm around her shoulders, the other cradling the back of her head.

She wept until the storm outside softened to a whisper. He said nothing. There were no words worth offering. Only the steady rhythm of his hand through her hair, the sound of her breath against his chest, the warmth of her grief bleeding into him.

When at last she quieted, she didn’t pull away. Her head rested against his shoulder, eyes half-closed, exhausted beyond tears.

He looked down at her, at the woman who had won them the battle of Summerhall, who had defied priests and kings and gods alike. Now she looked impossibly small.

“I won’t let you suffer like this again,” he murmured under his breath, the promise meant for no ears but his own. “Not while I still breathe.”

The sea wind was thick that morning, pressing cool and damp through the high windows of Storm’s End. The sound of waves against the cliffs was a steady thunder beneath the world, and gulls screamed above, circling the towers. The castle had always breathed like that—deep and loud, like a living thing—and Maekar found himself thinking it sounded almost content today. Or perhaps it was only his wish to believe so, with Betha beside him again and her family waiting beyond the oak doors ahead.

They were dressed plainly for breakfast—no jewels, no silks. Betha wore a somber blue gown, her hair braided back, her eyes red-rimmed from another night of sleepless silence. Maekar had not pressed her to speak after the storm that had wrung her out the night before; she had wept until she’d had no breath left, clinging to him as though he were a railing in a shipwreck. He’d said little then, and less after, content to hold her until she slept.

Now, walking through the echoing hall toward the small feasting chamber, he could feel her breath hitch beside him. Her hand brushed his once, uncertain, before pulling back as if burned. The scent of salt and smoke hung over the corridor—the same smell that clung to every stone of Storm’s End.

Beyond the doors, he could already hear voices: Lord Steffon’s low rumble, Jeyne’s laughter, the chatter of the Estermont cousins. The sound of family, gathered and alive.

Betha stopped before they reached the threshold.

“Wait,” she murmured, touching his arm.

He turned to her. “What is it?”

“I need to speak with you,” she whispered. Her eyes darted toward the door, then back. “Just a moment.”

He nodded, stepping back a few paces with her into the quiet corner of the hallway. The light from a narrow window fell between them, soft and cold.

She was wringing her hands now, her voice low and tight. “Is this your doing?”

Maekar frowned. “Is what my doing?”

She exhaled sharply, eyes glistening with agitation. “This—this whole bloody thing. Did you ask everyone to come down? To sit together, waiting for me like… like—” She gestured helplessly at the door. “Like they’ve all decided to pat me on the back and say ‘welcome home, poor Betha’? Did you tell them to do that?”

“Of course not,” Maekar said, baffled.

“Well it feels like you did,” she hissed, voice trembling. “It feels like you’ve gone and arranged it so everyone’s smiling and pretending things aren’t what they are, just so I can feel better about myself—and it’s awful, Maekar. It’s fucking awful.”

Her voice cracked then, though she tried to swallow it down.

“They shouldn’t have to smile,” she went on, her words tumbling faster now, edged with guilt and self-loathing. “Not for me. Everyone in that room is mourning. They shouldn’t be forced to put on cheer just because I’ve come crawling home. They don’t deserve that—”

“Betha—”

“No,” she cut him off, shaking her head violently. “No, you don’t get it. Jeyne was a better daughter to Mother than I ever was. And Renly—Renly’s a motherless child now. Young Andrew and Argilac lost their father just a few moons ago, and now their aunt too. And me?” Her voice dropped, raw and small. “I ran off six years ago. Six fucking years, Maekar. I joined a foreign faith and spat on everything they believed in. They don’t deserve to be forced to pamper me like a—”

“Like a child?”

The voice came not from Maekar, but from behind them.

Betha stiffened, turning slowly.

Lord Steffon Baratheon stood there, tall and solid, his beard touched with more grey than he should have had at thirty eight. His expression was neither angry nor soft, but heavy with the calm authority of a man who’d weathered storms all his life.

“No one is pampering you, Betha,” he said evenly. His voice carried the slow, careful cadence of the Stormlands. “We’re your kin. And you’re a woman grown—will be two-and-twenty in a few moons, gods be good.”

Betha’s eyes darted to the ground.

“But we are a family,” Lord Steffon continued, his tone firm but not unkind. “And you are part of it, whether you ran from it or not. That’s what family is for. To share the table, in grief as much as in joy.”

He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, then looked at Maekar. “Come. We’ll eat before the food grows cold.”

Betha swallowed hard, then nodded, following him toward the open doors. Maekar fell in step behind her, saying nothing, though his chest ached with something between pride and pity.

Inside, the hall was bright with morning light, spilling through the narrow windows onto a long oak table set with bread, salt fish, boiled eggs, and honeyed oats. The great hearth burned low, filling the room with a faint crackle of warmth.

Jeyne sat nearest the fire, her copper hair tied back, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Stannis was beside her, already upright and rigid in his chair despite the early hour. Princess Rhaelle, silver-haired and dignified even in plain robes, spoke quietly with Ser Harbert, her voice lilting and sharp.

At the far end sat the Estermonts—Lord Andrew with his weathered face and heavy jaw, his brother Eldon beside him, and the two younger men, Andrew’s grandsons: Young Andrew, broad-shouldered and solemn, and Argilac, who looked hardly older than fifteen, fidgeting with the rim of his plate.

The chatter quieted as Betha entered.

For a heartbeat, all she could do was stand there under their eyes.

Then Jeyne rose first, crossing the floor and wrapping her arms around her goodsister without hesitation. Betha stiffened at the touch, then slowly returned the embrace, a small sob escaping before she could stop it.

“Don’t start crying again,” Jeyne murmured, smiling faintly. “You’ll set me off too.”

That earned a weak laugh from Betha, and the room seemed to breathe again. Chairs scraped; greetings followed. Lord Andrew nodded solemnly, Eldon gave a courteous “niece,” and the boys mumbled awkward salutations. Even Renly, wide-eyed and still clutching his spoon, offered a grin that made Betha’s lips tremble.

Maekar took the seat beside her once they settled, content to watch rather than speak. The conversation flowed gently—soft talk of ships, of weather, of repairs still being made on the outer walls. Every so often, Betha’s gaze flickered toward the empty chair where her mother would have sat.

The silence that followed was heavier than the sea’s roar.

