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𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐈𝐍 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ 𝑯𝑶𝑻𝑫
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━━━━━━━━━━ .°୭̥ ❁ ˎˊ˗━

𝔗he war room of Dragonstone was bathed in the warm glow of flickering torches and the eerie light of the painted table, now illuminated with fiery brilliance. Around it stood the assembled lords, knights, and sworn swords of House Targaryen-the queen's council, gathered for the first time beneath her rule.

A hushed tension filled the chamber, the air thick with unspoken expectations. Then, as the great doors opened, a presence commanded the room before a single word was uttered.

Daemon turned toward the entryway, his voice ringing out with authority.

"Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

At once, the gathered lords and knights bent the knee, bowing their heads in deference to their true queen.

Daemon himself, though ever a rogue in nature, dipped his head. "Your Grace."

Rhaenyra's eyes swept across the chamber, taking in the men and women who had pledged their loyalty to her cause. She exhaled, steadying herself. Though she stood before them as queen, she still felt the ache of what had been taken from her-the crown, her father's throne, and now... her daughter.

Rhaena stepped forward, a goblet of wine in hand. She held it out, offering a small but earnest gesture of comfort. "Wine, my queen."

For a moment, Rhaenyra hesitated. Then, her gaze flickered downward-to her belly, now empty. The child she had carried was gone, and yet her body had not yet learned to forget. It was an absence she had not grown used to, nor did she think she ever would.

At last, she accepted the cup with a soft smile. "Thank you, Rhaena."

She took a sip, the weight of their silence pressing upon her like an iron yoke. It was a silence laden with expectation, with the knowledge that they all awaited her command.

She moved to the painted table, placing her goblet down beside its carved edges, her fingertips trailing over the detailed map of Westeros. The firelight danced over its surface, casting shadows across the realm she now fought to reclaim.

A heavy quiet loomed. Then, at last, she spoke.

"What is our standing?"

Daemon stepped forward, his expression grim. "We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms. Dragonstone is easily defended, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves much to be desired." His gaze flickered around the room before he continued. "I have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. Some will answer, but I cannot yet speak to the numbers."

Maester Gerardys, standing near the table's edge, nodded. "We already have declarations of support from House Celtigar, Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon."

Rhaenyra inclined her head. "My late mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn their cloaks against their own kin."

Gerardys shifted slightly, as if choosing his next words with care. "Riverrun was ever a close friend to your father, Your Grace. With Prince Daemon's acquiescence, I have already sent ravens to Lord Grover Tully."

Rhaenyra's expression remained impassive, but there was a sharpness to her voice. "Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need more than mere words. He must be convinced of the strength of our position-convinced that we will support him should war come to his lands."

Daemon gave a small, almost imperceptible smirk. "I will go to treat with him myself."

A tension settled between them then, unspoken but palpable. Rhaenyra's lips pressed into a thin line, yet she did not challenge him before the others.

Then, another voice cut through the unease.

"Either Vaegon or I can return to Runestone," Aeron said, stepping forward. "To sway the Royces to bend the knee. We are, after all, their direct kin. And I am their heir."

A flicker of hesitation crossed Rhaenyra's face. "They may not be as kind as you wish," she warned. "They will see you as your father."

Vaegon's brow furrowed, his gaze sharp. "Is there a reason for them to mislike our father?"

At that, Rhaenyra's head snapped toward Daemon. Then, she turned her gaze upon Aeron and Vaegon, then back to Daemon-as if silently demanding, You have not told them?

The twins' confusion was evident, but the moment was quickly interrupted.

Ser Steffon Darklyn, sensing the need to steer the conversation away from family matters, stepped forward. "What of Storm's End and Winterfell?"

Lord Bartimos Celtigar stroked his beard. "There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark, the North will follow."

Rhaenyra nodded slowly. "Lord Borros Baratheon will need to be reminded of his father's promises."

The weight of it all bore down on her, the enormity of the battle ahead. She took a slow, measured breath, her fingers brushing over the carved ridges of the painted table.

"What news from Driftmark?" Her voice rang through the room, an edge of expectation hanging in the air.

Rhaenyra turned her gaze toward Rhaenys, who stood next to her daughter, Saela. The younger Velaryon girl looked up at Rhaenyra, her eyes wide, awaiting the news that would determine their next steps.

