Chapter 2: Prologue 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It wasn't long after we'd arrived before I managed to ditch my guards and go running through the tent megalopolis, mostly passing by the other Vale houses as I went, but there were many houses I couldn't name at all from their sigils. Closer to the castle itself, I could make out some more familiar sigils, mostly from the Crownlands. Darklyn, Hayford, Rykker, Rosby, and Stokeworth were the ones I could immediately recognize. There were also the narrow sea houses— House Sunglass, as well as the Valyrian Houses Celtigar and Velaryon.

I wandered astray of these people, this mass gathering of purple-eyed, odd-haired strangers and I ran off for the castle walls. It wasn't long till my luck finally ran out, as granduncle Robar finally found me, and he picked me off my feet by the scruff of my doublet.

"Where are you going now, Luke?" the amused man asked, a hint of condescension on his breath.

"Finding new people," I said, mustering the most child-like tone I could, and I then thought, "I wonder if my other great-grandfather is here," and Robar held me in his strong hands as he began walking.

"His Grace isn't here, he's barely left his bed since Prince Baelon died, and I doubt that anyone in King's Landing would want to let the King travel and risk civil war should he die en route," Robar explained, dragging me along toward the castle gates, "and if you must, I'll at least watch you; father should at least shout less if I say I was watching you."

Reluctantly, I relaxed and he set me down as we reached the castle gates, two guards approaching us from our left side.

"Names?" one of them said, "we can't just be lettin' anyone in right now."

Robar nodded, and explained, "Ser Robar Royce, and this is my grand-nephew, Luke."

I found myself feeling uncomfortable, but I waved at them with a smile on my face. One of the guards smiled and waved back to me. Looking at the colors of our doublets, the two men nodded and allowed us entrance to the main castle. The courtyard itself could have made Times Square blush enviously, and towers that flanked it were quite reasonably sized compared to New York's modern skyscrapers. I'd not known builders of any era prior to my own who'd been capable of such great strong construction, but then again, I reminded myself, there was a first time for everything.

"Lead the way then, little one. I'll be following behind," he grumbled.

I nodded as I began to explore around us. The fort, in all its grandeur, was like a private city unto itself, with craftsmen of all kinds occupying small regions in their vendors, working away the hours till nightfall. While normally, the castle was only half-used, Lord Strong had been granted thousands of gold dragons to prepare the entirety of the stronghold. Within the high walls was where the Great Houses and their households stayed. I could see the golden rose of the Tyrells, the golden lion of the Lannisters, the silver trout of the Tullys, the blackened stag of the Baratheons, and the grey direwolf of the Starks.

The banner of the House Targaryen wasn't there, oddly lacking in presence, though when I gave it further thought, I supposed they'd probably be in one of Harrenhal's towers. Late in the afternoon, we returned to the tents, where my great-grandfather was pacing about, visibly exasperated

"We're not allowed to stay within the castle, as despite the fact that I represent House Arryn, you all do not. I could stay in there by myself, but that's not exactly a wise decision," he told me, "we should've had Arnold represent the Vale and claim us as his Household with official positions. That would have allowed us to better approach the Greater Houses. Instead, I, who represent House Arryn, am forced to 'camp out' in the muddy fields with every other Lord of Westeros . . . the others must be laughing at that fact right now."

I certainly am, old man. I sunk myself into a cushion. Ser Arnold, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, had been my great-grandfather's squire, many, many years ago, and his was a diminutive purpose, serving out his days as Yorbert's little Arryn. He had also been a secondary plan, in the case of Lady Jeyne suddenly growing sick and dying, or . . . in the advent that she'd lost her usefulness, perhaps.

"M'Lord, Prince Viserys is currently refusing to settle his own Household into Harrenhal unless House Velaryon is also permitted to settle, which isn't likely," Desmond, my great-grandfather's steward, said, "so, perhaps it makes it less likely, as His Grace's chosen candidate, no matter how unofficial, is also sleeping outside the castle in a tent with his family."

That seemed not to entirely satisfy Yorbert, but he at least ceased his ramblings. The rest of the evening was relatively quiet, and that night, sleep came quickly, but it was different. My dream was normal, or so it seemed, beginning, as I would, playing outside of Runestone throwing rocks into the oceanside.

But just then, it shifted.

The sky grew dark, black clouds covering every inch of the sun, and the only light came from pallid green lightning that shot from nowhere in the stratosphere. I tried to run, but a great wind blew in from the sea and pushed me to the ground as the water crashed against the cliffs above with a thundering march. The viridescent flashes pulsed brighter and brighter till a great roar cracked open the welkin and there came a dragon of bronze hell, descending from the burning heavens with murder on his breath, blowing rust tinted fire from its maw across my home. The keep melted like a candlestick and the screams of those trapped inside ripped through my ears as I grasped my head and cried.

