"Isolde, once I come back, I will leave the Iron Throne. We will live a quiet life… a happy one."
The words had once been spoken as though the world itself would bend around them.
The man who said them carried the bloodline of someone born to rule—pale silver hair falling over his shoulders, eyes of soft lilac that caught the torchlight like something inhumanly still. There had been warmth in him then, a softness the court never saw, something reserved only for stolen hours behind closed doors.
It had been her greatest mistake to believe that softness could survive in a world built on blood and conquest.
Isolde had known even then that it was impossible. She was no lady of noble blood, no daughter of an ancient house, nor anyone a dragonlord could openly claim. She was only a merchant's daughter.
After he lost his wife, she became the solace he sought amid the demands of crown and court. While lords schemed and kingdoms turned, she remained beyond the gaze of the realm, a part of his life that could never be acknowledged.
That had been her place.
In the beginning, it had been enough.
A few precious days once in a moon, sometimes less. Whatever scraps of time duty left him to give.
Enough, until she found herself wanting more.
When he was taken by the Seven—when the agony of his burst belly finally swallowed him whole—Isolde did not scream. She stood among the mourners as the funeral pyre burned, watching the flames consume the prince who should have been king. King Jaehaerys himself had set the fire. There were no final words, no last glance from the man she loved. Only smoke, ash, and the knowledge that all the promises he had made her had gone into the flames with him.
Something inside her broke that day, clean and irreversible.
Still, she went on as life stirred within her womb, carrying blood the world could never know.
She understood immediately what that meant. A child of a dragonrider born outside a sanctioned union was more than a scandal; it was a threat the realm would not ignore. Without his protection, she would be erased, used, or hunted until nothing remained of her but rumor.
So she ran.
Before the court could decide her fate, before whispers became blades, she vanished from King's Landing. She travel to the place the throne cannot reach.
Her body grew heavier with each passing moon, her strength thinning as the child within her demanded to survive even when she could barely do the same.
There was no maester when the time came. No midwife. No shelter.
Only wind, stone, and the quiet indifference of the world.
She gave birth beneath an empty sky.
The child lived.
So did she, though barely.
For a time, survival felt like a fragile mercy. The world remained harsh, but it was vast enough to hide within, and for a while she allowed herself to believe that hiding might one day become living.
That belief ended when she met her benefactor, the wizard noble, Lord Thaddues.
He asked no questions and offered no accusations. He simply offered shelter and protection.
In her condition, it meant everything. For a brief moment, she believed the nightmare had ended.
She was wrong.
The Reach did not arrive with warning, but with ambition that moved faster than rumor. The Salt Shore was not prepared for it, and so it broke quickly under the weight of the advance.
The invasion moved fast and met little resistance as it crossed the shore. Holds fell before their garrisons could gather, and in some places the enemy arrived before the alarm was raised. There was no war to meet, only land taken.
Isolde's refuge was among the first to fall.
Death had come for her as well, but the charm woven into her clothing turned its hand aside. It showed no such mercy to her daughter.
When the fires finally died and Reach banners rose over the shattered town, Isolde stood among the ruins, the air still heavy with smoke and ash.
She found her daughter too late.
Everything she had endured had ended in silence. For a moment, she considered following her child into it—not out of courage, but from an exhaustion so profound it hollowed meaning from breathing itself.
But grief, when pushed beyond its limits, does not end in surrender.
It changes shape.
It becomes purpose.
In the high tower of Castle Peverell, her daughter was laid upon a bed of pale lilac flowers. Isolde stood over her for a long time without speaking. She had already wept, tears no longer fell in her eyes.
Something inside her did not break—it settled.
When she spoke again, it was not as a grieving woman, but as a mother who had lost her child.
The lord who had sheltered her came to her afterward. He had seen what the Reach had done to his lands, and what it had taken from him. Since the invasion of Dorne, he had held himself back, choosing restraint over retaliation.
Isolde while in her knees, asked for vengeance, not justice. He gave it. Lily's death ended what restraint remained.
In that moment, Isolde became something the world would never forget.
She ascended. She burned the invaders, turning the tables in the battle in Saltshore. She unleashed her wrath, no guilt in her eyes as blue flames devoured human flesh.
The battle was won, yet victory brought her no solace. Her daughter was still dead, and those who had set the invasion in motion still lived.
The thought festered within her as she rose into the sky once more with her lord's blessing.
She flew for hours, crossing leagues of sea and land beneath her wings, until the place she sought appeared upon the horizon.
What came upon the Reach was not an army.
It was wrath made manifest.
The first town burned before it understood what it had seen. A shape broke through the clouds—vast, draconic, impossibly alive—and the air itself ignited.
Blue flame spilled downward like judgment given form.
