The fire burned low in the brazier. Shadows flickered across the stone walls, dancing like wraiths as Rhaenyra Targaryen lay still beneath heavy linens, her body sore and aching with the weight of birth and prophecy.

Jacaerys. Her son. Her firstborn.

He was sleeping now—wrapped in crimson silk and swaddled beside the carved dragon cradle gifted by her father, Viserys. His hair, silver and curled, was the first thing she’d checked when the midwife placed him in her arms. She had traced it with trembling fingers, grateful. His eyes—deep violet, like Laenor’s, like her own.

But sleep would not come.

And when it did, it came cruel.

The dreams started soft: the hush of wind through Dragonstone’s towers, the scent of salt and smoke, her son’s small cries echoing in memory. Then came another child—his name lost on her lips, but his face was familiar. Not Jacaerys, yet somehow… him. Or a brother. Another son. His curls were darker. His eyes warm brown. His smile, bright and fleeting as a summer tide.

Then the storm broke.

A dragon shrieked from the sky, a beast of ancient rage, its eyes burning blue and cruel. The boy—her boy—was swallowed by it, gone in one gaping maw as lightning split the clouds.

She screamed.

Then the vision shifted.

Another son. Older, stronger, valiant in black armor. His name hovered at the edge of her thoughts—Ja—Jac—? He soared above the sea astride a dragon of bronze and copper, his hair caught in the wind. Arrows flew from ships below, dozens of them, shrieking death. One struck. Then another. He plummeted like a star from the heavens, arms flailing as he fell through the smoke.

The sea swallowed him.

Rhaenyra choked on the salt in her lungs, even in the dream.

The last came as a whisper.

A boy—small, younger than the others. He laughed as he rode Syrax’s back, too fast, too wild, ignoring her voice calling from the cliffside. Her dragon shrieked and reared—threw him from the saddle in a single violent buck.

He fell like ash on the wind. Silent. Boneless.

And then, a voice—her own, from somewhere far behind her ribs: “You bore them. You lost them. You were their doom.”

Rhaenyra woke gasping, her nightdress plastered to her skin, damp with sweat. The fire had gone low. A chill clung to the stone floors as she swung her legs over the bed, teeth gritted against the soreness that rippled through her abdomen.

She moved slowly, almost limping to the cradle. She reached it with trembling hands.

He was still there.

Silver curls. Deep violet eyes, fluttering beneath closed lids. The rise and fall of his small chest was steady, serene. His roots—yes, a bit darker near the scalp—but Rhaenys had dark hair once, did she not? And so did Laenor. That meant nothing. Nothing.

He had her nose. Her blood. Her fate.

Rhaenyra let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and knelt beside the cradle. Her fingers brushed her son’s brow, tracing the soft curve of it as if to mark him real.

“I will not lose you,” she whispered. “Not to fire. Not to sea. Not to foolishness nor fate.”

She should have woken Laenor. Told him. Let him hold her. But the words curdled in her mouth. If she spoke the visions aloud, they might take root in the world—might give the gods permission to make them true.

No. She would carry this alone.

Her heart still pounded in her chest, thunderous, uneven. She watched her son breathe and silently vowed to remember the dream—the dragon’s maw, the sea’s hunger, Syrax’s rejection—not as omens of defeat, but as warnings.

She was the heir to the Iron Throne. Her line must hold.

And so she pressed her lips to Jacaerys’ brow and murmured, “You will live. You will fly. I swear it.”

But as she rose, aching and sleepless, Rhaenyra could not help but look back once more.

At the roots of his silver hair—where shadow lingered just faintly.

And she wondered… if the gods sent her this dream to keep her on the path—or to warn her she would never leave it.