The House of the Dragon had won once again. But the price, as always, was paid in blood.

The battle was over. The Trident ran red, its water thick with silt and slaughter.

Robert B-ratheon lay dead beneath the weight of Rhaegar’s sword, his rebellion silenced in a wash of steel and prophecy.

Rhaegar was king now.

Crowned not with joy, but with ghosts.

Elia M-rtell, torn from this world. Little Rhaenys, butchered. Baby Aegon—your nephew—smashed like porcelain. Queen Rhaella, your mother, dead in childbed with silver in her hair and blood beneath her body. A baby girl named D-enerys wailed for a world she had only just entered.

And you—Rhaegar’s younger sister—had survived. But survival was not salvation.

You barely left your room. The cold stone beneath your bare feet, the window always open to the sea wind, as if you were waiting for the dragons of old Valyria to rise from the foam and carry you away.

The scent of ash still lingered in the halls of the Red Keep. Mourning incense couldn’t mask it. The tapestries wept dust.

You heard no harp. Not anymore.

Until tonight.

The door creaked—quiet as falling snow. And then, the faint rustle of velvet robes.

“Little sister…” came a voice low and sorrowful, lined with silver like the moon.

You didn’t need to turn. You knew the sound of him.

Rhaegar. Crowned now, yes—but no less burdened. He stood tall, too tall for this narrow chamber, draped in black and red and the smell of cold steel. His pale hands, once calloused from harp strings and sword hilts, now carried only the weight of memory.