1.Prologue-Broken Dreams

258 AC, Harrenhal

The Young Princess

Rhaella did not like to travel. Though, her desires mattered little—being princess of the blood was more about duty than anything else.

It was late afternoon when they arrived at the great castle of Harrenhal, puffing like thirsty oxen beneath the sweltering heat.

The air had grown so hot that even the wind felt scalding. For good or ill, Harren’s charred castle provided respite from the merciless summer sun. Rhaella did not know if it was the infamous curse of Harren the Black or the thick stone walls that sucked in all the heat, but she welcomed it regardless.

The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was pleasantly cool and drafty, but Rhaella wished they had given her time to bathe before attending the welcoming dinner.

They called it dinner, but it was more like a feast, with the generous courses piling up on the tables and the wine and mead flowing freely through the cups and gullets of the guests. Only the fools and bards were missing.

“Congratulations, Lady Shella,” Rhaella said, smiling at Lord Whent’s daughter, who was seated beside her.

Shella Whent was Lord Edmund Whent’s only child and heir, a maiden with long limbs and a slender body, half a head taller than her. 

“You flatter me greatly, princess,” was the soft reply. Shella’s face was full of smiles, but they did not reach her eyes. “I did not expect the royal family to grace us with their presence for my little wedding.” 

‘Grandfather is not here for you or your little wedding,’ Rhaella thought. ‘He’s here to cajole your lord father to help him enforce his laws and reforms better.’

And the cajoling was going poorly, judging by Edmund Whent’s stony face that gave away nothing as Aegon V spoke to him with a reserved smile. The lord gave an occasional nod, but to Rhaella, it did not seem like he was agreeing to her grandfather’s words but merely confirming that he had heard. She suspected this would be another fruitless trip. Even the royal banner hanging on the wall beside the black bats of Whent looked no better than an old rag. The crimson dragon faded to pale pink and the black to grey, as if it had not left the wall since the rule of the Conciliator.

Wasted trip or not, they would stay for the wedding that would take place in three days, and the young princess could do nothing but try to find some joy in the festivities.

Yet there was not much joy to be found for House Targaryen. Not in the Riverlands. Not since her father had broken his betrothal to Celia Tully and her mother to the heir of Highgarden. Broken betrothals alone wouldn’t have seen the royal family so unwelcome in the realm. The culprit was her grandfather’s reform, the one that took rights from the lords and gave them to the smallfolk. No lord was eager to be the first to oppose the king, but disgruntled bannermen were slow to hear royal orders, and even slower to obey.

A quarter century since her grandfather sat on the throne, half of it spent on putting out small revolts and petty rebellions. Her uncle Daeron had died in one when she had been five.

The crown was not without its loyal supporters. But in the Riverlands, only the Darrys and the Blackwoods were staunch, and the latter were reluctant and only because Queen Betha was the lord’s sister.

Rhaella studied the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, finding it half-empty and cheerless, much like the face of its lord. This was no welcoming feast, but a reluctant courtesy offered to the royal family out of obligation. The wedding of the heiress of Harrenhal should have been a grand event that would see half the Riverlands in attendance, but no other lords were here—not even the Tullys.

Word must have spread of her grandfather’s visit.

‘The lords were treating the royal family like lepers to be avoided,’ she thought bitterly, and her mood plummeted further. 

Even now, Shella subtly avoided further conversation, stubbornly focusing on the roasted pheasant before her.

The other tittering maidens on her table were the daughters of stewards, castellans, cousins from the cadet branches of Whent and the sisters of Walter Whent—Shella’s groom and distant cousin. Minisa Whent was sitting on Rhaella’s other side, half a head shorter than Shella, but what the gods had taken from her in height, they had given to her chest.  

She avoided Rhaella, too, only nodding politely—doubtlessly because of her betrothal to the Tully’s heir.

The princess never felt so alone at a table full of young maidens. 

The world was cruel.

“I thought the Prince of the Dragonflies and his peasant wife would come,” a maiden with shifty eyes whispered loudly, not bothered by her presence.

“No, he’s the master of laws,” another said, covering her mouth with a powdered hand. “Duncan the Small is keeping peace in King’s Landing while the king is away.”

A plump girl snorted. “Keeping peace? Nobody is attacking the place, and I bet any that try would turn away at the stench. I heard Duncan the Small just spends his time hunting hogs in the kingswood and jousting.”

“Forget about a stubborn thing like Prince Duncan. He’s a fool who traded a crown for a peasant. He could have taken Jenny as a paramour, and nobody would care, but he had to wed her—”

Rhaella listened on with half an ear. It was the usual gossip that she would hear amongst young maidens, but a bit more unrestrained than the one passing through the Red Keep. Exasperated and a little bit vexed, she turned to her pigeon pie—the cook here was just nearly as good as Tommer, the master of the kitchens in the Red Keep.

“Look at Prince Aerys,” one of the Whent cousins said in a mock whisper, pointing towards Rhaella’s brother.

He was all smiles, drinking along with the other royal squires and pages of importance. But none were as close to Aerys as his bosom friends. 

To her brother’s left was Tywin Lannister, the oldest of the three friends. The heir to Casterly Rock was lean but harsh-faced, his face forever etched in a stony glare, cold as if joy had long left him. To his right was her first cousin by Aunt Rhaelle, a burly boy with the limbs of a bear and none of the slenderness of House Targaryen. Steffon Baratheon was the youngest of the three friends, even younger than Rhaella, but he inched higher than Tywin with ease. Unlike the gloomy lion, he had laughing blue eyes and a joyful face to match them.