It was broken by the sound of footsteps at the door.

Maester Cressen entered, his grey robes trailing, his bald crown gleaming in the light. His face was grave as he bowed to Lord Steffon.

“My lord,” he said, voice tight with urgency. “Forgive the intrusion, but I bring news from the Citadel. It could not wait.”

Steffon’s brows drew together. “Speak, then, Maester.”

Cressen hesitated, his old hands clutching a roll of parchment. “Perhaps, my lord, it would be best discussed in private.”

The table stilled.

Maekar was already rising. “We’ll go.”

Stannis stood as well, followed by Lord Steffon. Betha’s eyes widened faintly—half in worry, half in dread—but Maekar gave her a brief, steady look before following the men out into the adjoining solar.

The solar smelled of parchment, tallow, and salt air. Maekar shut the oaken door behind them as Maester Cressen moved toward the table by the window, where a few maps of the Narrow Sea already lay spread open. The morning light spilled across them in silver streaks.

“Letters from Oldtown,” Cressen said, unrolling the parchments with slow, deliberate care. His gnarled fingers shook faintly—not from age alone. “They came just this dawn.”

Steffon crossed his arms. “And the urgency?”

Cressen smoothed the parchment flat. The wax seal of the Citadel—a ring encircling a torch—was half-melted, as if in haste. “The Reach,” he said softly, “has been invaded.”

For a moment, none of them spoke.

Then Stannis frowned, his brow knitting into that familiar, stony scowl. “By whom?”

“The Ironborn.” Cressen spoke grimly. “The letters say the Ironborn struck without warning—raids, fires, full fleets sighted off the Mander delta, the Redwyne Straits, even near the Honeywine itself.”

Maekar blinked. “Wait—ALL the shores? Each and every single one of the shores?”

He leaned forward, incredulous. “Oldtown, The Arbor and the Shield Islands? Do the Ironborn even have that number of ships where they can not only mount a successful attack on the Reach’s shores—but also enough for Mace Tyrell to abandon the stormlands and run back?”

Cressen exhaled slowly. “It seems… not quite so vast as that, my prince. The early reports made it sound like a deluge, but from what the Citadel writes, the main strength of the assault fell upon Oldtown. The attacks upon the Arbor and the Shield Islands—though fierce and costly—appear to have been diversions. Decoys, to draw off the Redwyne fleet and delay reinforcements. Although some speculate parts of the fleet may be travelling up the mander, targeting Highgarden.”

Steffon’s jaw clenched. “Seems the decoys worked.”

“They did,” Cressen said gravely. “Lord Paxter Redwyne’s fleet has barely had the time to turn north. Mace Tyrell—” he paused, the words tasting bitter “—abandoned his lines at Storm’s End not two days after the first ravens came. His host is marching south even now.”

“You shouldn’t understate the fact that Tyrell wants no part of facing your dragon in battle, by-the-by,” Stannis added. “Even if it is smaller than those of old. It completely changed the playing field at Summerhall, and had the Reachmen here not been making their escape, we would have decimated their forces.”

Maekar nodded, his voice even but edged with iron. “We could have finished them off had we pursued them,” he said, glancing toward the window where the morning mist hung low over the sea. “Skyfyre burned their rear lines clean through—half a dozen supply wagons gone, and a good number of Reachmen dead. A day’s ride more, and we’d have broken their back.”

He paused, his jaw tightening. “But never mind. What’s done is done.”

He turned back to the maester. “Is there more, Cressen?”

Cressen nodded, unfolding another parchment with slow, deliberate fingers. “Aye, my prince. From what we can gather, a large part of House Hightower—including Princess Elia, Ser Baelor’s wife, and her son, Myles—have been evacuated inland toward the Honeyholt and the Uplands. They were sent away before the Ironborn made landfall. The letters say the Citadel’s bells rang for near an hour before the first ships reached the harbor.”

“And Oldtown itself?” Lord Steffon asked quietly.

Cressen’s voice faltered. “The danger, my lord, is not to the Hightowers’ kin, but to what stands at the city’s heart—the Citadel and the Starry Sept. Both are heavily guarded, but the letters describe smoke rising over the west bank of the Honeywine, and fighting within sight of the Sphinxes. The Archmaesters fear the raiders have breached the lower quays.”

The silence that followed was deep as the sea.

Maekar’s gaze dropped to the table, his fingers drumming once against the wood. “That,” he said slowly, “is reason enough for the Reachmen to abandon every inch of the Stormlands and race back home. If the Citadel falls, they’ll lose more than books. They’ll lose every healer, every loremaster, every raven trained to carry their damn messages.”

Stannis shifted, his face grim. “They should’ve fortified it better.”

“They thought their walls and their wealth would keep them safe,” Maekar said, shaking his head. “That’s what happens when you centralize everything you have into one place. No redundancy, no branches, no backups—one torch in the dark, and if it goes out, the whole realm’s blind.”

He looked up at Cressen. “Does the Citadel keep any substitutes? Copies, perhaps—hidden vaults, distant halls—something that could serve in emergencies like this?”

Cressen hesitated, his face drawn. “If such existed, my prince, they are secrets even to the Citadel’s own. I highly doubt there are any. The Order prizes its unity above all things. The Conclave sits only in Oldtown; no archmaester may hold rank elsewhere.”

“Fuck this shit, man,” Maekar muttered. “I’ll have to order building a few new ones when this all blows over.”

Lord Steffon folded his arms, the weight of command settling in his stance. “Then we can do nothing for them from here.”

“No,” Maekar agreed, straightening. “What happens in Oldtown—and the Reach as a whole—is beyond our hands now. We can’t march through half the realm to defend a city that’s already burning.”

He turned from the window, his voice firm again. “We need to call a war council.”

The council chamber had once been a storage hall for weapons—its walls thick and narrow-windowed, its air always faintly tinged with oil and salt. Now, banners hung from the beams, each stirring faintly in the wind that crept through the arrow slits: the crowned stag of Baratheon, the red seahorse of Velaryon, the Windblown’s stripes, and the blue three-headed dragon that had not flown for years.