Rhaenys took a breath, her face unreadable, and then spoke with the calm authority she had always possessed. "Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone."

Daemon, standing just behind Rhaenyra, spoke sharply, almost like a statement of fact. "To declare for his queen."

His words hung heavy, more of a demand than a question, but Rhaenys didn't flinch.

"The Velaryon fleet is in my husband's yoke," Rhaenys said, her voice firm as she looked back at her cousin. "He decides where they sail."

Rhaenyra nodded, her thoughts turning briefly to the man who had long been a pillar of support for House Targaryen-Lord Corlys Velaryon, her mother's great ally.

"We shall pray for both you and your husband's support," Rhaenyra said, her voice softer, touched by the sorrow of the past. "Just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake's return to good health." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she addressed the room, her voice hardening. "There is no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet."

A low murmur of agreement rippled through the room, and then the silence deepened as Rhaenyra turned her gaze back to the painted table, the world on her shoulders, her thoughts swirling.

"And our enemies?" She asked, not looking up, but her voice was a commanding presence, pulling the council back into focus.

Daemon was quick to answer. "We have no friends among the Lannisters. Tyland has served the Hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet."

Rhaenyra sighed, her brow furrowing with the weight of the politics that burdened her. "Without the Lannisters, we are not likely to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth."

Daemon gave a grim nod. "No."

"The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace," Lord Bartimos Celtigar interjected. "We need to ensure their loyalty."

Rhaenyra took a breath, her lips pressing together as she considered their options. There was no easy road ahead, and she knew that. Yet it was not men alone who could change the tide of this war.

Bartimos continued, his voice brimming with a touch of urgency. "Forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of old Valyria. Dragons."

Rhaenyra lifted her eyes to him, her face a mask of composure. She spoke slowly, weighing her words. "The Greens have dragons as well."

Daemon's lips twitched into a thin, determined line. "They have three adults. We have Syrax, Caraxes, Vaelyths, and Meleys-all fully grown." His eyes darkened, a flicker of pride there. "My sons have Pyraxes and Zyraxes, who are the same size, if not larger, than the usurper's mount, Sunfyre. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer."

Rhaenyra glanced down for a moment, her hand tightening around the goblet in her hand, but her voice remained calm. "Daemon, none of our dragons have been to war."

Daemon stepped forward slightly, his eyes glittering with determination. "There are also unclaimed dragons. Sea Smoke still resides on Driftmark. Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons that nest here."

Rhaenyra's lips parted in silent contemplation before she spoke again. "And who is to ride them?"

Daemon smiled, a predatory gleam in his eye. "Dragonstone has sixteen dragons to their three. I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont." He reached down and placed a piece on the map, carefully setting it over Harrenhal. "Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the West, surround King's Landing with our dragons, and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the suggestion hanging thick with its implications. The plan was audacious, reckless, but it was a plan.

Suddenly, the heavy doors to the war room swung open, and Ser Erryk Cargyll strode in, his footsteps sure and confident.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing. "A ship has been sighted off the shore, a lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon."

Vaegon scoffed loudly at the audacity of the Greens taking their sigil, his face twisted with disdain. "The nerve of them..."

Daemon, quick to react, turned sharply. "Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies." His voice was cold, every inch the warrior. "Vaegon, Aeron, mount your dragons and land on the rocks beside the bridge. Do not engage unless I give my signal."

The room bristled with tension, the moment teetering on the edge of battle. Every soul in the room knew the stakes had just risen-what they had feared was no longer a distant possibility, but a pressing threat. The storm had come to Dragonstone.

The twins, Vaegon and Aeron, moved swiftly toward the stone steps leading down to the dragonpit. Their faces were set, grim with the knowledge of what they were about to face, yet their steps were in perfect harmony, like two sides of the same coin.

They exchanged little more than glances, for their bond was more profound than words could express.

Aeron's voice broke the silence between them, his tone clipped, sharp. "Vezho rhaeshisar." (Do not engage)

Vaegon understood immediately, his brow furrowing slightly at the gravity of the command. "Vezhvenar." (Understood) His response came in the same language, the only one that could bind them truly in such moments.

As they descended further into the pit, their minds seemed to sync with the thunderous roars of their dragons. Pyraxes and Zyraxes stirred restlessly, sensing the unease and anger radiating from their riders. The air crackled as the crimson dragons shifted, their scales gleaming in the dim light. Their eyes were bright with anticipation, mirroring the tension in the hearts of their riders.