Neither of them was half as handsome as Aerys. At three and ten, her brother’s charming smile and gallant manners had made many maidens swoon in court. 

A voice called her from the lower end of the table. “What is your brother like, princess?” It was Alyssa Tarrick, her eyes star-struck as she gazed at Aerys.

‘Likely to bed you for fun and discard you once he’s bored.’ 

“He loves songs and masked balls,” Rhaella said instead, her eyes flicking at the Terrick maiden. Alyssa was a petite thing with dreamy chestnut eyes and an innocent face, perhaps no older than five and ten. “He will not refuse you should you ask him for a dance during the wedding feast.”

‘He would not refuse bedding you, either.’

As the eldest son of the Crown Prince, everyone knew Aerys would be king one day. Her brother knew it too, eagerly using that to charm many a maiden to his bed. And by the gods, too many girls had been more than willing. 

Even now, this poor maiden doubtlessly fancied herself a queen in the making. But Terrick were a young, fledgling house of stewards, and a steward’s daughter would never become a queen.

Seeing Rhaella was unwilling to speak further, the other maidens once again kept giggling and gossiping, glancing at her brother and his friends. Most admiring eyes fell on her brother, but quite a few studied Tywin and Steffon. While the two were not as handsome, they were heirs to grand names and grander castles, bound to rule over a kingdom in time.

But the maidens were all bound to be disappointed. Steffon was already betrothed to Cassana Estermont, and Tywin was a stubborn thing who would rather die than take a mistress or entertain a match below his station.

Her brother was not bound by such things—and even if he were, Rhaella suspected it would not halt his philandering ways. Aerys had taken over a dozen maidens to bed last year alone—merchant’s daughters, sisters and nieces of knights, pretty handmaids from the Red Keep and even a young septa. So long as the girl was pretty enough, he was willing to bed her. Of course, he knew some restraint, never going after married women…

As a princess, Rhaella did not have that luxury. She did not have any say in the matter, either.

‘You have to be mindful of your duty, daughter mine,’ Shaera had always said. ‘A maiden’s virtue and heart must belong to her husband and husband alone, which is twice as true for a princess.’

Rhaella’s lips curled. There was wisdom in those words, but it was borrowed from the Seven-Pointed Star. And they rang hollow from her mother’s lips, since she had defied her duty and broken her Tyrell betrothal to wed her brother. The broken promises had not given rise to complaints, but the displeasure of the slighted lords could be felt to this day, especially in the Riverlands and the Reach. 

If her parents had kept their betrothals, her grandfather would have never struggled to rein in the lords. If her parents had kept to their betrothals, she would have never been born. But it was a cursed thing to be born in the House of the Dragon, and Rhaella was twice as cursed as the fruit of two broken promises.

The welcoming dinner quickly came to an end, and both Lord Whent and her royal grandfather swiftly left the table. Before she knew it, the hall emptied swifter than a broken vase.

Rhaella reluctantly let go of her honeyed peach slices as Ser Rolland Darklyn announced his approach with a loud clearing of his throat. The man had been named after his late uncle, a kingsguard by the same name, and the youngest to win the white cloak. But unlike his uncle, who had perished an hour later—struck by lightning—this Ser Rolland had been in the kingsguard without mishap for over two decades.

Alyssa Terrick conspicuously lingered behind as the rest of the guests dispersed. 

“Princess,” she leaned in to whisper, “is it true that Jenny brought a woodswitch with her to court?”

“Yes,” Rhaella said coolly. “Though I wouldn’t call her a woodswitch. The old woman doesn’t even remember her name, and is a short, ungainly creature that loves speaking in riddles and probably has her wits scrambled from drinking too many herbal concoctions.”

Alyssa Terrick shivered, clasping her hands for a silent prayer.

“My mother always said woodswitches are not to be underestimated,” she said, warily glancing behind her back. “Here, in Harrenhal, it is said that Alys Rivers had even enchanted Aemond the Kinslayer and his great dragon with a potion. Then, she ruled Harrenhal for two decades, and even the Dragonbane’s men did not dare to contest her right over the castle.”

“Woodswitch?” Rhaella shook her head. “It’s far more likely it was the doing of Harren’s ghost. I heard my grandmother say he still haunts these halls, cursing all those who dare dwell in his home.”

“There are no ghosts in Harrenhal,” Alyssa said quickly. Too quickly, and her face was paler than before. “Just the howling of winds through the charred ruins of the big towers, though, and the shrieks can be terrifying if your quarters are high enough.”

Suddenly, a low yet shrill noise echoed in the distance.

Alyssa trembled, and her lips quivered. 

Rhaella’s hair stood on end. Then, she murmured a silent prayer in her heart. Ghosts and wights could never harm the pious. Curse or no curse, ghosts or not, Harrenhal had seen the demise of more Houses in less than three centuries than any other castle had seen in three millennia.

But no guest had suffered a calamity here, and the royal family had come many times to Harrenhal for feasts and balls and tourneys and had all left without mishaps. 

The noise went away as quickly as it came. Rhaella spied the servants cleaning up the tables. They didn’t seem worried. It had to be the wind.

“Excuse me, Lady Alyssa,” Rhaella said quickly. “It’s getting late. I shall retire for the night.”

“Err—Princess.” Alyssa smiled sheepishly. “I was meant to lead you to your quarters.”

No wonder the maiden stayed behind. She had probably been unlucky enough to be chosen for the task, but a steward’s daughter was of no matter, regardless of whether she warmed up to the royal family. 

Rhaella let out a long sigh. “Go on, then. Lead me.”

The girl slowly started walking towards one of the galleries, into the hallway leading to one of the towers.