The table was a massive slab of oak, carved in the shape of Westeros itself. Old cracks ran through its coastlines, though someone—perhaps Steffon—had filled them with bronze to make them gleam faintly in the lamplight. Around it, the lords gathered: the grim faces of the Stormlands, the cautious eyes of the Crownlands, the restless men of the Windblown, and Maekar Targaryen, standing at the table’s head, one gloved hand resting on the carved miniature of King’s Landing.

Lord Steffon stood just behind him, his arms folded, while Betha sat to Maekar’s right—her expression drawn but alert, her hair pulled back in a braid of ebony black. Stannis stood opposite, beside the high-backed chair reserved for the Lord of Storm’s End, though he had yet to sit.

The murmur of conversation died as Maekar spoke.

“Oldtown burns,” he began, his voice low but carrying. “The Ironborn have struck the Reach’s heart. The Citadel and the Starry Sept are under siege. Mace Tyrell has abandoned his post here to march south, leaving only garrisons along the Mander and a handful of knights near Bitterbridge. The Redwyne fleet sails home. The Reach bleeds.”

A ripple of unease went through the chamber. The Reach’s might had long been the most immediate threat to Storm’s End, and the thought of its disarray seemed both blessing and omen.

Maekar let the silence stretch before continuing. “This is not mere happenstance. The Ironborn could not have chosen a better moment. The Reach’s strength lies in its numbers and its gold—but both are tied to Oldtown. If the Citadel falls, their command, their ravens, their healers, their stores—all gone in one stroke.”

Rurik of the Windblown—scarred, blond, and leaning on his sword like a cane—spoke first. “A clever strike, if not their own idea. You think someone whispered it to them?”

Maekar gave a faint, humorless smile. “If you’re asking whether I think the Ironborn capable of strategy, I’ll remind you they burn what they can’t drink and drink what they can’t burn. But yes—this reeks of a guiding hand.” He paused. “And if I had to guess, it’s Quellon’s kin in Pyke who think they’re striking for the Old Way. The old man is far too progressive.”

Lord Andrew Estermont, sitting near Betha, leaned forward. “From what I’ve heard, the man is not one to bend his will so easily.”

“Perhaps,” Maekar replied. “But in truth, it matters little. What matters is what we do with this.”

He gestured at the table. “With Tyrell marching home, the Reach’s armies are splintered. The Stormlands are ours to breathe in. And that gives us the first true advantage we’ve had since the war began.”

Lord Selmy frowned. “Advantage, aye—but for what end, my prince? Are we to march on Oldtown, lend aid to those who’d sooner hang us than thank us?”

A few low chuckles rippled among the Windblown.

Maekar shook his head. “No. We march north.”

That drew several startled looks.

Lord Swann’s brow furrowed. “North? Toward the Crownlands?”

Maekar nodded. “Aye. The Stormlands are secure for now. The Reach is pulling back to its own borders. That leaves us one clear path—to further secure the capital.”

He pressed his finger to the carving of King’s Landing. “Half the Windblown already hold the city, alongside the Goldcloaks loyal to me and some of the Crownlanders. But they’re spread thin—too few to withstand a proper siege if the Reach turns back before the Ironborn are finished. We must reinforce them while the roads are open. And once the city’s secure, we move on the next phase.”

Stannis’s tone was clipped but curious. “Which is?”

“The Riverlands,” Maekar said simply. “And beyond.”

He looked to the gathered lords, sweeping the room with his gaze. “Once King’s Landing is fortified, we march north—through the Blackwater, across Duskendale, and into the Riverlands. There, we will join with both the Valemen, and then the North.”

Lord Rykker frowned. “It will be difficult to convince the Northmen and Valemen. Both have lost much.”

“And we can give those wounds a salve, my Lord Rykker,” Maekar said. “Elbert Arryn and Brandon Stark still live. Denys Arryn and Rickard Stark will both be relieved to see their return, and both Elbert and Brandon have promised to speak for the sake of alliance.”

A murmur of approval swept the Stormlords.

But Lord Penrose raised a cautious hand. “Forgive me, my prince. But we can’t be too reckless. The Reach could still return.”

Maekar inclined his head. “You’re right, my lord. The Reach could return—and when they do, they’ll find the Stormlands stronger than they left it. We’ll leave garrisons here: one at Nightsong under Lord Swann, one at Griffin’s Roost under Penrose, and another at the Marches under Selmy. Storm’s End itself will remain guarded by Steffon’s men and the Estermonts.”

He turned toward Rurik. “The Windblown will split. Half ride north with me; the rest remain to protect the coasts. If the Ironborn sail this far south, I want their ships met with fire before they touch sand. We can’t fully trust them.”

Rurik grinned, the scar on his cheek tugging upward. “Aye, Prince. Skyfyre’s fire or ours?”

Maekar’s mouth twitched faintly. “Whichever burns hotter.”

That earned a low ripple of laughter from the sellswords—short-lived, but welcome.

Betha watched him closely, her hands folded in her lap. “And when the North and Vale stand with us,” she said softly, “what then?”

Maekar paused. For a moment, the only sound was the hiss of wind through the arrow slits. “Then,” he said at last, “we march west—to break the Lannisters before they rise again. We end this war, because it’s gone on too damn long.”

There was silence. Then Lord Steffon gave a single, decisive nod. “You have the Stormlands, my prince.”

Others followed—Selmy with a firm “Aye,” Penrose with cautious assent, Rykker and Swann exchanging looks before nodding as well. Even the Windblown captains murmured their approval, some eager, some grim.

Betha looked at Maekar, her expression unreadable. Beneath the lamplight, he looked every inch a commander—steel-eyed, his gloved hand resting on the carved map as though shaping the fate of the realm itself. Yet there was weariness, too, beneath the conviction.

Outside, thunder rolled across the cliffs, distant but growing nearer.

Maekar’s voice broke through it, quiet but certain. “Send the ravens,” he said. “By dawn, we march for King’s Landing.”

And as the lords rose and the banners stirred above them, the storm that had always belonged to House Baratheon seemed, at last, to turn its strength toward fire and flight.

The road to King’s Landing wound like a ribbon through the hills, silvered with frost and dusted in the pale shimmer of late autumn. The host stretched for miles—banners snapping in the wind, hooves clattering against the packed earth, the slow grind of wagon wheels echoing down the valley.

