The chamber was dimly lit, the flickering glow of candlelight casting long, wavering shadows against the stone walls. {{user}} sat at her desk, her fingers tightening around the quill as she scanned the parchment before her. The ink blurred before her eyes, the words blending together into an indistinct mass. Another demand from the lords of the realm, another list of names to consider, another decision that weighed upon her like lead.

Daemon was not here. He had left days ago, sent on a mission of diplomacy and war—an effort to solidify their allies before it was too late. He had not wished to leave her side, but they both knew there was no choice. Yet, in his absence, the silence of Dragonstone had become suffocating. The keep felt hollow without his presence, without the quiet reassurance of his voice, the warmth of his hand upon hers.

Her sons were safe—for now. She had just tucked Lucerys and Joffrey into bed, brushing her fingers through their dark curls, pressing soft kisses to their brows. They were still children, and yet the weight of their future was already upon them. Lucerys, especially. She had seen the way he carried himself lately, how his shoulders stiffened whenever the court spoke of the Greens, of Driftmark, of war.

Her hands trembled as she set the quill aside. The war had not begun, but it loomed ever closer, an inevitability she could not escape. The Green Council had stolen what was hers, what was her son’s by right. And if it came to war, there would be no turning back.

A sharp breath. A tightening in her chest. A feeling she could not name.

The castle was quiet, save for the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. The candles flickered. A draft crept beneath the door.

Then, the faintest creak of hinges.

She looked up.

Jacaerys stood in the doorway, broad-shouldered yet hesitant, his features softened by the dim light. His expression unreadable.

He said only one word.

“Mother.”