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

𝔗he news came that morning.

Laena was dead. Their stepmother was dead.

The baby was not coming, and Laena would not survive the birth. In her final moments, Laena had chosen to leave the world on her own terms, to die a dragonrider's death rather than the slow, lingering one of a woman in a bedchamber. She had gone to Vhagar, and with a final command, she ordered the dragon to end her life.

Laena had always been a Targaryen at heart, taking after her mother Rhaenys-proud, fierce, and determined to meet her end with the same fire that had burned through her life.

It was early in the morning when Daemon had summoned his children to him. The cool sea breeze carried a bitter taste in the air as the sun rose over the horizon. The four of them-Rhaena, Baela, Vaegon, and Aeron-stood together on the balcony, the same spot where they had watched countless sunsets with Laena at their side, her laughter and warmth filling the air. But today, there was no laughter, no warmth.

Daemon, his face set in grim determination, had brought them together as one final family, his voice carrying a weight that they all felt deeply. He told them the truth: their mother was gone. The words hung heavy in the air, suffocating them as the realization hit like a wave.

Rhaena had collapsed onto her knees as soon as the news hit, the raw, guttural sobs escaping her as she mourned. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes wide and filled with disbelief, as though she couldn't comprehend that the woman who had brought her into this world, the woman who had loved her fiercely, was now gone. She had lost her mother, and the world felt as though it was crumbling beneath her.

Baela, however, had cried at first, but soon fell silent. It was as though the news had frozen her. Her face was pale, her eyes distant as she gazed out over the vast sea, her mind seemingly far away from the reality that surrounded them. The grief was there, buried deep beneath the surface, but for now, she was silent-staring, lost in the emptiness that had suddenly taken hold of her heart.

Vaegon and Aeron sat side by side, their hands intertwined in a quiet gesture of comfort. Neither of them spoke, but the weight of the moment pressed down on them both. Vaegon, usually so composed, was struggling to hold it all together. His jaw clenched as he stared at the sky, his thoughts a whirlwind.

Aeron, on the other hand, was trying to find something solid to hold on to, something to anchor him in the storm that raged inside his chest. His gaze followed Vaegon's up to the sky, watching as the clouds drifted aimlessly by, as if mocking his uncertainty. It was strange, the way life seemed to move on despite the devastation they were feeling. They weren't ready to be here, not without Laena. It was wrong, all of it.

Daemon, for all his strength, had no words left to offer them. He simply watched as his children processed the tragedy in their own ways, each one coping with the loss in silence. When he spoke, it was cold, detached. He knew the weight of the loss, but he had long ago stopped showing his emotions.

With a final look at them, his eyes lingering on each of their faces, Daemon stood up. His heart felt like stone in his chest as he turned away from the balcony, leaving the four children to their grief. He walked toward the door without a backward glance, the heavy sound of his footsteps echoing in the stillness. It was as though he were leaving a part of himself behind, leaving them all to grapple with their pain alone.

Rhaena's sobs grew louder in the silence, her entire body trembling as she wept, her face buried in her hands. Baela, her gaze still locked on the horizon, didn't speak, didn't move. Her thoughts were unclear, a jumble of emotions and questions that would never be answered. She had lost her mother, but there was no time to process it-only the bitter reality of a world without her.

Vaegon and Aeron remained sitting, their hands still holding tightly to one another. It was the only way they could find comfort now, the only thing that made them feel as though they weren't completely alone in the overwhelming grief that threatened to swallow them whole. Neither of them spoke, but their hearts were linked by the same sorrow. The twins, inseparable in life, were the only constants now. And for a moment, that was all they could hold on to.

Daemon disappeared into the castle, leaving the children in their grief. The balcony was quiet now, the sea waves crashing softly below them, as though the world had paused for a moment to honor Laena's passing.

The loss of a mother, a dragonrider, and a woman of such fiery spirit-it would never be understood in full by the children, not in the same way it had been for Daemon. But they would try. And together, they would learn how to survive without her, even if they didn't know how to begin.

𝔒nly a few short hours later, they were already setting sail for Driftmark.