Above them, Skyfyre soared through the pale blue sky, his wings cutting long shadows across the columns of men below. His scales, the deep hue of midnight steel, shimmered whenever the light touched them. Every so often he gave a throaty rumble, a sound that rolled through the hills like distant thunder. Horses shied and soldiers craned their necks to look, some with awe, others with the silent pride that came from marching beneath a dragon’s shadow.

At the front rode Maekar and Betha, their cloaks drawn close against the sharp morning air. Behind them came the blue dragon banners—interspersed with the crowned stags of Baratheon and the striped standards of the Windblown. The march had taken the better part of a month, but there had been no ambushes, no skirmishes. The roads were quiet now; the Reachmen had truly retreated south, and for once the realm seemed to draw a weary breath.

Maekar lifted his eyes toward the horizon, where the red walls of King’s Landing loomed faintly in the haze. “We’ll make the city by dusk,” he said.

Betha nodded absently, her gaze caught between the distant towers and the dragon circling far above. Her hair—wind-tossed and dark as wet oak—was braided back, though a few strands had escaped to whip about her face.

“It’ll be good to be home,” he said, glancing sideways at her. “Has it felt that way, these past weeks? Home, I mean.”

Betha let out a slow breath. “Aye,” she said after a pause. “It has.” She gave a small, brittle smile. “Far more than I thought it would. Stannis and Jeyne—they were kind to me. Kinder than I deserved. Even Renly—”

She hesitated, the words catching.

“Even Renly?” Maekar prompted gently.

Her smile faltered. “He kept bringing me flowers,” she said softly. “Every morning. The garden ones Mother liked best—pink and white ones, he said. Gods, he’s only seven. He’s going through something way worse than me, but he kept trying to make me laugh.” She swallowed hard, her voice thinning. “And it worked, sometimes. He’d grin and ask if I’d finally smile today. He looks so much like her, Maekar. Same eyes, same bloody dimple—”

Her voice broke, and she pressed a gloved hand to her mouth.

“It’s been just a month,” she said thickly. “A month, and I still wake up expecting to see her at the breakfast table. Or hear her in the courtyard, scolding Father for sitting too long in the rain.”

Betha’s jaw trembled. “I should’ve come sooner. Should never have left. If I’d stayed—but then, I’d have never—”

“Never found me or had Mya?” Maekar grinned, though his tone was soft. “Don’t worry, we’d have found you somehow.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

He gave her a faint, crooked smile. “Don’t look so damn sad. Today’s her second nameday, remember?”

Betha let out a shaky sound—half a laugh, half a sob. “Gods. Already?”

“She’ll be tearing through the halls by now,” Maekar said, his tone lightening. “And if I know her, she’s probably teaching the kitchen cats to climb curtains.”

Betha sniffed, brushing her eyes with the heel of her hand.

Overhead, Skyfyre loosed another low roar, a rolling note that seemed to echo their laughter. The sound carried far down the column, and for a moment, even the weary soldiers smiled.

The road dipped, and the city unfurled ahead in full—King’s Landing sprawling and red-gold in the waning light. Smoke rose from a thousand chimneys, the river glimmered bronze in the low sun, and the walls of the Red Keep stood proud and steady. Skyfyre swept low once more, banking over the gilded domes and spires, his wings glinting like blades before he climbed again into the clouds.

The sight brought something like relief to Maekar’s chest. He’d seen the city from too many vantage points—storm, fire, exile—but never with this strange blend of peace and purpose.

By the time the procession reached the gates, dusk had settled over the sprawl. The banners of the crown and dragon flew above the walls, and the Goldcloaks stood in formation, lining the road to the Keep.

At the head of the receiving line stood Queen Rhaella and Maegor.

The courtyard of the Red Keep glowed in the fading light—its stones warmed by the sunset, its air filled with the faint scent of sea salt and smoke. Trumpets rang once, clear and solemn, before dying into silence. The great gates of the Red Keep stood wide, and through them the returning host poured—banners of blue, gold, and silver streaming, horses snorting, the tramp of boots echoing like a heartbeat through the yard.

At the head of the procession, Maekar slowed his horse. Betha drew up beside him, her cloak fluttering behind her like a banner of storm-dark silk. And waiting at the foot of the steps stood his mother—the Queen.

Rhaella’s hair, once bright as spun silver, was streaked now with white. Yet she stood straight, her bearing as regal as it had ever been, her hands clasped before her as the chill wind tugged at her long violet cloak. Beside her stood Maegor—broad-shouldered and composed, the faintest ghost of a smile on his weathered face.

Maekar dismounted slowly, his boots striking the flagstones with a soft thud. Betha followed suit, her fingers brushing his briefly before she turned toward the Queen and curtsied. Behind them came Lord Steffon Baratheon, grim-faced but dignified despite the long ride, and young Stannis, whose eyes seemed to drink in everything—the dragon banners, the golden spires, the faces he had only heard of in stories.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. The air between mother and son was too heavy, especially with the way Aerys had died.

Then the Queen took one step forward.

“Welcome home, my son,” she said softly.

Her voice was steady, though Maekar heard the tremor beneath it.

He bowed his head. “It’s good to be home, Mother.”

Rhaella’s eyes lingered on him for a long moment—tracing the faint lines that hadn’t been there before, the pale scar beneath his jaw, the marks on his temples. Then she turned to Betha. “And you as well, Robetha. It has been too long.”

Betha’s eyes shimmered faintly. “Far too long, Your Grace.”

The Queen nodded, and for a moment her expression softened. “Your mother was a great woman,” she said, glancing past Betha to Steffon. “The realm mourns her still.”

Steffon bowed his head deeply. “Your Grace honors her memory.”

Rhaella placed a hand briefly over her heart. “Lady Cassana was a light wherever she went. I grieve that I could not attend her funeral.”

As the Queen spoke, Maegor inclined his head as well, his sharp features gentling. “And I too offer my condolences, Lord Steffon. I knew Lady Cassana, if only through your lady daughter’s words. Her sacrifice is deeply mourned.”

Steffon looked up at him, frowning faintly. “Apologies, my lord, but I do not believe we have been introduced.”

Before Maegor could answer, Maekar stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying. “Allow me. Lord Steffon, Ser Stannis—this is Prince Maegor, son of Aerion Brightflame. Commander of the Windblown…and my Acting Hand.”

