{𝔸 𝕤𝕠𝕟 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕒 𝕤𝕠𝕟}
EPISODE 1

129 A.C

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

(No silent readers. Thx)

WINTERFELL
The soft sounds of hooves against packed snow reached Aestra's ears before she had even opened her eyes. The distant creak of carriage wheels, the occasional murmur of voices outside—Winterfell's courtyard was no longer quiet.

She blinked away sleep, shifting beneath the thick furs as she turned toward the window. The morning light poured in, pale and cold, illuminating the frost that clung to the glass. She pushed herself up, her silver hair spilling around her shoulders, and leaned against the sill, peering outside.

The carriage had just come to a stop, its dark wooden frame dusted with snow. Several riders accompanied it, their banners fluttering—House Blackwood's raven against a red field. Aestra's sharp blue eyes swept over the scene until they landed on her.

Alysanne Blackwood stepped down from the carriage with grace, her heavy cloak trimmed with fur, dark curls spilling from beneath the hood. Even from the window, Aestra could tell she was beautiful—painfully beautiful. There was an effortless elegance in the way she carried herself, her every movement controlled, deliberate. She smiled as she greeted Lady Glover, her voice soft yet clear, her posture poised but warm.

Aestra didn't know why it bothered her.

She swallowed thickly before turning away from the window, suddenly feeling restless, unsettled.

She had to get dressed.

She tore off her nightclothes and reached for the garments that had been laid out for her the night before. A northern gown—dark gray with silver embroidery along the edges, the fabric thick and lined with soft wool to keep out the cold. She laced it up quickly, her fingers slightly trembling, then pulled on a fur-lined cloak to match.

For her hair, she opted for something different. Rather than the usual loose waves or intricate Targaryen braids, she wove some of the strands into a simple plait down her back, the rest left cascading over her shoulders, framing her face. It felt strange—the Northerners wore their hair differently, unbound or knotted simply—but when she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, she found that it suited her.

Without wasting another moment, she bolted from the chamber, her skirts rustling around her legs as she rushed down the spiral stairs of the Great Keep.

The Great Hall was already filled with voices when she entered.

Lady Glover stood near the guests, smiling as she spoke with Lord Blackwood. Cregan stood stiffly at her side, his expression unreadable, though Aestra could see the tension in his shoulders. Sara was nearby, watching the exchange with mild interest, and the hall's attendants moved swiftly to prepare food and drink for the visitors.

As Aestra stepped closer, Lady Glover turned and spotted her. A warm smile crossed her lips. "Ah, Princess Aestra, come forward."

Aestra hesitated only for a moment before making her way to them, her steps careful, measured.

Lady Glover gestured toward her, addressing Lord Blackwood. "This is the Princess Aestra Targaryen, our guest. She is staying in Winterfell while the war looms in the South."

Lord Blackwood's expression barely shifted. He forced a thin smile, though there was something guarded in his dark eyes. "The youngest of the late King's children," he remarked. His voice was polite but held an unmistakable edge.

Aestra clenched her jaw, nodding slightly. She had grown accustomed to these pointed reminders—of who she was, where she came from, what blood stained her hands. But what came next made her breath hitch.

"The She-Drake of King's Landing, I've heard some call her." (drake- in old English means dragon-satan)

Silence.

Aestra felt the weight of every gaze upon her, pressing down like iron. The title clung to her skin like a brand, a reminder of what she had done, of the fire she had unleashed. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

Cregan's nostrils flared, his jaw tightening as he cast a glare at Lord Blackwood.

Lady Glover, ever the gracious host, swiftly intervened with a firm but polite tone. "Winterfell does not entertain idle gossip, my lord. The princess is our guest, and she has shown nothing but honor in her time here."

Lord Blackwood only nodded, though his expression remained unreadable.

And then—Alysanne.

The young lady stepped forward, her dark eyes meeting Aestra's with a warmth that caught her off guard. She extended a hand toward her, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Princess Aestra."

Aestra froze.

Her breath hitched slightly, her lips parting just a fraction. She stared at Alysanne—at the delicate but confident way she held herself, at the slight curve of her lips, at the rich darkness of her eyes. A warmth crawled up Aestra's neck, blooming in her cheeks.

She had never felt this way before.

"I—I..." she stammered, her voice failing her for the first time in years.

Alysanne's smile widened slightly, a soft chuckle escaping her lips.

Aestra bit her bottom lip, mentally cursing herself, before inhaling sharply and forcing herself to recover. She reached out, hesitantly taking Alysanne's hand. "Aestra," she murmured. "My name is Aestra. And... I am pleased to meet you, Lady Alysanne."

Their hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary.