Aeron approached Zyraxes first, his hands steady but his heart quickening. He felt the great beast's massive head lower to meet him, and the dragon snorted, exhaling a puff of hot air. Aeron patted the dragon's snout, feeling the heat radiating from the creature's scales. His lips curled into a faint smile. "Vezhven, ñuhos." (Ready, my friend.)

Zyraxes let out a low rumble, the sound a gentle reassurance as his rider climbed the saddle. The dragon's wings stretched slightly, restless in anticipation.

Vaegon, just as methodical, reached for Pyraxes. The dragon, equally uneasy, let out a short snort as Vaegon placed his foot into the stirrup. The crimson beast lowered its head, eyes locking with Vaegon's, and the twin could feel the intelligence in the gaze. "Vezhven, ūndegon, Pyraxes," (we will be swift) he whispered, his voice low but firm.

Before they could mount fully, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind them. Rhaenyra, her figure regal and commanding even in this war-torn moment, entered the pit. The sight of her stirred something deep within both twins, a sudden rush of emotions-fear, anger, loyalty, and the immense weight of what she represented.

She walked toward Syrax, her dragon, a creature of unmatched grace and power. With a deep breath, Rhaenyra reached out to the beast, the bond between them a thing of legend. Syrax's wings flexed in acknowledgment, and Rhaenyra's eyes, steely with resolve, turned toward the twins.

In High Valyrian, her words were crisp and clear. "Vezhven rhaeshisar, se vestri ñuh." (Keep your mind steady, and follow me.)

The twins nodded. Without another word, Rhaenyra climbed onto Syrax, and the dragon took off with a mighty roar. The air was filled with the thunderous sound of dragon wings as Rhaenyra and Syrax cut through the air, the force of the wind whipping the twins' hair back.

The twins exchanged a glance and climbed onto their respective dragons. In an instant, Pyraxes and Zyraxes were airborne, their wings beating in unison with Syrax as they followed the queen into the sky. The sight of the three dragons soaring through the heavens, cutting through the mist and the clouds, was both beautiful and terrifying.

The wind screamed in their ears as they descended upon the scene below. The landscape blurred beneath them-the sea, the cliffs, and then the bridge leading to the entrance of King's Landing. Syrax landed with a thunderous crash, sending the ground trembling beneath the weight of the creature.

She dismounted without hesitation, her cloak billowing behind her, the sunlight glinting off the regal black and red of her attire. Her steps were confident, as if she had already claimed the world beneath her feet. Without looking back, she walked through the men standing before her-Otto and his soldiers-knowing full well they would not dare harm her. The power of her bloodline and the presence of Syrax were enough to keep them in check.

On either side of the bridge, the twins came in for their landings, their dragons roaring in unison as they touched down. Pyraxes landed with a graceful but powerful thud on one side of the entrance, while Zyraxes mirrored the movement, settling on the opposite side. The dragons spread their wings, blocking both the entrance and the exit. The bridge was now theirs, a symbol of the impenetrable might they had at their command.

Aeron and Vaegon exchanged a final glance before they settled into their mounts, eyes sharp, ready for whatever might come next. They had done their part. The line had been drawn.

The tension on the bridge was thick enough to be felt in the very air, and though neither twin could hear the words being spoken, they were all too aware of the standoff that was unfolding before them. The subtle but tense exchange between Otto and Rhaenyra held their attention, though they remained motionless, their dragons restless beneath them. Every moment felt drawn out, the distant thrum of dragon wings a constant reminder of the volatile power they wielded.

The air seemed to crackle as Rhaenyra walked towards Otto, her movements sharp and deliberate. The moment she reached him, her hand went to his pin, the symbol of his loyalty to the usurpers, and in one swift motion, she unpinned it, casting it over the edge of the cliff. The action sent a ripple through the gathered forces. Otto's guards visibly stiffened, their hands twitching toward their swords. Aeron's heart began to race in his chest, the anxiety that had been gnawing at him flaring into full-blown tension.

Zyraxes, sensing his rider's unease, let out a low growl. It was a deep, guttural sound that resonated in the bones, a warning to all who stood near. Vaegon felt it in his own dragon, Pyraxes, who responded with a resounding roar, adding to the chorus of unrest.