A ripple went through the gathered guards and attendants. Stannis’s brows shot upward, his mouth parting in disbelief. Steffon blinked once, visibly taken aback.

“Prince Maegor?” he repeated slowly. “By the gods, that name hasn’t been spoken in the court for forty years.” His gaze flicked from Maekar to the elder prince. “I thought you long dead.”

“I was,” Maegor said dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching. “At least as far as the realm was concerned. I had little reason to correct it.”

Rhaella gave a quiet hum, not disagreement but weary acknowledgment.

Steffon studied Maegor for a moment longer before saying, “My mother, Princess Rhaelle, spoke of you often. She said you were much alike.”

A flicker—something softer—passed through Maegor’s eyes. “Your mother was kind,” he said. “We were close as children. In fact, the last time I was in Westeros before now, was at her wedding to your father, Lord Ormond.”

Then, from somewhere near the courtyard gate, came a burst of laughter.

It was high, unrestrained, bright as birdsong.

The conversation faltered. Maekar turned, half-frowning—just in time to see a small shape dart between two startled guards.

Mya came pelting acros/s the courtyard, curls flying, cheeks flushed pink from the chase. Three harried maids ran after her, one clutching an abandoned ribbon, another her tiny shoes.

“Princess Mya—wait, no—!” one of them called, but the little girl had already launched herself forward with a joyous, “Mummaaaa!”

Betha barely had time to kneel before Mya flung herself into her arms. Betha caught her, laughing through the tears that had suddenly sprung to her eyes.

“Oh, my wild little storm,” she whispered, holding the child close.

“Mumma! Mumma, look!” Mya babbled, waving a fistful of crushed flower petals she must’ve stolen from the gardens. “They smell nice! And Skyfai go roaaar!” She threw her free hand in the air for emphasis.

Betha laughed helplessly. “Aye, love, I heard him roar.”

Maekar smiled despite himself, the tightness in his chest easing as he watched them. “You gave the maids quite a fright, you know.”

Mya twisted in Betha’s arms, her purple eyes lighting up at the sight of him. “Daddy!”

She reached out eagerly, and Maekar scooped her up, settling her easily on his hip. “There you are, my terror,” he said, tapping her nose. “Did you miss me?”

Mya nodded so vigorously her curls bounced. “Missed! Missed lots! Brought dagun too?”

“He’s just above,” Maekar said with mock solemnity, pointing skyward. “Keeping the city safe.”

“Safe!” Mya chirped, clapping her hands.

Betha’s laughter softened, but when she looked up, her gaze caught Steffon’s—and something inside her faltered.

Her father was staring, utterly still. Stannis too, his face unreadable but his eyes wide.

For a long, suspended moment, neither moved. Then Steffon’s voice came, hoarse, as though dragged from deep within him. “Betha…is that…”

Betha swallowed hard, her hand tightening on Maekar’s arm. “Yes, Father,” she said quietly. “Your granddaughter.”

At that, the little girl turned her head, peering at Steffon with frank, unblinking curiosity. “I Mya,” she echoed proudly, pointing at herself. Then, squinting, she tilted her head. “Who this, Mumma?”

Betha hesitated only a moment. “That’s your Grandfather, sweetling,” she said softly. “He’s my Daddy.”

Mya’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of surprise. “Grand—Grandpa?” She tried the word again, stumbling over the syllables, then grinned when Betha nodded. “Grandpa!” she said, louder this time, her voice bright as sunlight through cloud. “Grandpa!”

Steffon’s lips parted in a slow, trembling smile. He knelt—no lord now, no soldier, no bannered stag, only a man undone by the small miracle before him. “Gods,” he breathed, his eyes glistening. “She’s… she’s a little you, Betha.”

Betha’s hand flew to her mouth. Mya, oblivious to the ache in her mother’s chest, wriggled in Maekar’s arms until he set her down. The moment her feet touched stone, she toddled forward and grabbed Steffon’s hand with both of hers, tiny fingers curling around his weathered knuckles.

“Grandpa big!” she declared, looking up at him with grave approval. “Like Daddy!”

Steffon gave a wet, unsteady laugh. “Aye, little one. Big indeed.” He brushed a hand through her dark curls—Betha’s hair, Cassana’s softness—and for an instant, his expression cracked open with wonder and grief all at once.

Stannis, who had been standing a step behind, cleared his throat. His voice was careful, though something unguarded flickered beneath it. “And I suppose that makes me…”

“Uncle!” Betha said gently, motioning to him. “That’s Uncle Stannis, love. He’s Grandpa’s son. Like your Daddy’s—”

But Mya wasn’t listening to the rest. Her gaze had fixed on Stannis, eyes wide with the serious concentration only a two-year-old could muster. Then she frowned deeply, pointing a finger up at him. “Uncle Stannis big,” she said slowly. “But Uncle Vissy small.”

A ripple of laughter broke the tension—Betha’s first true laugh in weeks. Even Maekar grinned as Rhaella covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.

“Uncle Vissy’s still a boy, little one,” Betha explained between laughs. “He’s smaller ‘cause he’s younger.”

Mya blinked, processing this, then turned to Stannis again. “Uncle Stannis eat too many carrots?”

That did it. Mother laughed outright, the sound like wind through silver bells. Maekar’s chuckle joined hers, and even Steffon couldn’t suppress the ghost of a smile.

Stannis, red to the ears, gave a small, bewildered huff. “I… suppose I must have,” he muttered, earning a few more laughs.

Mya, delighted by the response, clapped her hands together. Then she squealed and made to run toward Mother, calling “Gramma! Gramma!” as her little boots pattered against the stone.

“Careful, love,” Queen Rhaella said quickly, kneeling to catch her as she came. “No running, my sweet. What if you slipped and fell?” She cupped Mya’s cheeks, smiling despite herself. “You’ll give your poor Gramma a fright.”

“Sorry,” Mya mumbled, eyes downcast. “No run.”

“Good girl,” Mother said softly, pressing a kiss to her brow. “But you may walk fast, if you must.”

The courtyard was warmer now somehow, the heavy air of formality replaced by laughter and light. Betha stood with her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes glimmering. Steffon’s gaze flicked to her, softened, then back to Mya. “She’s wonderful, Betha,” he murmured. “Truly wonderful.”