And though Aestra could not bring herself to look at him, she felt Cregan's gaze shift between her and Alysanne. Silent. Calculating. Unreadable.

The stone walls of Winterfell felt colder than usual as the formal greetings began to fade, but Lady Glover's voice carried warmly across the hall, commanding attention with matriarchal cheer.

"Cregan, darling," she said, turning toward her son with a firm but pleasant smile, "why don't you show Lady Alysanne around the keep? Our guests have come all this way—it's only right she sees the home of her future."

Cregan's jaw ticked almost imperceptibly. His shoulders stiffened, his eyes flicking once toward Alysanne, then briefly—unwillingly—toward Aestra. But he gave a small nod. "As you wish, mother." His voice was quiet but respectful, layered with tension.

Before he could so much as move, Alysanne turned with a radiant smile toward Aestra. "I'd love if the princess joined us," she said, her tone sincere but full of spark. "I've never spoken to someone who's ridden a dragon... let alone burned a city."

Aestra blinked. "That... was not the highlight of my life," she muttered, awkwardness prickling down her spine. Her eyes darted to Cregan—he looked like he was fighting a smirk. She frowned at him, barely hiding her exasperation.

Lady Glover, seemingly delighted, clapped her hands together. "Wonderful, then it's settled!"

And so they were off. The three of them—Cregan in his furs with his brooding silence, Alysanne with her raven hair shining against her red cloak, and Aestra, flustered and already regretting leaving her chambers.

They walked beneath the shadow of Winterfell's towers, Cregan leading them past the old crypts, the armory, the Godswood's edge. Alysanne listened with polite interest... but her eyes kept sliding to Aestra.

"I heard your eyes turned violet when you were born, but they changed to blue later. Is that true?" Alysanne asked suddenly as they passed a stable boy.

Aestra blinked. "What? I—I don't know... maybe? I was a baby."

"Fascinating." Alysanne smiled like it was fascinating. "Do all Targaryens dream?"

Aestra looked away. "Some. Not all."

"Do dragons dream?"

"...What?"

Cregan huffed under his breath.

Aestra shot him a glare.

Alysanne was still smiling. "What's it like to ride a dragon?"

"Loud," Aestra said with a slight edge. "And hot. And cold. And lonely."

A moment passed between them.

"Lonely?" Alysanne asked.

Aestra's lips parted, but no words came out.

"Do you think dragons recognize beauty? Or just strength?" the Lady Blackwood asked, still looking right at Aestra.

Cregan finally let out a soft, audible chuckle from behind them. Aestra turned her full glare on him. "Are you enjoying this?"

"Immensely," he muttered, eyes dancing with rare mischief.

Alysanne turned to him. "Don't laugh, Lord Stark. I've spent the last moon in Riverrun reading about your house. Did you know someone once claimed your forebears came from giants?"

Cregan rolled his eyes. "A tall tale."

"Tall men," Alysanne quipped. "Tall tales."

"I could show you the crypts," Cregan offered dryly.

Alysanne smiled brightly. "You could. But I think I prefer stories from the living."

She turned back to Aestra, still walking beside her. "Do you like Winterfell, Princess?"

Aestra opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then said, "It's... cold."

Cregan didn't bother hiding his laugh this time.

Alysanne beamed. "I like the cold. It makes people honest."

Aestra looked at her sideways, not sure what to make of that. And still... her cheeks flushed pink. Again.

Cregan watched them—watched Alysanne's endless questions, and Aestra's rare silence—and for the first time that day, he didn't feel so angry about Lady Blackwood's arrival.

Because as much as she was promised to him, Alysanne Blackwood only had eyes for Aestra Targaryen.

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DRAGONSTONE
The solar was dimly lit, the hearth crackling behind Prince Daemon as he sat unmoving, a carved goblet untouched beside his hand. Shadows danced on the stone walls, flickering across maps and parchments as the door opened and the guards led Mysaria and Maerya forward.

Daemon did not rise.

His eyes fixed coldly on the woman before him—the woman he once kept close, who now stood like a ghost from a past that refused to remain buried.

"The White Worm," he said at last, his voice thick with contempt, but edged with something older—betrayal.

Mysaria's lip curved faintly, though her eyes never softened. "Did you think I would wither in your absence, my prince?"

He stood slowly, the chair scraping beneath him. "I did not think you would flower a traitor."

"I am common-born," Mysaria replied evenly. "You speak of highborn games, of dragons and thrones. I speak of survival."

Daemon's eyes flicked to Maerya for the first time. The young woman stared back with no fear, only disdain, her purple eyes sharp and burning.

He turned back to Mysaria. "How long have you been selling secrets to Otto Hightower?"

She raised her chin. "As long as he had gold to pay for them."