Roofs collapsed before screams could begin. Stone blackened instantly. Fields turned to ash. Rivers hissed into steam. The Reach, once known for its abundance, began to die as though it had been waiting centuries for permission and she did not stop.
Each settlement fell before warning could spread beyond its first breath. Smoke thickened across the horizon until day itself became a dim, choking twilight.
By the time the capital understood what was happening, it was already too late.
Its walls stood tall, lined with scorpions and soldiers who believed discipline could hold back what was coming. They fired into the sky, bolts striking her scales only to shatter uselessly against something that did not yield.
Nothing reached her.
She descended like a falling star. The gates were the first to fall, blasted apart by the force of her arrival. Stone ran molten beneath the second strike, and by the third, the fortress had become little more than a burning grave.
Inside, the city dissolved into chaos. Bells rang, men shouted orders, mothers clutched their children and ran, yet none of it mattered. Fear had taken hold, and fear moved swifter than any command.
Fire moved through streets like something alive. Markets collapsed into burning skeletons. Iron softened. Stone ran like wax. Those who fled found no escape, and those who fought found nothing that could be called victory.
Time lost meaning.
Only destruction remained.
When it was over, the Reach lay shattered beneath a haze of smoke and ash. No songs would be sung of what remained.
She hovered above the ruins as the last embers faded. Her breathing slowed as she looked upon the devastation below.
There was no triumph to be found there.
Only emptiness.
The rage that had carried her this far slipped away, leaving only grief behind.
When she finally turned away from the ruins, the realm would remember what had been done there for generations.
Not for crown or conquest.
Only a mother who had lost her child—and what followed her grief.
Two days later in King's Landing, the Small Council convened shortly after sunrise. As always, the matters before them were numerous, if not particularly exciting. King Viserys sat at the head of the long table while maps, ledgers, and sealed letters lay scattered before him, each representing another burden of rule.
Lord Lyonel Strong was the first to speak. Several disputes in the western regions had escalated beyond simple disagreements. Rival lords had begun raiding one another's lands, burning fields, stealing livestock, and clashing over borders that had been contested for generations.
"How many have died?" Viserys asked.
"No more than fifty by the latest reports," Lyonel replied. "Though the number will grow if neither side yields."
"Then we will not give either side the chance," Viserys said, weary but resolute. "Send royal judges. Have them settle it before it spreads further. The King's Peace is not a suggestion."
"As you command, Your Grace."
The discussion moved on. Grand Maester Runciter reported a plague spreading through several coastal settlements, raising concerns that trade might suffer if the outbreak continued unchecked. Viserys approved the dispatch of healers and supplies, while Lord Beesbury reluctantly agreed to release the necessary funds.
For nearly an hour, the council worked through the ordinary burdens of governance—pirates disrupting shipping lanes, merchant complaints, tax disputes, harvest forecasts, and squabbles between ambitious nobles. None of it was unexpected.
Then the doors opened.
A Maester hurried into the chamber, his heavy chain clinking loudly and visibly exhausted. He dropped to one knee before the king.
"Your Grace. An urgent raven has arrived from Highgarden."
The mention of Highgarden drew curious looks from around the table. Viserys gestured for the parchment to be brought forward. Otto Hightower accepted it first and broke the seal, clearly expecting another complaint from the Reach.
Instead, his expression darkened.
Viserys noticed immediately.
"What is it, Otto?"
The Hand hesitated before passing the parchment across the table.
"You should read it yourself."
The king accepted the letter and scanned its contents. His expression hardened with every line. By the time he reached the end, anger had completely replaced his earlier patience.
The parchment struck the table with a sharp crack.
"Seven Hells."
The outburst startled several councilors.
"Daemon."
No one seemed particularly surprised to hear the prince's name.
"What has he done?" Otto asked.
"What he always does," Viserys said, sharp as a drawn blade. "Whatever pleases him—consequences be damned."
He lifted the letter between two fingers, as though it had begun to stain them simply by being read.
"This report claims Daemon spent months bargaining with Reach lords behind the Crown's back," Viserys said, voice tightening. "He raised men, secured supplies, and marched into Dorne without so much as informing his king."
A wave of murmurs spread around the table.
"He invaded Dorne?" Corlys Velaryon asked.
"Without royal sanction."
Lyonel Strong leaned forward.
"Surely the Reach lords understood they lacked the authority to support such an undertaking."
"Apparently not," Viserys said, bitterness threading through every word. "Or perhaps Daemon was persuasive enough to make them forget their loyalty to their king."
Otto folded his hands.
"Launching a war without the Crown's approval is no small matter."
"No," Viserys said at last, the word clipped and final. "It is not."