The sun had barely risen when preparations had begun, and now, as the ships cut through the waves, the distant shores of Pentos were already beginning to fade from view. The air was thick with salt and grief, a heavy silence lingering over the deck. No one spoke of it-no one had the words.

The children stood together near the railing, watching the water churn beneath the ship. The sea, vast and endless, seemed to stretch on forever, swallowing their sorrow in its depths. But it could not take it away.

Rhaena had barely stopped crying since the moment they'd learned of Laena's death. Even now, her face was pressed into Baela's shoulder, her small frame shaking with silent sobs. Baela, normally so strong, said nothing. Her arm was wrapped protectively around her sister, holding her close, her own face unreadable. She had not shed a tear since last night.

Vaegon and Aeron stood slightly apart from them, side by side as they always were. Vaegon's hands rested on the railing, fingers gripping the worn wood tightly, his knuckles white with tension. He kept his gaze forward, toward the horizon, toward Driftmark, toward whatever future awaited them there. He could not look back.

Aeron, on the other hand, kept glancing over his shoulder, back at the receding outline of Pentos. His heart twisted at the thought of leaving. Their mother had died there. She had breathed her last breath on that land. And now they were abandoning it, as if they could leave their grief behind with it. But the sorrow followed them, clung to them like a shadow, inescapable.

Daemon stood farther down the deck, away from them, staring out at the waves. His face was unreadable, his posture rigid. He had not spoken much since the news. He had not wept, had not raged. But something inside him had cracked, and the pieces lay scattered where no one could see them.

The journey ahead would not be a long one, but to the children, it felt endless. Each wave that rocked the ship carried them farther from the life they had known, from the mother they had lost. They did not know what awaited them on Driftmark, only that it would never be the same.

Laena was gone. And they were sailing toward a future without her.

Baela was the first to break the silence.

"What will happen to us now?" Her voice was quiet, but it carried in the stillness of the sea.

Vaegon exhaled, but he didn't answer right away. It was a question he had been asking himself since they left Pentos. "We will go to Driftmark," he said finally. "Grandfather will see to the funeral."

Baela's jaw tightened. "And after?"

No one had an answer.

Aeron shifted uncomfortably. "Mother wanted us to grow up in Westeros," he murmured. "She wanted us to know our family."

Baela let out a sharp breath. "She didn't want to die there."

The words cut through the air like a blade, sharp and bitter. Aeron flinched, and even Vaegon's fingers twitched in his grip.

"I know," Aeron admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But we can't change that."

Baela didn't respond.

Instead, she looked up at Daemon, who had not turned to face them once.

For a brief moment, she considered calling out to him. Asking him what they were supposed to do, what he was planning. But she could see it in his posture, in the way he held himself-he was lost. Just as lost as they were.

And so she said nothing.

The journey continued, to the ancestral home of House Velaryon. The place where their mother had been born. The place where she would be laid to rest.

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of crimson and gold, Rhaena and Baela silently retreated to their quarters. Rhaena had long since exhausted herself from crying, her face blotchy and tear-streaked, while Baela remained quiet, her emotions locked away behind a stony expression. Their grief was too raw, too heavy to share in words. They left without saying much, the door shutting softly behind them.

Vaegon and Aeron, however, remained on the deck, leaning against the railing as the salty wind whipped through their hair. The waves stretched endlessly before them, the steady rocking of the ship a constant reminder of how far they were from home-and how much farther they still had to go.

Above them, two dark shapes cut through the evening sky.

Pyraxes and Zyraxes soared overhead, their long, sinuous forms gliding effortlessly against the wind. Even in their juvenile stage, they were already larger than most dragons their age, their wings spanning wide as they sliced through the air in perfect unison. Identical beasts, just like their riders, bound by something deeper than blood-something ancient, something primal.

Vaegon watched them for a long moment, his silver hair ruffled by the wind. Then, with a quiet exhale, he murmured, "I wish we were flying back instead."

Beside him, Aeron let out a soft laugh. "Of course you do."

Vaegon turned his head slightly, arching a brow at his twin.

Aeron smirked, his gaze still on the dragons. "You've always been impatient. Can't stand the thought of being stuck on a ship for ten days when we could be in the skies."

Vaegon huffed, shaking his head. "You say that as if you don't feel the same."