“Did the woodswitch come with the king?” the maiden asked lightly.

“Yes,” Rhaella said. “But if you’re looking for a love potion for a man you fancy, your efforts will be in vain. I haven’t seen the dwarf woman do anything but slumber and speak cryptically. She spends most of her days reading the clouds and the sky for omens.”

The woodswitch would have never been allowed to court if Aunt Jenny hadn’t brought her along. Jenny claimed her a Child of the Forest… but Rhaella wasn’t blind. She had seen dwarves before; she had even seen albinos with their red eyes and white, colourless hair, and the woodswitch was both.

“There’s no such thing,” Alyssa hastily said, though her smile grew stiff. “I… I just wanted to hear about my future. I heard a woodswitch can read your destiny on your palms.” 

‘Could have fooled me,’ Rhaella wanted to say. ‘Were you not speaking of witches and love potions and princes earlier?’

But then again, she did not know if the dwarf crone could do it. Not the potions, but peer into the future. It wasn’t just Jenny who seemed to heed her cryptic words, but even her parents and Uncle Duncan…

Could the dwarf woman truly wield some real power? Even if it was a smidgen, if she could glimpse into the future…

Once the thought settled in her mind, it kept wriggling like some restless worm.

“We can go, I suppose,” said Rhaella. “She should be in the godswood. She loves lingering among the trees and sleeping at the roots of a weirwood.”

“It’s getting dark outside, Princess,” Ser Rolland Darklyn rasped from behind her. “It would be wise to retire for the night.”

“Can enemies perhaps sneak through Harrenhal’s monstrous walls?”

“No, princess.”

“Do you think Lord Whent and his household do us harm after granting us guest right?” she pressed. The knight merely inclined his head in defeat. “Alyssa, lead us to the godswood. The swifter we go, the quicker we can rest.”

The last vestiges of daylight were melting away as the crimson clouds to the west slowly turned pale pink.

The entrance to the godswood was just outside the Great Hall and guarded by a single fat sentry, who hastily stood at attention at the sight of Rhaella. Or perhaps it was Ser Rolland and his white cloak who inspired such caution and respect.

Bowing, he offered a lit oil lantern to the steward’s daughter.

“Thank you, Maric,” she said as she stepped into the grove.

Harrenhal’s godswood was massive, with looming old trees—easily bigger than the entirety of the Red Keep.

“There’s a small stream meandering through the trees,” Alyssa said. “Watch your step lest you slip.”

Surely enough, the soft chirping of water echoed through the dark.

With each step, Alyssa’s lantern swayed, and the shadows of the trees and bushes spun and twisted as if dancing. Rhaella’s heart leapt in her throat as the shades and shapes turned into demonic faces. A pair of yellow flames burned in the darkness above the ground. Then another, and another, and she was facing a sea of flames.

A squeak made Rhaella jump in fright, and the air was filled with the flapping of wings.

“It’s just bats, princess,” Ser Rolland’s amused voice came from her side. His chest was shaking with mirth, the traitor. “We can come here again tomorrow when the bats are slumbering.”

Even Alyssa had stopped, turning around to look at her, eyes full of concern.

Rhaella took a deep breath to calm the frantic hammering of her heart before steeling herself and waved her to continue. A group of flying rats would not frighten her. They couldn’t be scary if a steward’s daughter was not afraid.

Soon, they crossed the stream, and Rhaella’s insides turned to ice. In the midst of a clearing was a pale, twisted thing, towering over the other trees with its crimson leaves and an angry face carved in the bark.

There was something to it. Something fleeting that she felt nowhere else, something that Rhaella could not put into words. Something ethereal that made the hairs on her neck stand on end. She wanted to turn around and flee then, but then, she glanced at the steward’s daughter. The brown-haired maiden was treading forward with confident steps, undaunted by the sight.

Gritting her teeth, Rhaella followed.

“These thirteen slashes are from the Rogue Prince.” Alyssa pointed at the crimson lines beneath the carved face. “It’s said that Prince Daemon made a new cut for each day he waited for Aemond Targaryen to come and fight him.” 

Then, she looked around carefully. “But I don’t see the woodswitch.”

“I’m here,” a croaky voice echoed in the dark. 

A small figure stirred from the roots of the trees, and the ruddy light of the lantern soon revealed her. Jenny’s woodswitch was a shrivelled old thing that barely reached Rhaella’s waist, with a wrinkled face and a tangle of lifeless white hair that reached to her feet. 

“The old gods stir again,” she whispered. “They won’t let me sleep.”

Rhaella thought it was the heavy woollen cloak and the warm summer nights instead.

“Could you… could you read my future?”

A pair of red eyes settled on Alyssa and frowned.

“I see a fiery end for you, little one,” she rasped, shaking her head. “You might find happiness chasing your dreams… for a short while. But dreams are as dangerous as the shadows on the wall. They can kill.”

“Don’t you need my blood to tell my future, though?” the maiden asked, though her voice quivered. “Or perhaps a strand of my hair—”

“I only see what the old gods allow me and no more,” the dwarf woman said, cackling as she leaned on a gnarled cane of black wood. “Blood… you can give your blood to the heart tree if you wish, but it will do you no good.”

“A bunch of hogwash.” Alyssa scoffed. “I should never have come here. You were right, princess. Let’s go.”

The princess did not move. Her purple eyes met crimson, and she couldn’t look away. The dwarf woman was so small and thin, but she looked taller than Ser Duncan, then.

“I dreamed of you, princess.” The witch’s smile revealed a mouthful of twisted yellow teeth. “Oh, I dream of you and your brood aplenty.”

Rhaella’s breath caught in her throat. 