I woke up screaming and sobbing.

Robar came to me within moments, boring towards me with Lamentation in his hand before he saw me shaking and sniffling, alone upon my bed. He groaned, haggard and hoarse from his lack of sleep, and then sheathed his sword lazily. With a sigh, he sat down next to me and put a hand on my shoulder.

"I used to suffer from nightmares as well, when I was a boy. Worry not, for they aren't real. No matter how it seems, they cannot hurt you," he said flatly, though whether this was because he was tired or if he disliked my company, I couldn't say.

I shook my head, wanting to argue with him about the dreams of House Targaryen, but I realized that I had nothing to speak of. There was nothing I could say that would make him believe me— he'd believe a man's claim about Greensight, but not my own about 'Valyrian prophetic bullshit,' as I'd heard him occasionally say.

I sat there curled into the fetal position for what felt like hours. This position was established firmly when Yorbert had me break my fast with him, and dressed me in bright Royce colors again, acting as though he was my loving grandfather. I truly wished that I could've believed him, but he'd already failed me in that role. When the meal was done, I snuck away again, out beyond most watchful eyes to explore except for Robar, of course, the brute hounding me close behind. Likely, he would drag me back when it was time for my lessons. There were plenty of mummers and merchants, all looking for coin or locking bonds with others. I passed by many Lords of the rows, lost in deep conversation, even passing by after them two more signing an agreement of betrothal. The evening was uninteresting, and sleep came to me once more like an old friend, dreaming without dragons.

Each day, I searched a different place. Lords of the Vale, Westerlands, Reach, and especially the Riverlands congregated together. In fact, for the river kingdom, it seemed that every one of their figures were present, as I saw more Riverlords than any other in the field. Though it wasn't to remain so for long, every passing night drew more and more banners, and new delegations arrived alongside more merchants and their brokers bearing strong goods. It was at a fence selling Myrish Lace where I met her.

"Ser Harrold, it's the wrong color!" a young voice called. Pausing for a moment of curiosity, I soon saw a beautiful girl. She looked my age, or thereabout, and she had the most bewitching locks of curled silver-gold, unblemished skin, and deep violet eyes. I took a breath of fresh air and approached carefully, the girl still arguing against the white-clad knight besides her.

Drawing as little attention as I could, I walked past the girl and saw the different wares the Myrish marchant had in stock. With a smile, I pulled out my coin-purse, and in passable High Valyrian, requested a far-eye. I'd never before been so thankful for the Maester's indulgence of my thirst for knowledge, but I certainly was now. The merchant chuckled and reached into his stall, pulling from it the telescope.

After a moment, I held up my hand, and he grabbed a second one before I laid most of my gold dragons on the wood banner-top. The man laughed and handed over to me both far-eyes. I held both of them to my eyes, like a disconnected pair of binoculars, and innocently, I laughed as I spun around.

"You want one?" I asked, barely noticing I was still speaking High Valyrian, "you can have it, I only need one."

Hesitantly, she stepped forward and put her hand over mine, carefully lifting the far-eye from my outstretched hand.

"Thank you," she quickly said, looking back at the knight behind her. The man nodded.

"You at least remembered to thank him, Princess," he said in the common tongue. At the mention of her title, I made a show of being surprised, before I bowed my head respectfully as best I could remember, assuring myself proper of roughly equal standing.

"Great, now he's bowing. Stop saying who I am, Ser Harrold! At least I've got a real gift from someone," she muttered. With the second drop of his name, it grew clear who the man truly was. Ser Harrold Westerling, future Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. I remembered him vaguely from the story, he was a good and honorable man, and, I believed, the uncle to Lord Rollam Westerling, whose daughter was betrothed to Jason Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock.

Dear god, keeping track of these families was gonna be harder than winning at Mirai Nikki with an iPhone.

"Do you not like it, Your Grace?" I posed the question innocently enough, "I can find you a gift more to your liking, if you'd like."

She shook her head and muttered, "no, no . . . thank you for the gift."

She looked at me then gazed back at Ser Harrold. Moments of consideration passed by till I realized she probably wanted my name. As I turned my head, I caught wind of Robar walking towards me, a slew of items slung over his shoulder.

"I'm Luk-Lucerys," I said, stuttering momentarily. I ignored Robar's disconcerting annoyance, and continued, "I'm your cousin, Your Grace."

She looked at me, confused, then anger emerged, though confusion remained dominant. Robar muttered a curse and spoke, "yea, Luke is Prince Daemon's son, though the man showed no interest in meeting the boy, let alone claiming him."