The swords on both sides of the bridge, drawn at once, shimmered in the light of the gathering storm. The air was charged, thick with the tension of unsaid threats. Daemon, watching intently from the sidelines, uttered something low and dangerous. The motion of his words sent ripples of unease through the assembled men, and the sound of swords being unsheathed rang through the air.

Syrax, sensing the sudden surge of aggression and the threat to her rider, opened her wings with a mighty flutter and released a roar that shook the ground beneath them. The sound was one of discomfort and dominance, a warning to all who might dare to challenge her or the queen.

The twins, still standing at opposite ends of the bridge, felt their dragons' restlessness, a deep, instinctual connection to their creatures that went beyond their control. Both dragons, sensing Syrax's distress, stepped forward, their massive bodies moving in unison as they took up more space on the bridge, their claws scraping against the stone.

Aeron's voice, tinged with anxiety, cut through the air as he spoke to Zyraxes in the ancient tongue. "Lykiri," (calm) he commanded, the word a sharp, controlling order to keep the dragon calm.

Pyraxes, already agitated, let out another deep roar in response, sensing the rise in his twin's emotions. Vaegon, too, spoke in High Valyrian, his voice steady but filled with tension. "Rāpirī," (be still) he commanded, the word urging his dragon to hold back despite the chaos surrounding them.

The tension seemed poised to boil over, when suddenly, Rhaenyra's voice rang out clear and sharp, cutting through the noise of the dragons and the unsheathing of swords. "No."

The single word commanded immediate attention, stilling the restless dragons and the gathered warriors alike. Rhaenyra turned back toward Syrax, her movements controlled and composed despite the fire that was surely burning beneath her skin. She mounted the great dragon once more, and with a single motion, Syrax lifted off the ground, her powerful wings propelling them into the air.

The twins, recognizing the signal, urged their dragons into motion. The thunder of their wings joining Syrax's as they followed her back toward the dragonpit. The sound of their collective flight echoed through the sky, a promise of dominance and power. They soared through the clouds, their hearts beating in rhythm with the great creatures beneath them.

Once they had landed back in the dragonpit, Rhaenyra dismounted gracefully, her cloak sweeping behind her. The twins followed suit, their feet hitting the stone ground with a quiet thud. They turned to face Rhaenyra, and for the first time since the tension had started to rise, the weight of it seemed to lift.

Rhaenyra looked to Aeron and Vaegon, her gaze steady and approving. "You did exceptionally well at keeping your dragons calm, even in the face of swords being drawn. I am impressed."

The praise was a balm to their frazzled nerves. Vaegon, a rare smile curling on his lips, beamed with pride at her words. His heart swelled with the knowledge that his actions had not gone unnoticed.

Aeron, ever the more reserved of the two, dipped his head in respect, his voice steady as he spoke. "Thank you, my queen." His words were simple but filled with the deep respect he held for her.

Rhaenyra gave a small, approving nod, a fleeting smile touching her lips. "We will face much worse than this before this war is over. But today, you showed discipline. That is what we need most."

The twins stood straighter, their resolve hardening with every word she spoke. They had proven themselves today, but they knew that the true battle was yet to come.

𝔗he night had fallen thick over Dragonstone, the torches in the war room casting long shadows across the walls. The painted table, now glowing in the flickering light, seemed more a symbol of foreboding than of strategy tonight. Rhaenyra stood at its center, her fingers tracing the edges of the painted map, as if searching for some path forward in the chaos that had consumed her life. Her mind was filled with the weight of the decisions to come, the responsibility now hers, alone.

Daemon stood nearby, his restless gaze fixed on the fire burning in the hearth, but his voice cut through the silence like a blade. "It's no easy thing for a man to be a dragon slayer. But dragons can kill dragons. And have. The simple truth is this: we have more dragons than Aegon."

Rhaenyra's fingers paused as she considered his words. She knew them to be true-yet, it wasn't simply a matter of dragons and their power. She had lived through enough history to understand the devastation that followed when dragons were sent to war. "Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. I know them well. When dragons flew to war... everything burned. I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone."

Lord Bartimos, standing near the table, hesitated for a moment before speaking, his tone cautious but probing. "Are you considering the Hightowers' terms, Your Grace?"

Rhaenyra turned her gaze to him, her eyes hard with determination, yet shadowed with the weight of the choices she had to make. "As queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos? Ensuring peace and unity? Or that I sit the Iron Throne, no matter the cost?"