“Another prince that was promised nonsense?” she asked, tone measured.

“Oh, the prince will come from your line, that much is true,” the witch rasped.

Gathering her courage, Rhaella voiced the question she dreaded the most. “What is my future, then?”

Silence stretched as the dwarf woman shuffled uncomfortably, looking at her feet.

“I dreamt… many things.” Her voice grew hoarser. “The seasons keep turning, and the long summer draws near…”

“Then, can you tell me?” Rhaella pressed. “What will become of me?”

The woodswitch raised her head, and her eyes were now clear but full of pity.

“Knowing will do you no good, princess.”

The certainty in the response took Rhaella aback. But… she had come this far.

Returning with nothing but a scare from the bats would feel pathetic, like a frightened little girl.

“I want to know,” Rhaella said loudly as if to silence the fear and doubt swelling in her mind. 

“The fire and the storm will never touch you, little princess.” The words came slowly, but they were thick with sorrow. “But they will take everything you love. They will burn and crush everything you cherish until all you have left is a cradle of ghosts and misery. Countless souls will envy you, but yours will be a life of silent suffering and cruel loss.”

“I…” What could Rhaella say to this? Cryptic nonsense? Riddles? Why did she feel like a thousand beetles were crawling down her back? “Can… can fate be changed?”

“No fate is truly etched in stone,” was the raspy reply. “But shifting destiny? It’s harder than catching smoke.”

Rhaella did not remember when she left the godswood. She vaguely recalled getting the sleepy handmaid to draw her a hot bath and slipping into the feathered bed.

Three days had passed since. Today, Shella Whent had married Walter in Harrenhal’s sept. It was a short ceremony, held in the half-ruined sept by a sleepy septon with a monotone voice that made her eyelids droop.

The feast in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths was in full swing, the bards were singing loudly, and even her mother and father showed a rare smile.

Rhaella felt tired, though. Ever since that night, she had dreamed of fierce fires that would consume the forest and even the wolves and the birds inside. She dreamed of storms and lightning, thunderclaps so mighty and numerous they would make castles shake and winds fierce enough to rip out old oaken trees from the ground. Sometimes, she saw hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast littered with corpses and silver-haired babies smashed against the red walls. It was a blurry dream, but she remembered that the raging storm never really reached her, yet she always grew weaker by the end.

Even hugging her dragon egg to sleep no longer calmed her mind.

“Nightmare again?” asked Alyssa from her side, her voice laced with guilt and irritation. “You were right, princess—we shouldn’t have gone to see that witch.”

As the bride, Shella was now at the main table along with her husband, and Alyssa had taken a seat next to Rhaella.

“Just some confusing yet harmless riddles,” the princess said hoarsely as she slowly sipped from the cup of Dornish red. “I told you the witch’s wits were muddled.”

‘And now my wits feel scrambled too.’

Alyssa hesitated for a long moment. “Perhaps you should get Maester Rolen to give you something for dreamless sleep. He’s very good with medicine and herbs.”

“Perhaps I will.” But it would wait until tomorrow. Today, she was too tired to climb all the way to the maester’s cell up the distant Tower of Ghosts. Unwilling to send a servant who would report to her mother, too. 

Her eyes roamed around the table, surrounded by faces full of cheer and laughter. A portion of the hall was cleared for a dance, and Aerys was already spinning some knight’s daughter around to the tune of ‘Fair Maids of Summer’.

Alyssa also saw it and hastily stood up to join the revelry, eager to catch the prince’s eye for another dance once the song ended. Her stomach lurched, then.

As the sole unwed princess, suitors would soon be lining up to ask her for a dance. Many of the now-drunken guests were echoing along the bard, turning the feast into a jarring cacophony that made her tired head pulse. 

Surely enough, a tall, burly figure approached Rhaella. She craned her neck to look up at Steffon’s smiling eyes.

“Cousin,” he said with a polite nod. “Would you do me the honour of a dance?”

It was a safe bet. For all of his lust, Aerys did not forget her—he had doubtlessly asked their cousin to cover for her, lest she be swarmed with worthless servants and ‘nobodies’.

With Steffon betrothed to an Estermont, dancing with him would be appropriate for Rhaella. As the heir of Storm’s End and her cousin, he could accompany her for the whole ceremony, and nobody would say a word.

Then, there was Tywin, who hovered by Steffon’s shoulder, his pale green eyes always studying each face, as if seeking a weakness. But when they landed on her, she caught a glimpse of interest.

It made the blood in her veins turn to ice.

“I’m not feeling well.” Rhaella gave them a forced smile as she massaged her temples. “The singing is too loud. I think—I think I need to take a breath of fresh air and some quiet.”

“Let me escort you along, then,” Steffon said, always chivalrous, even if he had yet to be knighted. “Perhaps it’s the racket of the feast.”

Rhaella felt the knot in her belly loosen and looped her hand through Steffon’s offered elbow as Tywin returned to his table.

The quiet of the night greeted them outside, as the sound of feasting and singing was now a dim echo behind the hall’s doors. A pleasantly cool gust caressed her face, chasing away her previous drowsiness.

Ser Rolland lingered nearby, too, though today, he had taken a flask of wine and looked more at ease than usual.

“Thank you, cousin,” Rhaella murmured. “I…”

She saw the sky flash again and shook. The thunderclap never came.

“Did you see that?” she asked.

“See what?” her cousin asked, scratching his head.

“The lightning?”

“Are you well? The skies are clear, cousin,” Steffon asked, his voice now laden with concern. “Should I bring you to the maester?”

Rhaella’s eyes sought the night sky and saw it full of stars—not a single cloud was in sight. Was she… was she dreaming again?

