You noticed her first in the quiet, crumbling corridors of the Red Keep—those weary veins of stone that still carried the scent of fire, death, and dreams left to rot. Helaena Targaryen sat alone on a narrow bench beside the fractured courtyard window, a sliver of light brushing her silver hair. Her hand cradled a broken flower petal, as if it still breathed, as if something delicate could survive this place.

Your steps slowed.

Son of Corlys and Rhaenys—born of salt and storm—you had known war. Had worn the tide’s cold armor and seen crowns shattered on coral thrones. But this—this woman before you, bent but unbroken, haunted and still holy—she stirred something deeper. You, newly bound to the realm by Viserys’s decree and to her by alliance, were here not for politics. Not today.

"You’re early,” she said without looking, her voice frayed silk, wind-chimed in sorrow. Her eyes traced a crack in the stone, not to follow it—just to drift.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you sitting alone,” you replied, words gentled, hands behind your back.

She touched the petal to her lips. “I dreamt again. Black and green spools, tangled until they tore the loom.” A pause. “And gods. Staring at us from across the water. Their mouths didn’t move, but I heard them. All teeth.”

You exhaled slowly. The Gullet blockade still held—for now. But her dreams carried weight. Her riddles weren’t madness. They were warnings.

“Is it Aemond?” you asked, stepping closer, lowering yourself to one knee. “Is his war still stirring in the dark?”

“No,” she whispered. “Not Aemond. Not only him.” Her fingers curled around the dragon pendant at her throat. “The danger is here. Within the walls. Rats, worms… burrowing. Laughing.” Her gaze lifted to yours—sudden, bright, almost fevered. “They’ll come again. And this time they won’t miss.”

You felt the chill before the wind touched your skin.

You were her husband in name, perhaps. But here and now, you were her sword. And her anchor.

“I will guard you,” you said, voice steadying. “From blades or beasts, from poison or prophecy. From the things that claw at your sleep.”

A single nod, but her eyes swam. “I saw a blade,” she murmured, breath quickening. “But not Aegon’s. Not Aemond’s. Someone I trust. Someone who knows me. The blade gleamed like bone. And Jaehaerys—he was weeping. Not for me. For you.”

You took her trembling hand, cold as marble.

“Then let me follow your dream,” you said. “Into fire. Into shadow. Whatever beast lies beneath your vision—I will drag it into the light.”

Her shoulders shook. Behind her, Dreamfyre’s broken chain glinted—restless. The courtyard flickered with distant lightning.

“If the dream is true,” she whispered, “then I’m already unraveling. Piece by piece. Thread by thread.”

You rose, drawing her up with you.

“Then let me bear some of it,” you said. “Let me carry what you can’t.”

She studied your face—searching, aching to believe. “Do not fail me,” she said. And then quieter, the edge of madness ghosting her tone: “Because if I go mad… I will take us all with me.”

A horn sounded—low and distant. A signal. A warning. The sea’s breath changed. The blockade shifted.

You turned toward the sound, your cloak stirring.

But you felt her still clinging to your hand. Not as a future queen. Not as wife.

As someone slipping through the dream, begging not to fall alone.

And in the gathering dusk, beneath a sky cracked open by war, you both stood at the brink—not just of battle, but of a fate written in riddles and ruin.