Aeron tilted his head, considering. "I do," he admitted. "But even Pyraxes and Zyraxes couldn't fly for ten days straight. Not yet."

"They're getting stronger," Vaegon pointed out. "Look at them."

And Aeron did. The two dragons danced through the sky like shadows against the setting sun, their wings cutting through the air with power far beyond their years. Already, their size was nearly unnatural for their age, their growth rapid, their strength undeniable.

"They'll outmatch most others before long," Aeron mused.

Vaegon nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "They were born from the same egg. They are one. Just like us."

Aeron turned to look at him then, their identical violet eyes meeting. It was not the first time they had spoken of this-of the strange, rare phenomenon that had brought Pyraxes and Zyraxes into the world together. No one else could truly understand the bond they shared. Not just as twins, but as dragonriders bound to creatures that were, in every way, a mirror of themselves.

"We should have been born with wings," Aeron murmured, half-jesting.

Vaegon smirked. "Maybe in another life."

The wind howled around them, and for a moment, they simply stood in silence, watching as their dragons wheeled above the ship, soaring through the open sky. It was a brief respite from the grief that still lingered in their chests, a moment where the weight of their mother's death did not press so heavily upon them.

But it would not last.

Driftmark was still days away. And when they arrived, they would have to face whatever awaited them there. And the family that they barely knew.

𝔗he days at sea had blurred together into an endless stretch of monotony.

The first day had been quiet. Grief still weighed heavy on all of them, settling over the ship like an unwelcome fog. No one spoke much. Rhaena barely left her quarters, and when she did, it was only to seek out Baela, who remained uncharacteristically subdued. Daemon was as unreadable as ever, speaking only when necessary, his gaze always distant, fixed on some far-off point on the horizon.

The second day had been no better. The air grew thick with unspoken words, with tension that came from being trapped on a ship with nowhere to go. Vaegon and Aeron had spent most of it standing at the railing, watching the waves churn below, feeling the restlessness build in their chests. They had never been ones for stillness. They were meant to move, to act, to fly. But here, they could do nothing but wait.

By the third day, the unease had turned to frustration.

Vaegon exhaled sharply, drumming his fingers against the railing as he watched the dragons soaring above. "If I don't get off this ship soon, I think I'll go mad," he muttered.

Aeron, slouched beside him, gave a lazy shrug. "You already are."

Vaegon shot him an unimpressed glance, but his twin only smirked, unfazed.

Above them, Pyraxes and Zyraxes were gliding effortlessly through the sky, their powerful wings cutting through the crisp sea air. Despite their youth, they had already begun to rival grown dragons in size, their rapid growth as unnatural as their very existence. They moved in perfect tandem, mirroring each other's every turn and dive as if bound by an invisible thread.

Caraxes flew alongside them. Unlike the twins' dragons, Caraxes was no juvenile. His elongated body twisted and coiled as he moved, seasoned by years of flight. As they watched, Caraxes suddenly broke away, descending toward the water with a sharp, calculated movement.

"He's hunting," Aeron noted idly, watching as Caraxes skimmed low over the surface.

The great dragon's talons struck the waves with precision, breaching the water for only a moment before emerging with a massive fish gripped tightly in his claws.

Pyraxes and Zyraxes, as if taking it as a challenge, immediately veered downward to copy him.

Aeron let out a quiet chuckle. "They're watching him too closely."

Vaegon smirked as their dragons swooped down, attempting to mimic Caraxes' maneuver. Pyraxes struck first, plunging too steeply, and nearly face-planted into the waves before jerking back up at the last moment, letting out an annoyed trill.

Zyraxes fared slightly better, managing to skim his claws along the water's surface, though he caught nothing.

Caraxes, still clutching his prize, let out a low rumble, as if amused by their efforts.

"They're hopeless," Vaegon said, though there was fondness in his voice.

Aeron shrugged. "They're learning."

The sky above them darkened slightly as Vhagar, the great she-dragon, drifted silently overhead. She had barely moved from her place in the sky since their journey had begun, flying high above the ship like a ghost. Her presence was heavy, mourning etched into every slow, measured wingbeat.

She was grieving. Just as they all were.