Daemon's stance shifted as he moved toward the hearth, his frustration palpable. "That's your father talking," he muttered, his voice low but filled with sharpness.

Rhaenyra's hands clenched at her sides, a subtle show of restraint. "My father is dead. And he chose me as his successor."

Daemon whirled toward her, his voice rising in anger, his usually controlled demeanor slipping. "To defend the realm, not cast our heads headlong into war!" His fists clenched, his tone now unmistakably furious. "Well, the enemy have declared war! What are you going to do about it?"

Rhaenyra's heart quickened, her patience wearing thin. She had never shied from conflict, but this was a different kind of fight. This wasn't about winning battles-it was about what kind of queen she wanted to be, and what kind of realm she would leave behind. "Clear the room," she commanded, her voice cold, but her eyes burning with the fire of resolve. "Everyone, out. Now."

The tension in the room was thick, palpable in the silence that followed. One by one, the men around the table exchanged glances, some reluctant, others understanding, but all of them complied. Lord Bartimos hesitated only for a moment before nodding and stepping back, leaving the room in a somber quiet. It was just Rhaenyra and Daemon now.

As the last of them filed out, the doors closed behind them with an echo that seemed to reverberate in Rhaenyra's chest.

The night was still and heavy over Dragonstone, the winds howling through the cracks in the ancient stone walls. Inside the cold chambers, the flickering shadows from the torches painted eerie shapes across the floor, yet the castle felt alive with restlessness. Beneath the weight of the stone ceiling, Elara sat by the narrow window, her gaze cast out into the dark expanse of the sea, though her mind was far from the sight before her.

The heavy door of her room had been locked and barred from the outside, a constant reminder that she was no longer a guest of the realm but a prisoner-though, for now, a prisoner of circumstance. It was the only way to ensure her safety, they had said. But she didn't feel safe. She felt trapped.

A soft knock broke the silence. She did not stir immediately, knowing who it would be. The door creaked open, revealing Vaegon, his silhouette outlined by the torches in the hallway behind him. He stepped inside, the faint smell of food trailing behind him.

He placed the tray of food on the table with a quiet grace, his eyes glancing toward her with an unreadable expression. "I brought you something to eat."

Elara didn't look at him, not at first. Instead, she stared out the window, the sharp sting of betrayal still fresh in her mind. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the howling wind.

Vaegon stood still for a moment, watching her, the tension in his posture telling her that he was waiting for something-an answer, perhaps, or an opportunity to speak.

Finally, Elara shifted slightly, her gaze falling to the food on the table, though her mind was far from it. "You should be in the war room," she said softly, "Not wasting your time bringing food to a prisoner."

Vaegon's tone was gentle but firm as he responded, "I have time, Elara. I wanted to speak with you." He moved closer, not pressing but also not retreating. "I know you've been thinking about what I asked. About bending the knee."

Her breath hitched, her chest tightening at the words. She wanted to answer, to say something that would ease the weight of the decision he was pushing upon her, but the words felt heavy in her mouth. "I don't know what kind of woman I would be if I betrayed my family." Her voice cracked as she spoke, the tears that had threatened to fall earlier finally making their way to her eyes. She turned her head away, unable to meet his gaze, feeling her resolve start to crumble.

Vaegon's eyes softened, and he stepped closer, his voice quieter. "A family that has shown you no kindness, Elara. What loyalty do you owe them? They've kept you in the shadows, hidden away. They've turned their backs on you, even when you've stood by them."

She shut her eyes, the pressure of the situation too much to bear. "And what would I be without that family? What would I be if I let go of that? The loyalty runs deep, Vaegon."

He took another step closer, but still, he did not push her. His voice, however, carried a quiet pleading edge. "I'm not asking you to turn against your blood, Elara. I'm asking you to choose what's best for you. For your future."

Her breath caught again, and she wiped at her eyes, frustrated with herself for showing any weakness. "Just give me time to think about it," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Vaegon nodded, his expression softening with understanding. "Of course. Take all the time you need." He stepped back, giving her the space she needed, but his eyes lingered on her with an intensity that suggested his concern was far from gone.

The silence between them stretched, thick and full of unsaid things, before he finally spoke again, his voice low and steady. "Remember this, Elara: You do not have to bear this burden alone. Whatever you choose, I will stand with you."