The room fell silent as everyone considered the implications. After a moment, Corlys voiced the question occupying every mind.
"What became of the invasion?"
Viserys gave a short, humorless laugh—no warmth in it, only disbelief turned sour.
"It failed," he said flatly, as though the word itself tasted of ash.
Several councilors exchanged glances.
"Failed?" Beesbury repeated.
"Completely," Viserys said, voice low with restrained anger. "Whatever plans Daemon had—whatever he thought himself capable of—ended in disaster."
"And the prince?" Otto asked.
Viserys slid the letter across the table.
"Captured," he said flatly.
Silence settled over the chamber.
Even Corlys looked genuinely surprised.
"Captured?"
"According to this report," Viserys said, eyes still on the letter, "House Peverell took him prisoner."
Few among the council knew much about House Peverell, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that they had somehow accomplished what many of Daemon's enemies never could.
They had captured a dragonrider.
Before anyone could speak further, the doors opened again.
Another maester entered carrying a fresh letter.
"Your Grace. A raven arrived from the Reach."
Viserys frowned.
"What now?"
The Maester handed over the parchment. Otto broke the seal and began reading. His expression changed almost immediately.
"The Reach was attacked," he said.
Every man at the table straightened.
Viserys took the letter and read quickly. Villages burned. Watchtowers destroyed. Farms reduced to ash. Entire settlements abandoned in terror. Witnesses described a dragon descending from the sky before unleashing devastation upon everything below.
The king's face darkened.
Of course.
Who else could it be?
"He's escaped," Viserys said through his teeth.
No one needed clarification.
"First he invades Dorne without permission, and now he set fire on the Reach," Viserys said coldly. "Has the fool completely lost his mind?"
The conclusion seemed obvious. Daemon possessed a dragon. Daemon had every reason to lash out after suffering defeat. The reports appeared to fit perfectly.
Then the doors opened for a third time.
Another Maester hurried back into the chamber.
"Dorne, Your Grace," the Maester whispered, looking anxiously around the table.
Viserys stared at him, his brow furrowing. "Dorne? We have no ravens in Sunspear."
"Not from the Martells, Your Grace," it was the Grand Maester who replied, stepping closer to lower his voice. "It is from our... informat in the Shadow City."
A heavy silence fell over the small council table. Viserys's hand hovered over his wine cup. A secret raven from a spy in Dorne meant whatever was written on that parchment was dangerous enough to get a man flayed alive.
The king accepted the letter himself and broke the seal. His eyes moved rapidly across the page. A frown appeared, followed by confusion, and finally disbelief.
He read it again.
Then a third time.
Otto noticed the change immediately.
"Your Grace?"
Viserys lowered the parchment, his eyes still on the ink for a moment longer than necessary.
"So," he said at last, voice low and controlled, "according to this report… Daemon remains a prisoner."
Nobody spoke. The silence seemed to consume the room.
"What?" Corlys finally asked.
"The letter confirms it," Viserys said, his tone tight with restraint. "House Peverell still holds him. He never escaped."
The implications struck the council all at once.
If Daemon remained imprisoned in Dorne, then he could not be responsible for the attacks.
If he was not responsible, then another dragonrider was burning the Reach.
Viserys turned toward the Maester who delivered the letter from Highgarden.
"The dragon. What exactly did the witness describe?"
The Maester swallowed.
"I've read another letter, Your Grace. It was a blue dragon that burned the Reach,"
The words seemed to drain the warmth from the chamber.
Otto blinked.
"Blue?"
The Maester nodded.
"Blue scales. Blue flames. Every letter says the same thing."
Several men glanced at one another, but none spoke.
Viserys slowly turned toward the Maester who delivered the letter from Dorne.
"The letter mentioned House Peverell. What else did our informat say?"
The Maester shifted uneasily beneath the attention of the entire council. Even the Grand Maester gave him a look.
"A letter mentions they possess a blue dragon, Your Grace."
The king's eyes narrowed as heavy silence followed.
Lord Beesbury stared at the table. Lyonel Strong sat motionless, his mind clearly racing through the implications. Even Otto Hightower appeared unsettled, a rarity in itself.
A blue dragon had devastated the Reach, and House Peverell was said to possess one while holding Prince Daemon Targaryen captive.
No one needed to state the conclusion aloud.
Viserys slowly lowered himself into his chair and looked down at the letters spread before him. Only an hour earlier, the council had been occupied with border disputes and outbreaks of sickness. Those concerns now seemed insignificant.
Somewhere in Dorne stood a house powerful enough to defeat Daemon Targaryen, imprison a prince of the blood, and command a dragon unknown to the Iron Throne.
For the first time that morning, Viserys felt something colder than anger and that was concern...
TBC
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