Rhaenyra dismounted her horse with a weary grace, the movement betraying both fatigue and a stubborn refusal to show weakness. Her leathers, once a rich shade of dark brown, were now streaked with blood — the dark, rusted marks of the boar that had ambushed her and Ser Criston the previous night in the dense thickets of the Kingswood. The blood had dried in jagged lines across her vambraces and splattered her tunic, a grim testament to the fight that had raged under the moon’s cold gaze. Her hair was tangled, loose strands clinging to her sweat‑damp forehead, and her face was smudged with dirt and dried crimson, as if the forest itself had tried to claim a piece of her. Yet her eyes — those fierce, silver Targaryen eyes — were sharp, defiant, alive, burning with an inner fire that refused to be dimmed.

Near the long table laid with lavish spreads — roasted meats glistening with herbs, baskets of ripe fruits bursting with color, fresh bread still steaming from the ovens — her father stood beside Alicent. The queen was dressed in soft greens and golds, a picture of serene motherhood, cradling the one‑year‑old Aegon in her arms. The boy, swaddled in fine linens, cooed softly, his tiny fingers reaching for the pearls at his mother’s throat. He was the very reason for the royal hunt in the first place: the boy’s first name day. A celebration meant to unite, to heal old wounds, to usher in a new era — yet it felt more like a stage set for a performance neither side truly believed in.

You stood nearby, partially shaded by the fluttering banners of House Targaryen and Hightower, watching silently as the princess arrived. A mixture of surprise and something unreadable flickered across your face — a shadow that passed too quickly to name. Was it admiration for her resilience? A flicker of concern at the state she was in? Or perhaps something deeper, a recognition of the weight she carried, unseen by most?

The sounds of celebration — laughter, clinking goblets, the strum of a lute — seemed to falter for a moment as Rhaenyra strode past, her boots leaving faint prints in the damp earth. Heads turned, whispers trailed in her wake, but she did not falter. She met no one’s gaze, not her father’s concerned look, nor Alicent’s polite, almost pitying smile. The weight of their stares was like a physical thing, pressing against her shoulders, but she held herself tall, spine straight, chin lifted.

Rhaenyra exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to carry with it the night’s terrors and the day’s burdens. Her shoulders were tight with fatigue — not just the bone‑deep weariness of the hunt, but something deeper, older: resentment, perhaps, or the bitter sting of being overlooked, of being expected to smile and play her part while the world shifted around her.

Without a word, she turned away from the feast, from the bright colors and warm scents and forced cheer. Her steps were measured, deliberate, as she made her way toward her tent — a solitary refuge at the edge of the campsite, half‑hidden by a cluster of ancient oaks. She needed to wash the blood from her skin, to scrub away the grime and the memory of claws and teeth and the smell of iron in the air. Only then, perhaps, could she stomach the sight of the feast — the smiling faces, the toasts raised in Aegon’s name, the carefully woven illusion of harmony that felt so fragile, so false in the face of everything left unsaid.

As she disappeared behind the tent’s flap, the sounds of celebration resumed, but the air felt heavier now, charged with unspoken tension. And you, still standing in the dappled shade, found yourself watching the spot where she’d vanished, a strange, quiet ache settling in your chest.