She pinched her forearm and winced at the jolt of pain. No, this was not a dream.

What had she seen, then?

Dread pooled in her belly. 

Countless souls will envy you, but yours will be a life of silent suffering and cruel loss.

“I need to go to the godswood,” Rhaella whispered.

She needed to know. Were those nightmares real? Or was the woodswitch messing with her mind? 

There were so many questions in her muddled mind, and the only one who could answer was the dwarf woman.

Steffon quirked a brow. “I did not take you for someone interested in the Old Gods.”

“The air in the grove is fresher,” Rhaella said, though the excuse sounded weak even in her own ears. 

He ruffled his raven hair and sighed. “Do you want me to accompany you, or…?”

“I’ll be fine on my own.” Rhaella pulled away her hand and squeezed the muscled forearm. “Thank you, Steffon. Go return to the merriment lest you miss the bedding. I’ll be back soon.”

Or perhaps not all. She had stayed long enough to hear all the talk and ceremonies, and leaving so early would not be too disrespectful.

As Steffon slipped back into the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, Rhaella turned to the godswood, walking through the stone archway that separated it from the rest of the fortress. Tonight, there was no guard. 

Ser Rolland cleared his throat loudly. “Should I bring a lantern, Princess?”

“The starry sky is bright, and the waxing moon will light my way,” Rhaella said, motioning to the sky.

But there was something cold to the moonlight, something eerie as it dyed the oaks and birches in pale silver. It was enough to see the trodden path beneath the trees, so the princess steeled her heart and stepped forward.

The scent of pine and oak and earth inside gave Rhaella strength, and her footsteps grew bolder. This time, the weirwood did not frighten her. She had dreamed of scarier things.

She found the dwarf woman huddled between the heart tree’s roots again.

“Princess?” she rasped, cracking open a crimson eye lazily.

“How can fate be changed?” Rhaella requested—nay, demanded.

The woods witch shook herself awake, and, leaning on her black, gnarly cane, hobbled back to her stunted feet. 

“To change your fate, you must first know it,” she said, tapping her cane against the weirwood bark.

“Ser Rolland, guard us from afar.”.

“My task is to protect you, not follow your orders,” came the gruff reply. “And I’m sworn to protect your secrets.”

“Not from the king,” she said. ‘Never from the king.’ Never from her father either, for Rolland was more loyal to Jaehaerys than to Aegon. “Please, Ser.”

The knight eventually relented, stepping away while sipping on his flask of wine. Rhaella’s eyes did not leave the white-cloaked figure until it halted, leaning on a twisted tree over thirty yards away.

Rhaella turned to face the woodswitch, who was watching with a hint of boredom. 

“How can I see my fate?”

“Oh, it’s hard.” The dwarf glanced about, face twisted with unease. “Peering into the future might make you half mad.”

“Like you?” 

She laughed, a terrible sound like the croaking of frogs. “Precisely. Peering into the past is far easier. Seeing what has happened comes cheap, but to glimpse into what might happen….”

There was something dangerous in the witch’s voice, and a hint of unsaid warning. Rhaella’s mouth turned dry. But she had come too far to turn away now.

“What, then?” Rhaella’s voice cracked. “There has to be a way.”

The hairy mole on the dwarf’s right cheek twitched as if frustrated. “Oh, there is a way. There’s always a way. I know of one, but do you dare take the step?”

What had her grandfather said once?

‘Dragons, just like magic, can be a boon and a curse.’

“Yes,” Rhaella said, praying whatever sorcery was happening to be a boon. 

The dwarf woman muttered something before disappearing into the roots. Was there a burrow below?

The minutes stretched, and just when Rhaella thought the woodswitch had fled, she crawled out, puffing like a horse after a race.

“There,” she said with a wheeze, offering up a crude wooden bowl with her stubby hands. From within, a pale liquid glinted like liquid bone under the moonlight, cut with veins of glistening crimson. “Drink. But know this—once you drink, there will be no turning back.”

“This will let me see the future?” Rhaella asked warily, not yet accepting the bowl.

“Your blood will show you the future.” The woodswitch gave her a toothless smile. “This will merely unlock the gate in your mind and wed you to the roots. But once the mind’s gate is open, it can never truly be sealed shut again…”

“How can you be certain I possess such… gifts?”

The woodswitch merely shrugged. “If not you with your lineage, then who else would?”

Great. She shouldn’t have come here at all. She now understood why her parents had often talked about her words with such fervour. The promise of the future tugged at her heartstrings, tempting her than the sweetest of fruits. This desire was her own, and this time, her mother and father were not here to tell her no.

A voice that sounded much like the late Grand Maester Kaeth whispered that those who dabbled in magic never met a good end. 

Hands shaky, Rhaella took the bowl and lifted it to her lips. 

The first gulp tasted bitter, the second was better, and the third was sweet. The tingle spread through her belly and jolted across her limbs. It tasted like pepper, then cinnamon, and the peach slices and the finest honeyed mead of Beesbury. It smelled like Summerhall’s fruit garden and then like the brimstone mixing in Dragonstone’s salty breeze. 

When Rhaella opened her eyes, the world was blurry, as if she were looking through a fountain’s flower water.

She was on a shore, with a storm brewing around her.

A twisted black dragon loomed across the water, watching with a snarl on its face.

Roses spread across a great river, turning the whole shore into a thorny maze.

Then, she saw the waves twist and twirl, as the sea itself tried to drown a garden. 

She saw a great hammer strike down a dragon—

“I want to see more,” Rhaella said, irritation swelling in her throat.

The world came to a halt.

