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𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐈𝐍 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ 𝑯𝑶𝑻𝑫
⛧°。 ⋆༺ sᴇᴀsᴏɴ ᴏɴᴇ ༻⋆。 °⛧
━━━━━━━━━━ .°୭̥ ❁ ˎˊ˗━

𝔗he first light of morning streamed through the high windows of Dragonstone's great hall, bathing the painted table in hues of gold and crimson. The torches lining the stone walls had long since burned down to embers, leaving behind only the scent of charred wood and melted wax. The air was thick with the weight of unspoken fears, of whispered calculations and the sharpening of war-torn resolve.

The lords and ladies gathered around the table did not sit. There was no comfort in chairs, no ease to be found in stillness. Instead, they stood-some leaning over the carved map of Westeros, fingers tracing the rivers and ridges that would soon run red with blood, while others paced in slow, measured strides. The tension among them was a living thing, slithering between them, curling around their words, tightening its grip with each breath.

Vaegon stood beside Aeron, his presence almost ghostly. He had spoken little since the dawn, his mind far away, lost in a haze of thoughts that refused to quiet. Even at breakfast, when the servants had laid out a spread of bread, fruit, and freshly caught fish, he had barely touched his meal. He had not the stomach for it, nor the presence of mind to force himself to eat. Instead, he had pushed the food around his plate, feigning interest whenever someone glanced his way.

His twin, ever watchful, had noticed. Aeron did not ask, nor did he pry, but his gaze lingered on Vaegon longer than usual, sharp as a blade poised to strike. He knew his brother well enough to recognize the weight pressing down on his shoulders, the heaviness that dulled his movements and drew a furrow between his brows. Yet, he held his tongue. Now was not the time for questions.

Then, the doors to the hall were thrown open with force, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges.

"The Lord of the Tides, Lord Corlys Velaryon... and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen."

The announcement rang through the chamber, silencing all voices in an instant. The gathered lords and knights turned toward the entrance, eyes drawn to the towering figure that strode inside.

Lord Corlys Velaryon entered like a storm rolling in from the sea-his presence commanding, his every step slow and deliberate. The steady click of his cane echoed against the stone floor, a haunting reminder of the wounds he had suffered in the Stepstones. Though he bore a limp now, his body weathered by time and war, his spirit remained unbroken. He carried himself with the pride of a man who had conquered the seas, whose very name sent ripples through history.

At his side, Princess Rhaenys moved with the silent grace of a shadow. Her violet eyes, sharp as dragonfire, swept over the room, noting the faces of those gathered, the tension woven between them. There was a quiet power in her, a force restrained but ever-present, like the sea just before a storm.

Behind them, the next generation of Velaryons entered.

Saela. Baela. Rhaena.

Saela walked with measured steps, her chin lifted in quiet dignity, her expression unreadable. The soft fabric of her gown trailed behind her, a contrast to the steel in her posture. She did not falter, did not let her gaze stray, though she could feel the weight of eyes upon her.

She took her place beside Aeron, her betrothed. The space between them was measured, respectful. Deliberate. She did not look to her left, where Vaegon stood, though she could feel him as surely as if he were reaching for her.

Vaegon, for his part, did not look at her either. But his fingers curled into a fist against the edge of the table.

Corlys inclined his head, his voice breaking the silence. "My lords."

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her expression unreadable, though the grief in her eyes lingered. "Lord Corlys."

A pause. The room held its breath.

"It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again," she said, her tone measured, though there was sincerity beneath it.

Corlys exhaled, nodding slightly. "I'm very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man."

At the mention of Viserys, a shadow passed over Rhaenyra's features, fleeting but undeniable. A wound still fresh, still aching.

Corlys' gaze moved through the gathered lords, his sharp eyes seeking something-or someone. "Where is Daemon?"

Rhaenyra did not waver. "There were other concerns which demanded the Prince's attention."

A thoughtful hum left Corlys, though his face betrayed little of his thoughts. Instead, he turned his attention to the war council itself, surveying the painted table with a practiced eye.

"Your declared allies?"

"Yes."

He exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "Too few to win a war for the throne."

The statement hung in the air like a blade, its weight undeniable. A flicker of irritation passed through the gathered lords, though none dared challenge him.

Rhaenyra did not hesitate. "We would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark."

Corlys let out a low, knowing chuckle. "Hope... is the fool's ally."

Some in the room bristled at the words, but none could argue. Hope would not win them this war.

Rhaenyra's tone did not waver. "Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house. But all of them swore oaths to me."

Corlys' stare was unwavering. "As did House Hightower... if I remember correctly."

A muscle in Rhaenyra's jaw tightened. "As did you, Lord Corlys."

The tension in the hall was suffocating. The weight of oaths, of broken promises and lingering doubts, loomed over them like a specter.

And then-Corlys dipped his head.

"Your father's realm... was one of justice and honor. Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand. You have the full support of our fleet and House, Your Grace."

A breath passed through the room, a tension eased.

Rhaenyra's voice was steady. "You honor me, Lord Corlys. Princess Rhaenys."

But her eyes darkened as she continued. "As I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war's first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand."

Corlys frowned. "You do not mean to act?"

Her fingers traced the painted table, her expression unreadable. "Taking caution does not mean standing fast. I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war."

Corlys studied her for a long moment before speaking. "The consequence of my... near-demise in the Stepstones... is that we now control them. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already. The Narrow Sea is ours."

Rhaenys' voice was calm, yet firm. "I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself."