Betha swallowed the knot in her throat. “She’s… she’s everything good I’ve ever done, Father.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind and the faint clatter of Skyfyre’s wings overhead. Steffon nodded, voice thick. “Your mother would’ve loved her.”

Betha closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks.

But before she could answer, a shadow crossed the courtyard arch. Maester Jorgen hurried through, his robes spattered with dust, his expression grave. The laughter ebbed instantly.

He bowed low. “Your Grace,” he said to Rhaella, his breath unsteady. “My prince.” His eyes darted to Maekar, then to Steffon. “Forgive the intrusion, but word’s come from the Riverlands. Urgent word.”

The light mood shattered, like glass struck by wind.

Rhaella’s smile faded. “What news, Maester?”

Jorgen hesitated, eyes flicking toward Mya—still nestled in her grandmother’s arms—and back again. “It would be best spoken in private, Your Grace. It’s from the Riverlands.”

The room still stank faintly of smoke. The candles had long burned to stubs, leaving only the faint blue of the evening sky bleeding through the narrow window. Maekar sat still as the flame guttered out, his hand tightening around the letter until the wax cracked and flaked beneath his thumb.

It was strange—how silence could be louder than any cry.

He looked across the table to where Stannis sat, jaw clenched and motionless, his face locked in that mask of rigid self-control that always preceded a storm. Beside him, Brandon Stark had buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. The letter lay open before them, its words spreading across the table like blood:

“The Northmen are broken. Harrenhal is lost. Lord Eddard Stark is slain by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Brandon made a sound—a choked, wounded groan that barely sounded human. Elbert Arryn, who sat beside him, was pale and shaking too, his eyes wide, staring at nothing. He looked like a boy again, not the hardened young man who had survived the Black Cells.

Maekar wanted to say something—anything—but what words could bridge such a chasm?

Elbert’s trembling hand came up to clutch Stannis’s sleeve, his voice barely audible. “Ned’s… Ned’s dead?”

Stannis said nothing. His throat worked once, but no sound came out.

Brandon head snapped up, red-rimmed eyes blazing. “Rhaegar!” he rasped, the name breaking in his throat. “He killed him—my brother!” He slammed his fist down on the table so hard that the candle toppled, scattering hot wax across his knuckles. He didn’t flinch. “By the gods, I’ll kill him! I’ll—I’ll flay him with my own hands—”

Stannis had his hand on Elbert’s back, trying to say something- to console the man.

But there was no strength in the Baratheon heir. His hand trembled, just barely.

Maekar rose quietly. His mouth felt dry, and something inside him—the part that still believed in order, in the logic of the world—felt cold and hollow.

He pushed the chair back and said softly, “I’ll give you three some time.”

Stannis didn’t look up. Brandon had buried his face in his hands again, sobbing silently. Elbert leaned forward, resting his forehead against his fists, shaking.

Maekar stepped out. The corridor outside was dark and cool, lined with unlit sconces. Every step he took echoed faintly in the stone, the weight of the news following like a shadow that refused to fade.

He didn’t know how long he walked—just that he needed to move. To keep from thinking.

When he reached his chamber, the air inside was still and heavy. The fire had burned low, and the only light came from the window, where the faintest blush of sunset still lingered. Betha was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to him. Her hair—tousled and streaked with gold in the firelight—fell loose down her back.

She turned when she heard the door. Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet.

“Gods,” she whispered, voice raw. “Could we not have left that damned Orange Shore sooner?”

Maekar said nothing.

She stood, pacing to the hearth, her movements sharp and angry. “If we’d left a week sooner—five bloody days, even—maybe… maybe my mother would still be alive. Maybe Ned—” She swallowed the name like it burned. “Maybe Ned wouldn’t have—”

Her breath hitched, and she pressed her fists against her eyes. “Fuck.” The word came out strangled. “Fuck it all.”

Maekar moved toward her, but she stepped away.

“Why?” she hissed, as if demanding the world itself to answer. “Why does it always end like this? Every time, I try—every time I try to save someone, to make something right—and it just ends the same. I can’t seem to save anyone, Maekar.”

He reached her then, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder. She trembled beneath his touch but didn’t pull away.

“At least in my first life,” she said, voice breaking, “when I was Robert, Ned got to live a full life. He had six children, a wife who loved him. He made it through the war. And now—now he doesn’t even get to see twenty-fucking-one.”

Her shoulders shook, the words spilling faster. “He never even married Catelyn. Or Ashara. He really liked her, you know. Would have been better this time around, given the obvious.”

Maekar said softly, “You didn’t kill him, Betha.”

She gave a short, hollow laugh. “No. But I couldn’t save him either.”

For a long while, there was only the sound of her breathing—sharp, uneven, like she was fighting to hold herself together.

Then, quieter: “How’s Stannis?”

Maekar hesitated.

Betha gave a small, mirthless smile without turning. “You don’t have to tell me. I know. He’s holding it together. For Elbert. For Brandon. He’ll bury it deep until it rots inside him, and then he’ll keep going because that’s what he does. He always does.”

Her hand came up to wipe her cheeks roughly. “He’ll be strong. He’ll act like it doesn’t break him.”

Maekar’s throat felt tight. He wanted to tell her she was wrong—but she wasn’t.

Betha turned to face him at last, her face streaked with tears, eyes shining in the firelight. “People will think it’s strange, won’t they?” she said softly. “If I cry too much. They’ll wonder why I care. I’m not supposed to even know Ned in this life.”

Her voice cracked. “But gods, Maekar, I do. I remember him laughing, calling me a drunken fool. I remember him dragging me out of bed after a night of wine, telling me I was late. I remember—” She stopped, shaking her head. “And now he’s gone.”

Her hands came up to her face again, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, shoulders heaving.

For a long time, Maekar just stood there, helpless. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound hollow.

Then a small voice piped from the bed’s corner.

“Mumma sad?”

Betha froze.

Mya stood there, her little blanket bunched in her arms, her dark hair tousled from sleep. She blinked up at them, eyes wide and worried.

Betha knelt instantly, wiping her face and trying to smile. “Yes, love,” she whispered. “Mumma’s sad.”

Mya tilted her head, studying her with that same earnest seriousness that always made Maekar’s heart ache. Then, suddenly, she stepped back and began to twirl—her tiny bare feet pattering softly against the floor as she spun in a slow, clumsy circle, arms lifted.