She nodded, but did not speak, her heart still heavy with the choices she had to make. As Vaegon turned and walked toward the door, Elara watched him leave, the weight of her thoughts pressing in on her once more.

She was alone again, but the words he had said lingered in her mind like a soft echo. "Take all the time you need."

And yet, she knew his words were a lie to make her feel better. For time was running out. And she really only had two options, family and death or bending the knee.

As Vaegon closed the door behind him, locking and barring it once again, he took a moment to steady himself. The conversation with Elara had been difficult, her words pressing on him like stones in his chest. But as he turned to leave, he stopped dead in his tracks. Leaning casually against the wall just outside the door was Saela, her arms folded and an unreadable expression on her face.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft rustle of the wind through the corridors of Dragonstone, but the air was thick with something unspoken between them. Vaegon's brow furrowed as he met her gaze, realizing she had been waiting for him.

"Saela," he said quietly, his tone unsure. He didn't need to ask what she had been doing there; the jealousy in her eyes made it clear enough. She straightened up slightly but tried to mask it with a casual air.

"You're spending a lot of time with her," Saela said, her voice low, but there was an edge to it, a sharpness Vaegon hadn't expected. "Is she more important than your own family?"

Vaegon sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, frustration creeping in. "Saela, you know there's nothing between me and Elara."

Her gaze hardened, and she took a step closer, not entirely believing him. "Is that so? Because it looks like you're trying to make her feel better while I'm stuck here-" Her voice broke slightly, but she quickly regained her composure, "-with everything that's expected of me."

Vaegon met her eyes, and his voice dropped into a more serious tone. "You're still betrothed to my brother, Saela. You will be married to him in less than a week. This... whatever it is between us, it needs to stop now, before it goes too far."

Saela tilted her head, her lips curling into a half-smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Too far?" she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "What do you mean, 'too far'?"

Vaegon stepped closer to her, his expression hardening with a mixture of frustration and something else-something he hadn't fully allowed himself to confront until now. He lowered his voice, keeping it barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might make the tension between them even worse.

"Yes, too far," he said, his breath brushing against her cheek. "I cannot keep controlling myself around you." He took another step closer, his hands balling into fists at his sides, as though trying to restrain himself. "The last thing I could ever do is betray my brother by bedding his wife."

Saela's breath caught, and for a brief moment, she stood frozen, her eyes wide as though she hadn't expected such a raw confession. There was something there-something neither of them had fully acknowledged until now.

"Vaegon..." she started, her voice quiet and unsteady, but before she could say more, he stepped back, putting distance between them as though afraid the closeness would make his resolve falter.

"We can't," he said, his voice rougher now. "I cannot do this. Not when you are promised to him. Not when everything we're doing is wrong."

Saela's gaze softened for just a moment, before she hardened her expression again, the uncertainty in her eyes turning into something more like hurt. "So, you're telling me it was nothing then?"

Vaegon met her eyes, his expression conflicted. "It wasn't nothing, Saela," he replied, his voice low, almost pained. "But it's over. I won't betray my brother. And I won't betray you either. Not like this."

Saela remained silent, standing there in the hallway, her arms still crossed, and though she said nothing more, the weight of the moment hung in the air. She knew he was right. But knowing didn't make it any easier.

As Vaegon turned to walk away, he paused at the end of the hall, not looking back. "Please," he said, his voice breaking, "let's end it here. For both our sakes."

Saela's gaze followed him, the silence stretching painfully between them.

But deep down, she knew that ending it wasn't going to be so simple.

As Vaegon took another step, about to turn the corner and leave, Saela's voice suddenly broke the silence.

"Avy jorrāelan," (I love you) she blurted out, the words slipping from her lips before she could even process them.

Vaegon froze in his tracks. He didn't turn to face her at first, but the words echoed in his mind, stirring something deep inside him that he had kept buried for so long. Slowly, he turned, meeting her gaze once more. There was a moment of hesitation, an uncertainty in his eyes, but then he stepped closer, just a few steps, until the air between them seemed to hum with the weight of what had just been said.

"Avy jorrāelan," (I love you) he whispered back in High Valyrian, his voice thick with emotion, a depth in his gaze that only she could understand.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, her heart pounding in her chest, her confession hanging in the air like a fragile promise.

Saela watched him go, the words still reverberating in her mind.