Bartimos nodded, excitement creeping into his tone. "When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround King's Landing, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens' surrender. But if we are to have enough swords to surround King's Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm's End."

The Maester inclined his head. "I will prepare the ravens, Your Grace."

A voice cut through the discussion.

"We should bear those messages."

All eyes turned to Jacaerys. His stance was firm, his expression unwavering. "Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they're more convincing. Send us."

A murmur passed through the room.

Corlys, ever the strategist, nodded in agreement. "The Prince is right, Your Grace."

A long pause. Rhaenyra's gaze flickered between her sons and the painted table, measuring the risks, weighing the decisions.

Finally, she spoke.

"Very well."

Her voice carried through the room, her decision made. "Prince Jacaerys and Aeron will fly north. First to the Eyrie to see my mother's cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North."

Aeron straightened at the command, his face unreadable. Vaegon, at his side, finally lifted his gaze from the table.

"Prince Lucerys and Vaegon will fly south to Storm's End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore."

She let her gaze pass over those gathered before delivering her final decree.

"Aeron and Saela, you will be married upon Aeron's return to King's Landing."

A silence followed.

Vaegon's fingers curled against the table, his jaw tightening. Her words from last night echoing in his mind.

𝔗he sun cast a golden glow over Dragonstone, its light dancing upon the restless waves of the Narrow Sea. The air carried the scent of salt and smoke, ever present on the island, and the occasional cry of a gull echoed through the sky. A steady wind blew in from the east, rustling the banners that adorned the castle, their crimson dragons rippling against the pale blue expanse above.

Rhaenyra stood upon the stone balcony, her back to the grand hall, her hands resting lightly against the cool black rock of the balustrade. From here, she could see the stretch of ocean that led to King's Landing, the waters deceptively calm, as if the realm itself held its breath in anticipation of what was to come. The weight of her father's crown sat heavy upon her head, though it was not the metal alone that burdened her. War was coming, a war she did not want but could no longer avoid. And now, she was to send her sons and stepsons forth into it, not as warriors, but as messengers.

The sound of boots upon stone pulled her from her thoughts. She turned, her gaze sharp as she watched Vaegon and Aeron approach, their strides steady and purposeful. The twin princes were near identical in their sharp features and the way they carried themselves, yet those who knew them well could distinguish them easily. Aeron walked with an almost calculated grace, his movements measured, as though he weighed each step. Vaegon, though no less poised, carried a quiet intensity, a smoldering ember that always threatened to catch flame.

Jacaerys followed just behind them, his expression one of quiet resolve, his shoulders squared as he took his place at his mother's side. Lucerys trailed slightly behind, the youngest among them, his steps lighter, hesitant.

Rhaenyra let her gaze sweep over them, the young men upon whom the future of her reign now rested. There was a long silence before she spoke.

"It has been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men. And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps." Her voice was steady, though the weight of the words was clear. "But if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms, we must answer to their gods."

She stepped forward, looking upon each of them in turn. Though they had been raised in the old ways, with little regard for the Faith of the Seven, this was not about religion-it was about duty. A promise made in the name of the gods, even those they did not fully honor, carried weight.

"If you take this errand, you go as messengers... not as warriors." Her voice did not waver. "You must take no part in any fighting."

The command was an unyielding one.

She turned to the maester whom approached with a large book, its cover worn yet dignified, embossed with the sigil of House Targaryen. It was an old tome, one that had borne witness to many oaths before this day.

Her eyes found theirs once more. "Swear it to me now, under the eyes of the Seven."

Lucerys was the first to step forward, placing his hand upon the book. His fingers trembled ever so slightly before he steadied himself. "I swear it." His voice was quiet but firm.

Aeron followed next, his touch upon the book far more certain. "I swear it." There was no hesitation in his tone.

Vaegon was next, his silver hair catching the sunlight as he leaned forward. His words were spoken with absolute conviction. "I swear it."

Finally, Jacaerys, the heir to Dragonstone, placed his hand atop the book, his jaw tightening slightly before he spoke. "I swear it."

Rhaenyra studied them for a long moment before inclining her head. "Thank you."

She let silence settle between them for a breath before she turned her attention to Aeron and Jacaerys, fixing them with a knowing look.

"Cregan Stark is closer to your age than to mine. I would hope that, as men, you can find some common interest."

Aeron dipped his head, his expression unreadable. "Yes, Your Grace."

Jacaerys followed suit, his lips pressing into a firm line as he nodded. There was something uncertain in his gaze, but he did not let it show.

Satisfied, Rhaenyra shifted her attention to Vaegon and Lucerys, her expression softening slightly. "Storm's End is a short flight from here. You have Baratheon blood from your grandmother, Rhaenys. And... Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to host two princes of the realm... and their dragons."

Her tone was calm, yet there was a quiet warning beneath it.

"I expect you will receive a very warm welcome."

Lucerys swallowed, his fingers twitching at his sides. He straightened his posture before answering. "Yes, Mother. Y-Your Grace."

Vaegon, standing beside him, caught the slight tremor in his voice. A flicker of something passed through his gaze-understanding, perhaps. Though Lucerys was of their house, a Targaryen, a prince, he was still a boy in many ways.

Vaegon allowed himself the smallest of smiles, just enough to reassure his young stepbrother, before his expression hardened once more. His attention returned to Rhaenyra, and he dipped his head with the deference owed to his queen.

"Yes, my queen."

Rhaenyra looked upon them once more, committing the sight of them to memory. She did not wish to part with them, but duty demanded it.

The realm would soon decide what became of them.