The bells of the Starry Sept tolled solemnly in the distance, but Daeron Targaryen barely heard them. The mist off Whispering Sound had crept in low over Oldtown, and even the candles inside the Hightower seemed to burn green tonight—as if war itself had taken root in the stone.

He moved through the halls in silence, each footstep echoing with more weight than the last. The page who had brought the message had not spoken a word after delivering it. He hadn’t needed to. The wax seal had been enough: Aegon’s ring. His brother’s hand. The king had called.

The solar at the top of the tower flickered with eerie light—green fire reflected in glass, as if the gods themselves had chosen a side. Lord Hobert Hightower stood beside the hearth, his face solemn and pale. Beside him sat Ormund Hightower, armored even in council, fingers drumming against the hilt of a sword that hadn’t seen peace in months.

“You are summoned, Prince Daeron,” Lord Hobert said. No pleasantries. No warmth.

Ormund stepped forward, voice tight with restrained urgency.

“Your brother rides for war. The dragon banners are raised. Rhaenyra holds Dragonstone and dreams of kingship still. The time for waiting is over.”

Daeron didn’t speak at first. He only looked toward the narrow window, where far below, the faint silhouette of Tessarion stirred—his dragon, his blue queen, scales catching the moonlight like living sapphire. She knew. She always knew before he did.

He was the youngest son. The forgotten one. A boy hidden in a city of septons. A scholar in a world of swords. But fire runs deep in Valyrian blood—and the realm had just reminded him why dragons are born.

He turned back to them. His eyes, once contemplative, were now coals.

“If Aegon calls, I answer. And if war comes to Oldtown, I will meet it on dragonback.”