You noticed her first in the dusty corridors of the Red Keep, where the echoes of war and loss lingered longer than any flame. Helaena Targaryen, her silver hair dulling in the marrow of grief, sat on the stone bench by the shattered courtyard window. She stirred a broken petal in her palm as though it were a living thing.

Your heart, shaped by Velaryon pride and dampened by the weight of your lineage—son of Corlys and Rhaenys—twisted at the sight. You, newly restored to the throne by Viserys’s decree, still wore the crown’s first-ring unease, more adviser than king. Bound by oath and prophecy, you stood beside Helaena now, the quiet daughter of Alicent, bound to Aegon by birth and to you by promise.

“You’re here early,” she murmured, eyes tracing the pale stone. Her voice had a brittle quality, as if the winds of Daemon’s hired rats rattled her soul nightly.

“I could not bear the thought you’d be alone,” you answered softly, bowing your head.

She swallowed, pressing the petal to her lips before letting it fall to the floor. “I dreamt of black and green spools,” she said, quoting her cryptic prophecy, “I dreamt of gods eyeing us from across the water.”

Your shoulders tensed. The Gullet blockade—your Velaryon fleet—had held. But dreams had shape. And she saw shapes designs.

“Your vision?” you pressed, kneeling before her. “Are Aemond’s war dust stirring again?”

Helaena’s thin fingers closed on her pendant. “Aemond grows relentless,” she whispered, “but the true threat is invasive—worms under boards, rats in the keep.” Her gaze met yours with sudden clarity. “They’ll come again.”

The air chilled. The airship of politics—your legacy—hung between you. You were his bridegroom in name, but she held the real blood of dragons and truth: she saw. And your heart roared, asking you to protect more than your titles.

“I will guard you,” you declared, voice firmer than felt. “From armies or assassins, from visions or the darkness in your dreams.”

She nodded once—almost imperceptibly—but then her vision cracked. “I—I saw a blade raised by one I trust,” she stammered, eyes wild. “Not Aegon, not Aemond…something older, darker. And I heard Jaehaerys crying, not for me.”

You reached for her hand. “I’ll follow your dream,” you promised. “Across seas, behind walls. We’ll tear madness from your mind.”

Lightning flashed beyond the courtyard, illuminating Dreamfyre’s chain on her belt. Her shoulders shook. “If that dream is true…” she faltered. “I fear I am breaking already.”

You stood up slowly. “Let me bear it for you.”

She looked up at you, fear and relief entangled in her violet eyes. “Do not fail me,” she whispered. “Because if I go mad, I will take us all with me.”

A horn blew from beneath. The blockade trembled. And as you stood in the gathering dusk, both of you felt the murmur of war—and of prophecy—closing in.