They were all so sure war would make monsters of them.

But when Gwayne looked at his niece, he didn’t see a monster. He saw a girl in riding leathers, fire in her blood, and a dragon whose breath could turn castles to dust.

He saw his sister’s daughter—the child he’d held when she was small enough to wrap her entire hand around one of his fingers. The child he used to lift onto his shoulders during Oldtown’s harvest feasts, when the world had been gentler.

Now, {{user}} stood at the edge of camp, wind tearing at her cloak, the steel of her leathers catching the dying light. Her dragon curled behind her like a living stormcloud, smoke steaming from its nostrils, half-alert.

She hadn’t spoken to him since dawn, when the final orders were given. She’d been quiet since her twin, Daeron, readied Tessarion. And Gwayne had followed her like a shadow all day, unsure whether he was meant to protect her or simply say goodbye.

“She’s not ready,” he had told Ser Hobert that morning. “She’s sixteen. She’s clever, yes—but she is not meant for this.”

Hobert had only given him a look. “Neither was you, once.”

Gwayne watched her run gloved fingers along the edge of her saddle, tightening the leather, checking the reins. Ritual, perhaps. A distraction. Or resolve.

“You don’t have to do this,” Gwayne said finally.

She didn’t turn. “You’ve said that three times already.”

“And I’ll say it a fourth. You’re your mother’s daughter, but you’re still—”

“Still what ?” She faced him at last. Her eyes were not Alicent’s softness or Viserys’s weariness—they were something else entirely. “Still too young to fight ?”

His mouth tightened. “Still someone I love. Still my family. Still a child in some ways, even if you hate the sound of it.”

“I have a dragon,” she said. “And Daeron does too. Will you try to keep him back, as well ?”

No. He didn’t need to say it aloud.

Gwayne only stared, chest tight with something. Fear, maybe. Or pride.

May the gods have mercy on us, he thought. For we’ve taught our daughters to burn.