That answer snapped something in him. With a growl, Daemon slammed his hands on the table and came around it like a storm breaking loose.

Mysaria didn't flinch even when he seized her arm roughly. Maerya took a step forward, jaw tight, but Mysaria flicked her eyes to her daughter, stilling her with one look.

"Who sent you fleeing from King's Landing in such disrepair, hm?" Daemon spat, his grip tightening. "You—you—put Aegon on the throne."

Mysaria scoffed. "That was the Hightowers' conspiracy, not mine. I merely profited from knowing where Aegon drank himself senseless."

"You delivered him," he hissed.

"I did," she snapped back. "But only to quicken what was inevitable. Aegon would have returned for gold, for glory, for another whore's bed. I simply... sped the business along."

Daemon's hand left her arm and found her throat—not choking, but firm, trembling with rage. "'Business' that cost the queen her throne. That murdered her grandson."

Mysaria's face twisted. "You only blame me because the true enemies you long to burn are beyond your reach. I was a tool, Daemon. As dispensable to Otto Hightower as I was to you."

His fingers twitched, then released her.

Silence rang between them.

"What else do you know of him?" he demanded. "His plans?"

"Little and less," Mysaria whispered, rubbing her neck. "Otto used me. I possess nothing you'd trade steel for."

Daemon turned to Maerya, eyes narrowing.

"Who is she?"

Maerya's mouth twisted. "Fucking—"

"She is no one of importance," Mysaria said quickly, her voice sharp. "The only living servant left when Hightower's men set fire to my house."

Daemon stood in silence, lips curling as he looked between them. He said nothing more.

He walked to the door, threw it open.

"Take them," he ordered the guards without turning. "To the dungeons. Treat them as traitors to the crown."

The door slammed behind him, the echo lingering like thunder in the stone hall.

Maerya clenched her fists as they were pulled away, and Mysaria kept her gaze forward, her expression unreadable—except to her daughter, who knew better.

And still, she said nothing.

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The dungeon beneath Dragonstone was as cold and unforgiving as the mountain above. The black stone walls seemed to drink in what little light the torches offered, and the air reeked of mildew and damp ash—remnants of old fires, old deaths.

The guards said nothing as they dragged Mysaria and Maerya through the narrow passageways, splitting them apart and forcing them into adjacent cells divided by iron bars and thick stone. The moment the keys clanked and the doors slammed shut, only the sounds of their breath and the distant echo of dripping water remained.

Mysaria gripped the rusted bars and exhaled through her nose, eyes closed for a moment before she turned toward the dividing wall where her daughter's shadow moved.

"Are you mad?" she hissed in a low voice, her accent cutting sharper than ever in her anger. "You nearly got yourself killed, Maerya."

Maerya sat on the rough bench in her cell, her arms crossed, eyes staring through the bars into the dark.

"I don't care," she muttered.

Mysaria's fingers curled tightly around the cold iron. "Then you are a fool. You think Daemon Targaryen is a man who would hesitate to spill your blood? You think because you carry his eyes that he will show mercy? You know nothing of him."

"I know enough to hate him," Maerya spat, her voice still quiet but laced with venom. "He throws us into a cell like dogs—because of his own guilt. And you—you still protect him."

Mysaria's voice dropped, deadly and precise. "I protect you."

There was silence for a beat, thick and biting.

Maerya looked down, jaw tight. "We won't rot in here. I'll find a way out. Before he decides to let fire or steel silence us for good."

Mysaria pressed her forehead lightly against the cold bars, her expression softening for only a heartbeat. "There is no easy escape from Dragonstone."

"I don't want easy," Maerya replied. "I want freedom."

For a long moment, mother and daughter sat in their silence, the space between them filled with iron, stone, and the weight of bloodlines neither of them had asked for.

But neither broke.

Not yet.

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The winds outside Dragonstone howled through the narrow windows of the queen's solar, lashing rain against the stone like claws. But within, the fire crackled softly, casting golden light over Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and her eldest son.

Jacaerys sat in silence, hunched slightly forward on the low cushioned seat, his eyes fixed on the small cradle beside the hearth. Within it lay Daena—his daughter, his blood, and hers. The child's dark hair curled gently against her head, her thumb tucked against her cheek as she dozed peacefully, unaware of the storm outside... or the one in her father's chest.

Rhaenyra knelt beside the cradle, adjusting the blankets with a soft hand before sitting back. Her eyes, ancient in their grief yet tempered with resolve, drifted toward her son.

"She has her mother's nose," the queen said quietly, with a faint smile.

Jace exhaled, a long breath through his nose, his jaw working as though to speak, though no words came yet.

"She looks like me," he finally murmured, voice hoarse. "Except for that. Just that."

