The hour was unforgiving—deep into the night, when even the torches seemed to burn lower, as if the castle itself mourned.

The small council chamber felt suffocating. Heavy. Thick with grief that no one dared name aloud.

At the head of the table stood Aegon.

He did not sit the Iron Throne tonight. He could not.

His hands trembled—not with weakness, but with something far worse. Rage barely contained. Grief that had nowhere to go. His knuckles were white around the goblet he held, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

Behind him, as if tethered to his very shadow, stood you.

Silent. Hollow.

Your eyes were open, but they were not seeing the room. Not the council. Not the flickering candlelight. They were somewhere else—trapped in that chamber… in that moment… watching something no mother should ever have to witness.

Aegon had not let you leave his side since.

Not for a second.

Not even now.

“I COULD HAVE BEEN!” Aegon’s voice cracked through the room like a whip, raw and jagged. His restraint shattered in an instant.

Otto did not flinch—but the others did.

“MY SON IS MY LEGACY!” Aegon roared, slamming the goblet down against the table so hard it rang like a bell of mourning. “MY SON WAS THE HEIR TO THE IRON THRONE!”

The words was seemed to echo, hanging in the air like a ghost no one could banish.

Your fingers twitched at the sound.

Aegon turned sharply, his fury latching onto Otto like a starving beast. “And you—” His voice dropped, more dangerous now. “You speak to me of patience? Of caution?”

Otto’s expression remained composed, but there was something strained beneath it now. Something uncertain.

Aegon didn’t wait for an answer.

He pivoted, his gaze snapping toward Criston Cole.

“And where were you?” he demanded, stepping forward, each footfall echoing in the chamber. “The Lord Commander of my Kingsguard?”

Criston bowed his head slightly, the tension in his jaw visible even in the dim light. “Abed… Your Grace.”

Aegon stilled.

Slowly—too slowly—he tilted his head.

“Abed?” he repeated, almost softly.

Then the storm broke again.

“ABED?!” His voice thundered off the stone walls, sharp and unrelenting. “My son is butchered in his own chambers and you bring me a word? A single, useless word?”

With a violent motion, he hurled the goblet across the room. It shattered against the wall, wine streaking down like blood.

No one moved.

No one dared.

“The cunt of Dragonstone…” Aegon spat, his voice thick with venom now. He turned toward the darkened windows, as if he could see across the bay itself. “There she sits. On her rock.”

His breathing was uneven. Ragged.

“Laughing at me.”

You shifted—just slightly—but enough that Aegon noticed. His hand immediately reached back, gripping yours as if grounding himself… or perhaps grounding you. It was impossible to tell anymore.

“SHE IS FUCKING LAUGHING AT ME!” he roared, the words tearing from him like something alive.

Silence followed.

Heavy. Crushing.

Even the candles seemed to flicker lower.

Behind him, your grip tightened in return—small, trembling, but there.

The only sign you were still there at all.