The sight of her sent a pang through Aeron's chest. Vhagar had belonged to their mother. She had carried Laena across the endless skies. And now, she flew alone.

Vaegon followed his gaze, his expression unreadable. "She hasn't landed once."

Aeron nodded. "She's mourning."

They stood in silence for a moment, watching as Pyraxes and Zyraxes made another attempt at fishing-only for Zyraxes to come up with a mouthful of seawater instead.

Pyraxes, slightly more fortunate, managed to snatch a small, flailing fish in his claws, though he looked rather unsure of what to do with it.

"Gods," Vaegon muttered, shaking his head, "they really are hopeless."

Aeron laughed softly. It was the first real laugh he had let out in days.

The sea stretched endlessly before them, their destination still far beyond the horizon. But at least, for now, the dragons gave them something to focus on-something beyond the grief, beyond the waiting.

𝔗he fourth day at sea dawned with little fanfare, the same rolling waves and the same ceaseless expanse of blue stretching endlessly in all directions. The air smelled of salt and stale wood, the scent of a ship that had been too long at sea. Vaegon and Aeron, long since weary of staring wistfully at the sky, had decided-wordlessly, as twins often did-that they could endure the monotony no longer.

And so, naturally, they resolved to create their own amusement.

The crew of the ship was composed of men hardened by years upon the sea, accustomed to storms and battle, to the cries of gulls and the howling of dragons overhead. But they were wholly unprepared for the mischievous machinations of twin princelings with too much time on their hands and far too little regard for the solemnity of their voyage.

It began subtly enough. A missing waterskin here, a tangled rope there. Innocent accidents, surely. A sailor reaching for his cup only to find it mysteriously vanished, another turning to adjust the rigging only to find the knots unspooled before his very eyes. Small, harmless pranks, just enough to break the monotony.

But soon, emboldened by their own cleverness-and the fact that no one had yet caught them-Vaegon and Aeron escalated their efforts.

It was Aeron who devised the plan.

"We ought to do something grand," he had declared, lounging idly upon a coil of rope as Pyraxes and Zyraxes flew high above. "Something truly worthy of our talents."

Vaegon, ever the willing accomplice, grinned. "I'm listening."

Thus was born the Incident of the Flour Barrel.

The ship's cook was a great barrel-chested man with a beard like storm-tossed foam and a temper like wildfire. He guarded his kitchen stores as a dragon might hoard its treasure, ever watchful, ever wary of thieving hands. And yet, despite his vigilance, the twins-crafty and determined-managed to pilfer a sack of flour from his stores, pilfering it away to the upper deck where their true mischief would unfold.

The plan was simple. Too simple, in retrospect.

Aeron, crouched behind a crate, tore open the sack with careful fingers, while Vaegon perched atop a nearby barrel, waiting. The moment a group of unsuspecting sailors strode beneath the rigging, Aeron cast a meaningful glance toward his brother-who, with a smirk, tipped the sack just so.

The air exploded in a great white cloud.

The effect was nothing short of spectacular.

Flour rained down upon the hapless crew like a sudden snowfall, clinging to their hair, their beards, their tunics. A chorus of bewildered shouts rang through the air as the men flailed, coughing, wiping at their faces. One particularly unfortunate sailor, previously tanned by years beneath the sun, was left as pale as a wraith, blinking owlishly through the haze.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then-laughter. Peals of it, bright and unrestrained, as Vaegon and Aeron collapsed against the railing, clutching their sides.

Their victory was short-lived.

A shadow fell over them, and with the suddenness of a thunderclap, a voice-low, unimpressed, and far too familiar-cut through their mirth like a blade.

"Are you quite finished?"

The twins froze.

Daemon Targaryen stood before them, arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of supreme disappointment-and, perhaps, the faintest glimmer of amusement buried deep beneath the weight of his weariness.

Aeron, ever the quicker of tongue, straightened at once, schooling his expression into something that might have passed for innocence had it not been for the obvious guilt smeared across his face. "Father," he greeted, as though they had merely been standing about in idle contemplation rather than unleashing powdered chaos upon the deck.

Vaegon, less adept at deception, simply bit the inside of his cheek, valiantly suppressing the grin that threatened to emerge.