“Mumma smile now?” she asked brightly, stopping mid-spin. “Did Mya make Mumma happy?”

Betha let out a broken laugh that was half sob. She pulled Mya close, kissing her forehead. “Yes, you did, my love. You always do. Now go play with Uncle Vissy and Auntie Dany.”

Mya leaned in and hugged her tightly, small arms barely reaching around Betha’s neck. “First Mumma smile.”

Betha’s breath hitched, but she managed a trembling smile. “See? There. Mumma’s smiling.”

Mya giggled, kissed her cheek, and then toddled off toward the door, clutching her blanket.

The silence that followed felt softer somehow.

Betha sat back, looking into the dying fire. “She doesn’t even understand,” she murmured. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

Maekar looked at the flames, the letter’s words still burned into his mind—Eddard Stark is slain.

She closed her eyes, and he felt her tears against his sleeve.

The corridor outside their chamber was quiet save for the sigh of the wind and the distant mutter of the keep. Maekar closed the door softly behind him, resting his forehead against the cold wood for a moment before pushing off and walking down the hall. His steps echoed in uneven rhythm — boot, boot, drag — the sound of someone too tired to care how much noise he made.

He passed a few servants who bowed low but didn’t speak. They knew better than to meet his eye tonight.

He didn’t know where he was going until he was standing before a heavy oaken door — one of the smaller council rooms that had been repurposed since his return. Light spilled faintly through the cracks, and voices murmured within.

He didn’t knock. He shoved the door open with his shoulder.

Both men inside looked up — Lord Steffon from where he stood beside the hearth, and Maegor from his chair near the window, one hand resting on his cane.

Maekar blinked at them, jaw tightening. “If I’m intruding, say so.”

Steffon’s expression softened slightly. “Intruding? Hardly. The Red Keep is yours, my prince. In all but name, you’re king already.”

Maegor gave a faint, knowing smile, the lines around his pale eyes deepening. “You wear the weight of it tonight, boy. Sit. You look as if the floor might swallow you otherwise.”

Maekar exhaled sharply and dropped into a chair opposite them, dragging a hand through his hair. For a moment, none of them spoke. The fire crackled softly, throwing long shadows across the table.

Maegor broke the silence first. “There seems to be something gnawing at you. Out with it.”

“It’s nothing,” Maekar said quickly.

Steffon raised a brow. “Nothing rarely drives a man to burst into a room like a storm tide.”

Maegar leaned forward slightly. “We’re your counsellors, not your gaolers. If you’ve kept us alive this long, it’s not to watch you brood yourself to death. Speak.”

Maekar’s jaw tightened. He looked between them — his great-uncle’s unreadable eyes, Steffon’s calm but weathered face — and then laughed bitterly under his breath.

“Rhaegar finally showed up,” he said, the words dropping like stones. “And he did the worst fucking thing he possibly could’ve done.”

Both older men stilled.

Maekar slammed his palm against the table. “Even bringing Brandon back alive won’t fix this. Rickard Stark’s most definitely ready to tear the realm apart, and who could blame him? His son’s body’s barely cold, and every bloody man from north of the Neck’s going to demand blood for blood.”

Steffon’s brow furrowed. “You’ve had confirmation?”

Maekar nodded once, a stiff jerk of the head. “Straight from the raven. Rhaegar rode north to ‘end the rebellion’ on his own terms. Joined up with his wife’s kin. When the Northmen came calling, he killed Eddard.”

He slammed his fist into the table, the oak splintering under his glove.

“That stupid fucking COCKSUCKER!” he snarled. “The one Stark who could’ve fully brought Rickard to the table. And now he’s gone—burned into dust by my own brother’s sword.”

The room went still except for the hiss of the fire. Maekar stared down at the jagged hole his knuckles had left in the table. A splinter of bronze from the inlay clung to his glove, glittering faintly. He brushed it off, jaw tight.

“I shouldn’t be throwing a tantrum,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “Eddard Stark was a good man. He deserves better than this.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Steffon exhaled quietly.

“Your anger is understandable,” the Stormlord said. “But you must not let it blind you. Rickard Stark and Denys Arryn are not fools. They’ll see what kind of man you are before they damn the realm for vengeance.”

Maegor gave a small nod, his tone softer than usual. “Returning their kin will matter more than you think. Elbert and Brandon living—those are not small gifts, Maekar. To men who’ve buried too many, they’ll mean the world.”

Maekar looked up sharply. “Aye. I know that.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “But Denys I don’t worry about. It’s Rickard Stark and Elbert Arryn who keep me awake. Grief can turn the most rational man into something else entirely. Rage eats the mind faster than rot.”

A new voice spoke from the doorway.

“Then you’ll understand why mine’s already half gone.”

They turned. Elbert Arryn stood in the threshold, pale but steady, the candlelight catching on the edge of the falcon pin at his collar.

Steffon straightened immediately. “Lord Arryn—”

Elbert raised a hand. “No need for titles tonight.” He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. “I heard enough.”

Maekar rose slowly, meeting his eyes. “I misspoke those words,” he said evenly. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Elbert interrupted. His voice wasn’t cold, just hollow. “I’ve no quarrel with you, Maekar. Not for this.”

He took another step forward, stopping across the table. “I gave you my word once, remember? When you allowed me the trial against Aerys. I swore that the Vale would stand with you, so long as you stood against the madness that killed my uncle.”

Maekar inclined his head. “And I have.”

Elbert’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Aye, you have. But my uncle was more than blood. He was my father in all but name.” His voice trembled slightly. “And Ned… Ned and Stannis were my brothers, the both of them. In every way that mattered.”

The room was deathly still.

Elbert drew a shuddering breath, and when he looked up again, there was nothing of the boy left in his eyes. Only cold, carved fury.

“So I ask you this once, Maekar Targaryen,” he said quietly. “As I asked you the day you gave me Aerys’s life. Give me Rhaegar’s.”

Steffon’s expression tightened, but he said nothing.

Elbert went on, voice low but steady. “Let me kill him. Let me end it. You gave me my uncle’s murderer once. Give me my brother’s now.”

Maekar didn’t answer immediately. The fire popped, throwing a brief spark that danced across the bronze lines in the table.