Then, she felt a lurch behind her navel and a pressure behind her eyes.

Everything twisted and churned, and when Rhaella blinked, she was in the middle of a cavernous smithy. The clanging of steel was distant from her ears as if she were in another room. 

“But it will be too sharp, my lord,” a smith said. “We should at least blunt the edges.”

“There’s no need,” was the cool reply. Rhaella struggled to see the figure but couldn’t. “A king should never sit easy.”

Then, she was in the small council room of the Red Keep.

A plump man with Valyrian features impatiently tapped his fingers as he looked around the council.

“Thrones are won with swords, not quills,” he said sternly, looking at his councillors with irritation and reluctance. 

Then, she blinked and was in the midst of a sprawling army routed by a great inferno as three dragons spewed torrents of black, red, and white. 

The Field of Fire, Rhaella realised.

“I must see the future,” she said, clutching her head. “Not the past.”

None of the fleeing warriors looked her way, yet they avoided her as if she were a rock. The screams of the dying, the neighing of frightened horses and the yells of fright had her shrink into herself as she pressed her hands to her ears. 

She was back in Harrenhal then, atop the Kingspyre, standing next to a maiden with a woollen green gown and a swollen belly. Her gaze was set above the Gods Eye, where the sky was aflame, and two great dragons battled for dominance.

Vhagar and Caraxes.

“I want to see the future,” Rhaella whispered, voice raw. “Please.”

She almost jumped when the woman craned her neck and met her eyes with a knowing smile.

“Let me help you then,” she said, her words lingering in the air. Her brow scrunched up in concentration. 

The world shifted, and a faint voice reached Rhaella’s ears. “Remember, of all the powers in the world, fire and blood reign supreme.”

The princess saw it then, her wedding to Aerys. Summerhall burst into flames… Rhaella soon became queen…

The visions kept changing more slowly this time, lasting longer. Her joy and duty turned to sorrow and loss; she saw too many beds of blood, too many dead babes in the crib, and soon, her grown son was smashed by a big hammer for his own folly.

And her screams, gods, her own screams would not stop echoing in her mind.

By the end, Aerys was sitting on the Iron Throne, looking so unkempt and terrible that the only thing separating him from some beggar on Driftmark was the crown and the robe of purple silk. 

“Burn them, BURN THEM ALL!” 

Someone was screaming in the distance. It was a heart-wrenching scream, filled with sorrow and despair. It sounded like her, but older.

Rhaella opened her eyes to a dull ache in her skull. Her mouth was dry, and her arms and legs felt heavy, slow to move. There was a faint warmth in her belly where she’d held the dragon egg through the night. It spread through her bit by bit, pushing back the fog in her head and the weight in her limbs.

“You fell asleep in the Godswood last night,” a soft voice came from the door. “Ser Rolland brought you back later.”

Alyssa. She was smiling widely like a cat who had caught a songbird, though her gait was a bit stiff. The steward’s daughter did not meet her gaze today, as if she were ashamed.

Rhaella sighed as realisation sank in. Her brother had conquered yet another ‘fair maiden’. 

“Why are you here?”

“It’s nearly noon,” Alyssa said, clearing her throat. “Princess Shaera asked me to fetch you for a meeting.”

“What meeting?”

“I…” the steward’s daughter fidgeted as if afraid Rhaella would lash out. “I… you and your brother will be betrothed and wed soon. Your parents announced it in the Hall this morning.”

It felt like her world was crashing down as the throbbing in her head grew more painful. The rooms of the room were closing in, as if trying to suffocate her. Rhaella wanted to scream. She wanted to run. But she suspected neither would work.

They had not even told her, yet the whole of Harrenhal already knew. Few ladies and even fewer princesses could decide on their husbands, but at least Rhaella could have been afforded the barest courtesy. They could have told her beforehand, or at least given her the illusion of choice. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it felt like a stab through her heart, knowing what she knew now.

Letting out a slow, ragged breath, Rhaella folded her trembling hands. Clasped together, they almost felt steady. Tantrums would not work here. They never did.

“Give me an hour to prepare,” she said instead. “My hair is a mess, and I need a hot bath. See it arranged and let my family know I’ll join them for the luncheon.”

Rhaella sagged back on her bed, forcing her eyes closed. It was a mistake. The ceiling was replaced by the maddened visage of her brother as he shrieked with fury and ordered people burned alive. Her screams coming from the royal apartments at night terrified her beyond words.

Gods, what had happened to her brother?

Once upon a time, Rhaella would have happily wed Aerys. Marrying a brother was the norm in the House of the Dragon, and her brother was kind and more handsome than most. 

But now… now the mere idea had her chest tighten. She would have a son, too. A silver prince… who would lose his mind chasing empty prophecies and cryptic promises, driving his own kin to death and ruin. The same empty prophecies that would see Rhaella wedded to Aerys.

She contemplated escape. But where?

A brittle laugh tore from her lips. Where could a princess of the blood escape?

Success would see her trade one cage for another at best.

She needed to… call off the engagement. A scoff escaped her lips. Breaking it off was nigh impossible after such a public announcement. Even her grandfather wouldn’t agree—it would either ruin her good name or her brother’s reputation or both, and the House of the Dragon could suffer no more scandals…

Even if Rhaella somehow succeeded, her father would eventually be king. There would be no breaking off any engagements then.

“They would wed me and Aerys because the Prince that was promised would come from our line,” she murmured to herself. “Would it have been so hard to just… marry for alliances and have our children wed instead?”

What if she eloped?

No, she knew how that story ended. Rhaella had dreamed of marrying Ser Bonifer Hasty once. Not a single soul agreed to the match—Ser Bonifer had no titles, a single village to his name, a paltry estate with scarcely fifty swords to call upon. 