Daemon's gaze flicked from his sons to the flour-drenched sailors, then back again. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled.

"I will ask," he said, voice dangerously even, "only once."

A pause. A beat of silence.

"Which of you thought this was a good idea?"

Aeron, without hesitation, turned to Vaegon. "It was his idea."

Vaegon gaped, scandalized. "Liar! You-"

"Enough." Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose as though warding off an oncoming headache. He gestured vaguely toward the deck, where the sailors were still in various states of flour-covered bewilderment. "Clean this mess. Now."

The twins hesitated, glancing at one another.

Daemon arched a brow. "Or I'll toss you both overboard and let you swim to Driftmark."

That was motivation enough.

With the reluctant air of defeated warriors, Vaegon and Aeron set about their assigned punishment, sweeping flour from the deck under the watchful eyes of their father-who, despite his stern exterior, could not quite suppress the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned away.

𝔅y the time the seventh day at sea dawned, much was the same as the ones before it-gray skies, endless waves, and the ever-present weight of mourning that hung over the ship like a storm cloud waiting to break.

But for all their grief, the children of Daemon Targaryen were still children. And children, when given too much time and too little to do, tended to find mischief where they could.

Vaegon and Aeron, it seemed, had taken this truth to heart.

Now, as midday arrived and the family gathered in the ship's modest dining quarters for their meal, the tension in the air had little to do with sorrow and everything to do with the wary glances being cast toward the twins.

The cook, a burly man with a permanent scowl, kept darting his eyes toward them between heavy spoonfuls of stew, as though expecting his meal to spontaneously combust. A few of the crewmates-those unfortunate enough to have been on the receiving end of the boys' antics-sat stiffly at the other end of the room, their movements guarded.

Daemon, for his part, ignored it all. Or at least, he pretended to.

He ate with the slow, methodical ease of a man too exhausted to care about whatever fresh hell his sons had concocted. He had caught them, of course. More than once. And yet, despite his irritation, their antics had only grown more elaborate since then-as if his disapproval had been an encouragement rather than a deterrent.

Vaegon, seated beside Aeron, was the picture of innocence as he dunked a hunk of bread into his stew. Aeron, mirroring his twin's every move, took an exaggeratedly polite bite, his expression one of perfect serenity.

It would have been convincing.

If not for the way one of the crewmates kept fidgeting in his seat, nervously eyeing his goblet as though he expected it to sprout legs and scuttle away.

Baela, who had long since lost patience for their nonsense, sighed loudly, setting her spoon down with a pointed clink. "Whatever you two have done," she muttered, rubbing her temple, "just get it over with already."

Rhaena, still subdued from her restless nights, merely picked at her food, though a ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.

Vaegon blinked at his older sister, all feigned offense. "Baela, you wound me."

Aeron placed a hand over his heart. "Truly. After all, we have been on our best behavior."

Across the table, Daemon exhaled sharply through his nose. "I will throw you both overboard."

Neither twin so much as flinched.

"You could try," Vaegon mused, tapping his chin.

"But we are rather fast," Aeron added. "And I've never seen you run father."

A few of the shiphands hid laughs behind their palms. And the look Daemon leveled at his sons was one of a man questioning all of his life choices.

Before he could respond, there was a sudden, startled yelp from one of the crewmates, followed by a thud as his goblet hit the table.

All eyes turned to the man as he spluttered, his face contorted in horror. He shoved the goblet away as though it had personally offended him, sending dark liquid sloshing across the wood.

Vaegon and Aeron watched with identical expressions of carefully crafted bewilderment.

"What," the man wheezed, "is in my wine?"

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose. "What did you do?"

Vaegon feigned a look of deep contemplation. "That depends."

"On what?" Daemon asked, already regretting it.

"On whether or not you want to know."

Baela groaned.

Rhaena giggled.

Daemon took a slow, measured breath, his patience thinner than a thread. He turned his gaze to the crew, who were now whispering amongst themselves, their expressions ranging from mild amusement to outright dread.

"Let me make something very clear," he said, his voice calm but edged with warning. His violet eyes flicked to his sons, sharp as Valyrian steel. "You will cease whatever nonsense you have been getting up to. You will behave for the remainder of this voyage. And if you so much as breathe in a way that displeases me-"

He leaned forward, leveling them with a look that sent lesser men running.