Maegor spoke first, his tone calm but cutting. “You may not be the only man who wants that blood, boy. The North will howl for it, the rest of your Valemen too. To say nothing of the Stormlanders. You’ll be one among hundreds.”

Elbert turned his head just slightly, enough for Maegor to see the glint in his eye. “They can howl all they like. I’ll be the one to draw the sword.I won’t stand idle while the same blood that killed my uncle and my brother walks free.”

He looked back to Maekar. “You’re the only one I’d ask this of. Give me a sword, a horse, and armor. That’s all I need.”

Maekar stared at him for a long moment. Elbert’s face was calm now—eerily calm, as though his grief had burned itself into something colder, harder.

Finally, Maekar spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “You’ll have your armor. And your sword. This is my promise.”

The wind bit cold against their faces as Maekar rode north, the air thick with the smell of horse sweat, pine, and frost. Two weeks had passed since word reached them of Eddard Stark’s death and Rhaegar’s treachery, and every mile toward Brindlewood felt like a march through ash. The host stretched far along the road — banners of Velaryon sea-green and silver, Celtigar’s red crabs, Rosby’s red chevrons, Rykker’s twin sword, and smaller banners from Manning, Buckwell and Chelsted fluttered behind them. They were the eastern strength of the Crownlands — loyal to Maekar, loyal to the memory of justice that Aerys had burned.

Ahead, Skyfyre wheeled low in the clouds, his shadow sweeping across the hills like a storm’s omen. Peasants stopped in their tracks as the dragon’s roar rolled down the valleys. Even hardened knights turned their faces upward, uneasy. Betha rode beside Maekar, her blue cloak now trimmed with  yellow. Lord Steffon followed on her left, heavy in his saddle, his eyes distant and sad. Stannis rode just behind them, armor polished but face grim, his silence as steady as his horse’s gait.

The woods began to thin as they neared Brindlewood — a humble village of timber and thatch, nestled where the Crownlands gave way to the Riverlands. Beyond the low hills, Maekar could already see the smoke of another camp — banners of blue and white, the falcon of Arryn snapping proudly in the wind.

“Denys Arryn keeps discipline,” Steffon murmured. “Their lines are neat as a sept.”

Betha smiled faintly. “Arryns always did like their order. Makes it easier to spot when things are about to fall apart.”

Maekar said nothing. He guided his horse forward as the gates of the camp opened. The Valemen watched them approach — mailed riders, most young, most wary. Many stared in awe as Skyfyre’s shadow passed over, though the dragon himself was still distant, circling lazily above the woods.

When Maekar and his captains entered the camp’s heart, Lord Denys Arryn rode forth to meet them. He was a broad man with hair gone mostly to silver, his features sharp but kind. His eyes widened when he saw Skyfyre alight on a far ridge, wings folding with a crack like thunder.

“Seven save us,” Denys whispered, awe and fear mingling. Then he turned to Maekar and gave a bow of respect. “So it’s true. The tales from King’s Landing spoke of a dragon returned to the world. I did not believe them.”

“He’s true enough,” Maekar said. “Though he eats more than a dozen knights.”

Denys let out a short, nervous laugh. “Then I’ll see he’s well-fed, so long as he remains a friend of the Vale.” He hesitated, glancing between Maekar and Betha before adding, “You’ve come as promised, then. I am relieved, Prince Maekar — relieved to see you are true. But I must ask — your promise to my kin. My cousin. Is he well?”

Before Maekar could speak, a voice came from behind.

“I am well in body, Ser Denys.”

Elbert Arryn emerged from among the Crownlanders — clad in freshly polished armor, a white falcon painted over his surcoat. His hair had grown longer since King’s Landing, his face sterner, but his eyes burned with the same purpose. He stepped forward and clasped Denys by the forearm.

“Elbert,” Denys breathed, half laughing, half crying. “By the gods, I thought—”

“I know,” Elbert said softly. “Many did. But I live.”

Denys stepped back to look at him, searching his cousin’s face. “Thank the Gods.”

“Not yet,” Elbert replied simply. “I’ve done what I swore to do — I’ve ended the mad king. But peace will not come to me until the son joins the father in the grave. Rhaegar Targaryen is mine to kill.”

The camp fell silent. Even the wind seemed to pause, the creak of banners filling the stillness. Maekar studied Elbert — the young man’s jaw tight, his eyes cold as winter steel. There was no hesitation left in him.

Finally, Maekar broke the quiet. “Lord Denys, what word from your scouts? Have the other Crownland forces been seen?”

Denys turned to him, sobering. “Aye, my prince. We’ve had riders ranging west and south. Three days past, they sighted banners heading towards the God’s Tear — Selmy’s men, marching swift. The Stauntons, the Masseys, the Sunglasses, the Stokeworths, and Bar Emmons among them.”

“And their Kingsguard leaders?” Steffon asked.

“Barristan Selmy commands the main column,” Denys said. “Bonifer Hasty rides beside him, and Jonothor Darry brings up the rear. They are moving south-west, along the headwaters of the God’s Tear, keeping to the road.”

Maekar frowned. “South-west?”

Denys nodded. “ Our latest riders say they’ve turned west — perhaps to join the Westerlands host near the Blackwater Rush.”

A hush spread among the gathered lords. Maekar felt the weight of it — the realization that Rhaegar’s forces, fresh from their victory at Harrenhal, were on the move again.

“They’ll try to invade the Crownlands,” Maekar said finally. “They’ve crushed the Riverlords, and with the Westerlands beside them, they’ll want to sweep southward — march straight to King’s Landing and crown Rhaegar as king.”

Betha’s lips parted. “So soon?”

“They have momentum,” Maekar said. “And no honor left to restrain them.” He looked toward the hills, where the pale glow of dawn began to bleed into the sky. “If they take the Gold Road, they’ll reach King’s Landing before we can fortify it.”

Denys frowned. “The Gold Road? That’s days away.”

“Days we don’t have,” Maekar said. He turned to his captains — Steffon, Stannis, Elbert, and the assembled knights of Rosby and Velaryon. “If we move hard and fast, we can intercept them before they reach the city’s heartlands. The Gold Road is closer to us than it is to them.”

Steffon frowned, stroking his beard. “It’ll be rough riding. No proper supply line.”

“It’s now or never, my lord,” Maekar said. “Now or never.”