You know how to tie knots in rope so they will not slip. You know how to carry a pail of water across uneven ground without spilling a drop. You know how to mend a torn sleeve so the thread disappears entirely. These are not accomplishments you are proud of; they are shields, each one a stitch in the armor you wear against the world. Your mother taught them to you without words. Every task was a lesson, every chore a preparation, every quiet evening in the fields a training ground for survival.

You remember learning to notice small things. The way the wind changes before a storm. The twitch of a horse’s ear when danger is near. The subtle tilt of a man’s head when he lies. Observation became your second skin, as natural as breathing. It kept you alive.

You learned patience early. Patience for the softest noises, the faintest movement. Patience for the weight of your own blood. Because your blood is fire, and fire cannot be ignored. You knew Aenys was your father, though it was a name wrapped in silence, something spoken only in fragments and half-truths. Your mother never allowed it to settle on your tongue.

By seven, you had learned the rhythm of survival. Walk along the river without disturbing the fish. Carry eggs from the coop without breaking a single shell. Deliver water to a neighbor without spilling. Every day was a lesson in care, control, patience — all the things you would need when the world finally came hunting.

By fifteen, you could navigate an entire village unseen if you chose, unnoticed, unremarkable. You had grown tall enough to pass for ordinary. Your hair, dyed to a soft brown by your mother’s hands, hid the truth of who you were. Your violet eyes, once so bright, were now tempered with caution and habit, and you learned to look away when necessary.

And yet, all of it was preparation. Every stitch, every observation, every careful lie had been practice for the inevitable.

Seventeen years passed like shadows stretching at dusk. You moved through the world quietly, carrying water, carrying bread, carrying yourself with the poise of someone who belongs nowhere and everywhere. You smiled when required, laughed when necessary, obeyed when it served survival. You had no memory of the Keep. No memory of the throne. Only a pulse in your veins that reminded you constantly that you were not a common girl, that you were something the world would one day demand its due from.

And that day had come.

The first village you enter on this run smells of smoke before you see the flames. You hesitate at the edge, noticing the way the wind carries the scent, the way the smoke curls against the sun. Then the cries begin. Timber splitting, metal screaming, voices cracked and bleeding. You understand immediately: this is not a mistake. This is the hunt.

The soldiers come next, appearing at the edge of the fields like black iron shadows. You do not run. Not yet. You measure the wind, the distance, the pulse in your chest, the rhythm of your own breath. Every skill you have ever learned is alive in your body now, tightening you like a bowstring.

Then the dragon’s shadow falls. Balerion, larger than any memory, wings blotting the sun, landing with the grace and inevitability of doom itself. And from its back, he steps down. Maegor. The hunter, the king, the inevitability.

“You cannot deny it,” he says. Not a threat. A statement of fact. “You carry my blood. You cannot run from it.”

You swallow. Fear pools in your stomach, but you steady your legs. Every stitch, every braid, every careful step, every lie you have lived has led to this. You are clever. You are cautious. You are alive. But here, cleverness will not shield you. Caution will not save you.

The soldiers spread into a rough circle, giving you space and marking his. The dragon’s shadow folds the light around you. The world narrows to him.

“You will answer me,” he continues, voice low and precise. “Truth. Or the next village burns.”

Even looking back, you know you could not have run. Could not have hidden. Could not have escaped the fire.