"-I will strap you both to the mast and leave you there until we reach Driftmark."

A beat of silence.

Vaegon and Aeron exchanged a glance.

Then, as one, they turned back to their father and grinned.

Daemon exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temples as though he could will away the growing headache that came with raising these two menaces.

The gods, he decided, were mocking him.

This was his penance. Retribution for every reckless stunt, every smug grin, every exasperated sigh he had wrung from his own father in his youth.

Perhaps his father had cursed him before departing this world-May your sons be as insufferable as you were.

And if that were the case, then his father's final wish had been granted tenfold.

He had been a nightmare as a boy-wild, untamed, forever testing the limits of those around him. And now, the gods had seen fit to return the favor.

Not with one son.

But two.

Identical.

And just as cunning.

Daemon lifted his goblet to his lips, only to pause, glancing suspiciously inside. It was a sign of how much his sons had ruined him that he now questioned the safety of his own damn drink.

With a sigh, he set it back down.

"This must be my punishment," he muttered under his breath.

Vaegon, ever sharp-eared, perked up. "Punishment for what?"

"For existing," Baela quipped dryly.

Aeron gasped, all mock offense. "Baela, how cruel."

Rhaena, covering her smile with her hand, shook her head. "You have been awful."

"Awful?" Vaegon repeated, placing a hand over his chest. "We have merely been providing the crew with much-needed entertainment."

"Ah, yes," Daemon drawled. "Because slipping eel guts into a man's boots is the height of entertainment."

Vaegon shrugged. "It was a good jest."

"And harmless," Aeron added helpfully. "He washed them out, didn't he?"

Daemon let out a slow, measured breath through his nose, reminding himself that tossing them into the sea was, unfortunately, not an option.

Baela scowled at her older brothers. "What else have you done?"

Vaegon and Aeron exchanged a look.

Daemon noticed.

"Out with it," he commanded, his patience hanging by a thread.

Aeron hesitated.

Vaegon, however, grinned. "We may have... convinced one of the younger deckhands that the ship is haunted."

Daemon closed his eyes briefly. "Haunted," he repeated, deadpan.

Vaegon nodded enthusiastically. "He's been leaving offerings of bread and wine near the mast to appease the ghost."

Rhaena let out a quiet laugh. Baela groaned again. Daemon took another slow sip of wine, deciding that if his sons intended to shorten his lifespan, he would at least dull the pain with alcohol.

Finally, he set the goblet down and fixed his sons with a pointed stare. "If I so much as hear about another one of your little pranks-"

"-we'll be lashed to the mast until Driftmark, yes, yes, we heard you the first time," Aeron finished, waving a hand.

Daemon rubbed his temples again. He was going to need more wine.

And perhaps a long, long rest before they reached Driftmark.

The door creaked open, and the warm midday light from the deck spilled into the dimly lit cabin as a handful of sailors stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of salted fish and roasted bread, but as soon as Daemon laid eyes on the men, he knew they hadn't come to discuss the day's meal.

They were fresh from port. That much was clear from the light dusting of sand still clinging to their boots, the scent of the docks clinging to their clothes.

Daemon set his goblet down with a quiet clink and leaned back in his chair, leveling them with a look. "What is it?"

One of the men-a grizzled, broad-shouldered fellow who had been among the crew the longest-cleared his throat. "My prince, we've just returned from port, restocking as you ordered. There's news."

Daemon arched a brow. "Go on."

The sailor hesitated, shifting his weight slightly, before finally speaking. "Rumors are spreading about Harrenhal."

Daemon's fingers drummed against the wooden table, his expression unreadable. "What of it?"

The sailor exhaled. "Word is... it's burned to the ground."

For a moment, silence reigned. The only sound was the gentle lapping of waves against the ship's hull, distant and unbothered by the weight of mortal affairs.

Baela frowned. "The entire castle?"

"The gods-cursed ruin is more stone than wood," Daemon muttered. "It would take a fire of unnatural strength to reduce it to nothing. I'm sure it's only an exaggeration."