Rhaenyra glanced at him, her brow furrowed. "You've said that before."

"I know," Jace said, rubbing his eyes. "It's all I can think about. She's here, and Aestra's not. And I was the one who made that decision."

"You sent her to Winterfell," Rhaenyra said, voice careful, firm but not unkind. "For her protection. That was not a failure, Jace. That was love."

He shook his head slowly. "It feels like abandonment."

Silence hung between them again, broken only by Daena's soft breathing.

"I keep wondering if I made the wrong choice," he added. "If I should've brought her home. Or if... I did it to run away."

Rhaenyra rose, placing a hand on her son's shoulder. "You did it because war is coming. Because you love her. And because you are your father's son."

Jace looked up at her, his brown eyes heavy.

"Which one?" he asked, almost bitterly.

Rhaenyra's gaze didn't waver as she sighed. "Jace..."

That quieted him.

"You are not cold, nor cruel," she continued. "But you are strong. You carry what you must, even when it tears you apart. That is what makes you a prince worth following."

Jace looked back at the cradle, at Daena's tiny face. His lips pressed together as he nodded faintly.

"I just... I miss her," he whispered.

"I know," Rhaenyra said, her hand lingering a moment longer. "And if she is as strong as I know her to be... she will find her way back to you."

Jace closed his eyes for a heartbeat, as if to hold those words close.

Then Daena stirred in her sleep, letting out a small breath, and Jace reached out instinctively, gently brushing her hair back.

"I'll make it right," he said softly. "Somehow."

Rhaenyra said nothing more. She only watched her son, knowing too well how love and war could tear a heart into two.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The cold northern winds of Dragonstone did nothing to cool the fire in Lucerys's veins as he threw himself into his training. Blade after blade met his with solid clangs, his brow soaked in sweat despite the chill, his movements sharp, focused, relentless. Every parry, every strike was like a prayer—an apology—to a ghost that haunted him still.

When the yard finally cleared, only a few guards watching from a distance, Lucerys didn't stop. He pressed on, swinging his sword harder, faster, until his muscles ached.

"You're not bad with a blade, boy."

Lucerys turned sharply to find Daemon Targaryen watching him from the edge of the yard, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The Rogue Prince stepped forward slowly, boots crunching against the gravel.

"Getting faster," Daemon added. "Sharper. Focused."

Lucerys didn't reply. He only turned away, dragged his sleeve over his brow, and walked toward the bench, dropping onto it with a grunt.

Daemon followed and stood before him for a beat, then sat beside him, close enough to be felt but not oppressive.

"How do you feel?" the prince asked, quieter now.

Lucerys scoffed bitterly and spat into the dirt. "How do you think I feel?"

Daemon waited, but Luke wasn't finished.

"She saved me." His voice cracked as he stared at the ground. "At Storm's End. Aestra pulled me from Vhagar's shadow, and because of that, her son is dead. Rhaegar. Stillborn." He looked at Daemon now, eyes shining, jaw clenched. "My brother mourns... because of me."

Daemon didn't speak. He only nodded once.

Luke's hands curled into fists in his lap. "He doesn't say it. But I see it in him. In his silences. The way he looks at me."

"You think you're the only one carrying guilt?" Daemon asked roughly, turning to face him fully now. "You think war spares those who feel too deeply? I held my first ever love's charred bones in my arms after she gave birth to Aestra. And now I watch the fire I gave the world burn our daughter from afar. Do you think I don't feel it too?" Daemon doesn't say it much but deep down he misses Arwen so damn much. Aestra's mother was a rare woman in these lands.

Lucerys was silent.

"That's why," Daemon said, his voice lowering into something more dangerous. "You and I are going to King's Landing tonight."

Lucerys blinked. "What?"

Daemon smirked, dark and cold. "You heard me."

"Why? What's in King's Landing?"

Daemon stood slowly, the wind catching the edge of his cloak.

"Nobody harms my daughter and gets away with it." His voice was iron. "I don't care if it's the Hightowers, or the Gods themselves. Fire and blood will answer for what was taken. Aemond will pay"

Lucerys rose, frowning, unsure. "You're not bringing Jace?"

Daemon glanced at him, then looked ahead. "Jace's path is elsewhere now. He's bound by grief, by duty. But you?" He tilted his head. "You're still hungry. Still angry."

Lucerys hesitated. "What exactly are we going to do?"

Daemon began walking, tossing over his shoulder: "You'll see. Wait for me in the dungeons this evening."

And then he was gone—leaving only the sound of the wind, and the furious heartbeat in Lucerys's ears.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

NEW CHAPTER UP AFTER MANY MONTHS. IM SCARED THAT YOU DO NOT LIKE THIS STORY AS MUCH AS BEFORE 😔