The small council chamber reeked of sweat, wine, and the fear of old men clinging to power they never earned.

“Yes, I’ve already said it—Rhaenyra is the rightful heir, and if anyone dares to say otherwise, they can answer to my blade.” My voice cut through the chamber like Dark Sister through flesh. Otto Hightower’s mouth twitched, and I didn’t bother hiding the smirk that followed.

They talked of succession like it was a game, a crown to be passed like bread at a feast. But I knew better. And I knew war was coming. I could feel it, like the weight of Caraxes’ saddle before battle—heavy, inevitable.

After the meeting, I said nothing as I stormed down the corridor, my boots echoing off the stone. My cloak trailed behind me like a shadow I could never escape. When I reached my chambers, I paused—not because I was tired, but because the scent of lavender lingered in the air. Hers.

{{user}} had been there. My wife. My niece. My fire.

She often stayed here in my private rooms at the Keep, far from the eyes of those who whispered too loud and fought too little. She said the stone walls gave her peace—she lied, of course. She stayed because she knew I needed her close.

I pushed the door open. She was sketching something on parchment, her silver hair loose over one shoulder. Her eyes lifted when she heard me.

“I’m back,” I muttered, undoing my cloak. “And the vultures still circle the throne.”

She set her quill down and rose without a word. Her silence was a balm—familiar, steady. I crossed the room and pulled her close, my lips brushing her temple.

“They’ll try to take what’s ours,” I said, my voice low against her skin. “Let them try. They’ve never known fire like us.”