“A princess cannot live in a hovel,” her grandmother had said, tone kind but firm. “Countless knights are more suitable than Bonifer Hasty, and let us not even speak of the highlords. Don’t dwell on him merely because he put a crown of flowers on your head once.”

But what if her brother was the one to elope? What if he got a lord’s daughter pregnant? A lord of import? Would that lord ever miss the chance to turn his daughter queen?

But Aerys was careful, choosing his paramours and flings with prudence. The daughters of lords were a drop in the sea compared to the daughters of knights and lowborn handmaids. Grandfather had even arranged for a servant to slip Moon Tea into the drinks of Aerys’s lovers. “The House of the Dragon needs no repeat with the Blackfyres. Once is enough.”

Setting Aerys up with a suitable lady was possible. Possible but hard, requiring levels of subterfuge and scheming Rhaella had never attempted before. Even to pull that off… Rhaella would need to delay. Delay the wedding that would come when her moonblood came, within half a year. Could she… maybe try to guide her brother in the right direction?

No, Aerys rarely listened to anyone but himself. Only their father and grandfather could command him, and once they were gone…

But shifting destiny? It’s harder than catching smoke.

Her head pulsed with pain.

For a moment, for a fleeting heartbeat, Rhaella thought the visions were a fruit of her imagination. That her brother would never turn cruel and terrible and mad with paranoia…

But deep down, Rhaella knew it was real. She knew it in her heart. The House of the Dragon was capable of great and terrible things in equal measure, and madness ran in their blood. 

That certainty was odd and new, just like the vague feeling lingering in her mind.

Was this a sign from the gods?

Steeling herself, Rhaella shrugged the covers and summoned the handmaids to help her dress. She chose a black gown—the colour of mourning. Rhaella would rather be dead or a widow than marry her brother again.  

“Do you need your hair done in a braid, Princess?”

“Don’t bother for today,” she said softly. “Just tie it with the hairpin.”

Her parents would expect her in the audience chamber soon. Or perhaps the private luncheon in a small feasting room that the royal family had secured.

Rhaella did not wish to see her parents or her grandparents now. She had even less wish to meet her brother, as young as he was now, unburdened by what would be. But her wishes and wants mattered little. Her gaze paused on the egg left on the bed.

Its scales were gold and silver, with whorls of red, a pretty thing that previously belonged to her unlamented grand uncle, Aerion Brightflame. It had long turned to stone on the inside and would never hatch, Rhaella knew. In fact, the next attempt to hatch it and six more eggs would bring a great tragedy to her kin.

She swallowed as she picked up the egg, hugging it to her chest. 

An unassuming cloak of green linen was thrown over her shoulder, and Rhaella hastily stepped out of her room, only to curse inwardly at Ser Rolland’s stout figure blocking the way.

“Your royal parents expect you for luncheon,” he said, voice stony. “And you’re dressed either as someone about to sneak somewhere or attend a funeral.”

The suspicion in his words was damning, especially as his sharp eyes settled on her hands.

“I…” Rhaella clutched the dragon egg with all her strength to force herself not to tremble. “I want to pray, Ser Rolland.”

The knight’s lips quirked. 

“With the egg, princess?”  

She gave the kingsguard a smile, a genuine one this time. “It brings me comfort.” 

After a long moment of silence, Ser Rolland inclined his head, stepping out of the way.

“Then,” he said, “will you pray at the godswood or the sept today?”

How many times had she prayed to the Father and the Mother and the Crone in her visions? How many ceremonies had she attended at the Great Sept of Baelor with the High Septon and seen nothing but long-winded song-chants, prayers, and incense that only made you dizzy?

“The godswood,” Rhaella said firmly.

With two visits to a heart tree, her world has been… shattered. Perhaps the third time would be the charm. The old gods were not false, she knew.

They might not be friendly or merciful, but they were real.

Perhaps… perhaps, if she sacrificed enough, they would hear her plea again. Or show her a way out. 

What had the sorceress said in the vision?

Of all the powers in the world, fire and blood reign supreme.

She testily stepped around the knight, and he no longer moved to bar her path but shadowed behind her. The godswood was her last chance to delay. Ser Rolland was far faster, bigger, and stronger than a princess of two and ten, not a man who could be cajoled with sweet promises or words. Piety to the gods could not be denied, but after the godswood, Rhaella would have to face the unavoidable—the feast hall to meet her family. To tell her she was to be wed to her brother.

The road to the heart tree felt dreadfully short for once. Her belly grumbled with protest, demanding sustenance. Rhaella ignored it.

She felt it clearer this time. The air felt alive, and the godswood was brighter in her eyes this time, and not because it was day. Even the sky looked a deeper blue than before, and the clouds looked somehow better, more fluffy and detailed. The biggest change was the heart tree. 

That fleeting feeling from before had magnified a hundredfold, and she felt like the weirwood was a long-lost friend, eagerly awaiting their reunion. There was a faint pull to the south, too. A fleeting whisper in the wind, a sense of longing. It went beyond the Gods Eye straight towards the Isle of Faces. 

Even the bats didn’t look so scary, and the murder of ravens nestled along the crimson five-pronged leaves stopped cawing and looked at her with beady eyes. 

Every single one of them moved in synchrony.  

Rhaella’s hair stood at an end again. She had the feeling that something, someone was watching her. And it was not the ravens. 

Schooling her face, she pushed the discomfort to the back of her mind. Then, she placed the egg between the roots and knelt before the carved face with her hands clasped.