"Aye," the sailor agreed grimly. "Yet that's what they're saying. And that Larys Strong now holds it. But you know how sailors exaggerate."

At that, Daemon's expression darkened. His fingers stilled their movement against the table. "Larys?" he repeated, voice devoid of emotion.

The sailor nodded. "Lord now, if the stories are true."

Daemon's stare sharpened. "What of Ser Harwin?"

The sailor hesitated, but there was little point in softening the blow. "They say he died in the flames."

For a long moment, no one dared to break the silence. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose. "Harrenhal is a cursed place," he muttered. "It's only ever belonged to the dead."

There was a weight to his words-an old truth, spoken not in mourning, but in knowing.

The sailors exchanged glances but did not press the matter further.

Daemon lifted his goblet once more and took a slow sip of wine, his mind already shifting, calculating.

Whatever had happened at Harrenhal, it would not remain a mere rumor for long.

𝔗he afternoon sun stretched lazily across the sky, its golden rays dancing upon the rippling waves as the ship cut through the vast expanse of the sea. A steady breeze filled the sails, carrying with it the briny scent of salt and wood, the rhythmic creaking of the vessel merging with the murmurs of the crew.

Vaegon and Aeron, however, had little interest in the beauty of the open waters.

Tucked behind a stack of barrels near the stern, the twins crouched in the shadows, their silver heads bowed close together as they conspired. Their latest scheme, a harmless act of mischief involving a bucket of saltwater and an unsuspecting deckhand, had been in the making for the better part of an hour. They had timed it perfectly, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

And yet, just as Aeron was about to give the signal, voices from the nearby group of sailors caught their ears.

"-Aye, burned to the ground, they say."

One of the sailors took a long swig from his flask, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking again. "Harrenhal's been cursed from the moment the Conqueror took it. But this? This was no mere accident."

"A curse?" another scoffed. "More like vengeance. The gods saw fit to strike down the Strongs."

Aeron and Vaegon exchanged a glance.

They had heard only murmurs of what had transpired in the last port-a fire, a tragedy-but their father had offered little in the way of explanation.

Another sailor leaned in, his voice lower now, but the twins could still make out every word.

"Not just the Strongs," he muttered darkly. "Their blood runs deep now, doesn't it? Strong, Velaryon, Targaryen... all tangled together."

Vaegon stiffened. Aeron frowned, his brows knitting together.

A third man let out a coarse laugh. "Aye. And perhaps that's why Harrenhal burned. To cleanse the stain."

"You're a fool," the first man grumbled, shaking his head. "It was no act of gods. That fire was set."

"And by whose hand?"

The sailor merely shrugged, taking another pull from his flask. "The Hand of the King is dead. And his son... Harwin Strong, they called him Breakbones, but he burned like any other man."

Aeron's mouth went dry.

He had never met the man, only heard his name spoken in passing. But Rhaenyra-his father's niece, their cousin by blood-he had been her sworn shield, had he not? One of her most loyal protectors? Was it more than that?

Another sailor grunted. "Breakbones, indeed. They say he was more than her sworn sword."

Vaegon and Aeron both tensed, their breath stilling in their chests.

"Oh?" The second man chuckled. "Go on, then."

The first sailor leaned back against a crate, a knowing smirk curling his lips. "Do you think it coincidence that he was always at her side? That he spent more time in the princess's chambers than in the yard?"

Aeron felt a strange, twisting sensation in his stomach.

"They say," the man continued, lowering his voice though it still carried in the wind, "that the crown princess's sons bear more resemblance to Ser Harwin Strong than to their father."

Vaegon's jaw clenched.

Aeron's heart pounded in his chest.

The men laughed amongst themselves, their voices rough with amusement.

"A shame, really," one of them continued, shaking his head in mock lament. "A princess's sons meant to be dragonlords... and yet they favor their mother's sworn sword more than their father."

The sailors continued their talk, but the words no longer registered in the twins' minds.

The ship rocked gently beneath them, the waves lapping at the hull, but the world suddenly felt unsteady.

Vaegon and Aeron exchanged a look, identical in thought, in unease.

This was not a rumor meant for their ears.

And yet, they had heard it.

Now, they had to decide what to do with it.