She prayed, then. She prayed for a way out. She prayed for mercy, for the gods’ favour, for everything and for nothing.

Nobody answered.

Rhaella felt her heart sink.

Did she do it wrong?

The minutes stretched, and the silence of the godswood grew eerie as she realised her time was dwindling.

Of all the powers in the world, fire and blood reign supreme.

Fire and blood. The words of House Targaryen. She fixed her gaze on the egg. What were dragons but fire in the blood?

How many times had the kings since the Dance tried to hatch them? Every single king bar Baelor had made an attempt, and they had all failed. And her grandfather’s failure would be the worst of all.

The truth was ugly. The fire in their veins had died out, and the royal blood no longer ran hot with magic. 

Rhaella was a Targaryen, yes, but half a Blackwood as well, and a different sort of magic ran through the line of Blackwood. Something older and far colder. 

Then… she knew what to do. 

Perhaps it was an epiphany. A part of her knew it was folly. Perhaps it was just desperation and anger or a mix of both. She grabbed the pin holding her hair tied and pulled it out. It was two parts—one the shape of a dragon’s wings, and the other was the gilded needle.

Somehow, she knew what to do. Rhaella Targaryen gritted her teeth and stabbed the sharp needlepoint through her palm, wrenching it out with a pained hiss. 

She heard Ser Rolland’s alarmed cry but ignored it as her bloodied hand touched the egg.

“O, gods of forest and stone,” she murmured in High Valyrian. “Show me a way out.”

The world paused for a heartbeat, and even the wind halted. Then… nothing happened. Rhaella’s hope died, then, and something inside her broke. 

A pair of hands pulled her away from the egg, and even the bloodied pin was wrenched away from her fingers.

“Princess, what are you doing?” the knight all but roared, voice trembling from frustration. There was fright in his dark eyes, too.

“Struggling in vain,” Rhaella sobbed out, collapsing in Ser Rolland’s hands. 

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She felt like the greatest fool in the Seven Kingdoms. It was all in vain. A princess was not allowed to choose.

If she had lowered her head, the princess would have seen that the blood-sprayed egg was sinking in the weirwood roots like a stone in the quicksand. 

“Damn the gods.” The angry, spiteful words slipped from her lips as something cracked in the distance. “Curse the prophecies and all the seers and the Prince Who Was Promised. The Others can take him for all I care—”

Strength drained from her body like water from a sieve.

‘YOU!’ A furious bellow in her head as she felt darkness take her. ‘Foolish child! What have you done?’

???

The Betrayed Lord Commander

Jon Snow could only look at Bowen Marsh’s tearful face looming above him. 

“For the Watch.”

The knife sank into his belly, and Jon fell to his knees. He found the hilt and wrenched it free.

“Ghost,” he whispered.  

Pain slowly took hold of all of his senses. The third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, and Jon gave out a pained grunt as the air left his shoulders, and he fell face-first into the snow.

More knives came, but Jon only felt the cold. 

A sobbing voice came, full of anger, far in the distance.

‘Curse the prophecies and all the seers and the Prince Who Was Promised. The Others can take him for all I care—’

Numbness receded, replaced by fiery pain. His belly burned, and his back was on fire as if someone was pouring molten iron over his aching wounds. A pained scream escaped bubbled out of his chest, but it froze in his throat. 

Jon’s lungs started sucking in the air greedily, but the air itself was frosted. Snow kept falling and falling from above.

He blinked his eyes, ignoring the cold. The sky was prettier than anything he had seen. It was night, yet the stars were covered by a colourful curtain of lights too bright to be a rainbow.

The burning pain gradually receded to a level where his shaky wheezes were replaced by uneasy breathing. To a level that he no longer felt like life was bleeding out of his body. But now, the cold was setting in. It was a terrible cold, far fiercer than anything else Jon had felt.

The naked part of his face was already covered by a layer of hoarfrost, and each gasp made him feel like he was breathing ice, not air. His throat felt half-frozen already. 

Relief washed over him as his eyes found Longclaw, the wolf-headed pommel barely sticking out from a layer of snow.

Ignoring the dull ache in his torso, Jon forced his stiff body to stand up and gasped. 

Castle Black was gone, and so were the wildlings, the queen’s men, and his treacherous brothers. 

How he was here, he did not know; he did not even stop to wonder how Longclaw, which he had left in the Lord Commander’s Solar, was suddenly nearby. 

All he cared about was that he was alive. 

The place he found himself in looked like nothing Jon had seen— a big clearing shaped like a basin, filled to the brim with crystalline shards of ice the size of a standing cave bear. And in each shard rested a being equally terrible and beautiful. 

Tall, gaunt, with hair like glacial ice and skin as pale as milk, so thin and transparent that Jon could see the shiny bones beneath. 

The Others. The Cold Shadows, or the Cold Gods, as wildlings called them.

Then, he started trembling with the cold. The chill in the air was terrible. Jon Snow knew the cold; he knew winter and snow, but this was far harsher, far fiercer than anything he had endured before. Worse than the Frostfangs, worse than staying watch atop the Wall on a windy night. Even his gloved hands started to stiffen with ice. 

But what chilled him the most was the frozen shards that stretched in every direction.

The Others all remained there, frozen and unmoving as if the ice had taken them. But Jon could feel… they were not truly dead. Why would the masters of ice and death fear a little frost?

Were they slumbering instead?

The realisation sent him reeling.

The ice was merely a protection, not a cage or a tomb, and the Cold Ones were ready to awaken at the slightest chance. 

Was he… was he in the legendary Heart of Winter?

Author’s Endnote: Here we go with another one. I hope you all enjoy it. Full book mode.