He ruffled my hair and shook me, Ser Harrold's eyebrows rose in amusement.

"I heard a small tale about that," he said, "but I hear many tales of our dear Prince Daemon. You're bound to, when you live in the same castle."

I nodded, my face reddening at the mention of my father. The Princess smiled and walked toward me, emulating my bow earlier.

"Nice meeting you," she said, "I'm Rhaenyra, but you knew that."

I smiled.

"Isn't Lucerys a Velaryon name?" she asked, the suddenness of the thought raising my own left brow. I sighed.

"Yes," Rober replied, "my niece thought to give him that name because Prince Daemon left before his birth and never returned. I've never understood it."

I felt to run water down my face, as though a stick of dynamite had been set off right in front of me, though at least I managed to grant another half-hearted nod at my uncle's unfeeling retelling. Then, Rhaenyra reached out and grasped my hand.

"Then come play!" she begged of me, "Laenor and Laena can't play anymore since Auntie Rhaenys took them away. Please?" Even as a child myself, those puppy-eyes were still my weakness. I relented.

"Okay, I'll play . . . as long as we can call each other by our nicknames," I responded. Rhaenyra's eyes lit up instantly.

"Of course! You can tell me anything you wish, if you'll play with me. You can even keep using that odd word!" she said, almost bizarrely excited. How lonely do you get in the Red Keep? I wondered to myself.

She seized my hand and dragged me to an open clearing. I've got to be more careful with my language, even though she doesn't care . . .

We spent the day running around, playing together across the fields, speaking in impressions of others I told her were simply funny voices, and jumping over the many odd rocks that dotted the plains, and we were sure not to run through the tents either. Robar even left, thank whoever put me here. He only returned to the field later, when it was time to collect me, near sundown. At the end of the day, she hugged me tight.

"Promise me we'll do this again," she said, looking at me, desperate. I nodded my head, lips mere inches from hers. A huge smile creased across her face and she kissed my cheek, holding me tight before she parted. I stood there staring as she went, feeling warm inside. Ser Harrold followed behind her, and he stared back at me and smiled, lightly bowing his head. Robar took me by the shoulder and turned me back towards the Royce tent. He was such a two-faced man, boorish and stern. We arrived back as the sun disappeared, and Yorbert held Desmond in deep conversation.

"What is Creighton doing in those meetings?" I heard him say, and Desmond stared off for a moment.

"I know not, my lord," he replied, "All I can say is that he's been meeting often with the Lord Waynwood, and Waynwood's often hosted the Lords Corbray and Ruthermont, in company with Ser Jaremy Moore, Ser Gerold Templeton, and both heads of House Shett. I fear the worst should Lord Redfort turn his back on us."

Yorbert snorted and sighed deeply. He banged his fist upon the table as we walked in, and he gave us both a smoldering eye as I snatched a piece of fruit and sat upon a cushion.

"We'll have with the Graftons to counteract the Shetts, as distasteful as it is to ally with those usurpers," Yorbert spat, "the Shetts have never truly forgiven me for Perra's death, so it is likely they will oppose any further overtures. Send a raven to Gunthor, tell him to ensure the other houses still stand by us. If we lose even the Belmores of the Coldwaters, we may lose everything. And have him send a raven to Ser Gerold; appeal to his ambition, that mayhaps we might look into raiding his house to that of a Lordly one if, say, he happens to tell us what is occurring in those meetings."

Desmond tipped his head and said nothing as he hurried off to find the Maester, who had the ravens to Runestone.

Over the next few weeks, I'd meet with Rhaenyra – or as I'd begun to refer to her, Rhae – every couple days. I spent the days playing games and wandering the different stands with her, though it could not be every day. We had lessons at different times. At least I managed to lose my accent speaking High Valyrian, or at least it merely sounded roughly similar to Rhaenyra's.

Though, eventually, my luck ran out, and on one day, I was free of my lessons while Rhae still had her own. For that day, I wandered around the different regions where merchants had set up. They had come from all over the Free Cities, and more were rumoured to be coming: Rhaenyra had told me that the sons of our grandaunt Saera were to be here for the Council.

Yet, despite my searching, there weren't many interesting things to buy. Seems I'd already scouted away all the interesting things in the days before. One Lysene merchant had some perfumes, Tyroshi were selling dyes, Myrmen selling glass of all kinds, and other oddities that held no interest for me. The Free Cities were clearly not halfwits, since all manner of goods flowed through the camp.

Another day, as we were walking, Robar suddenly grabbed me and pulled me behind one of the stalls. Though I protested, he covered my mouth and slowly peeked his head around the stall. Carefully, I followed; when I saw what Robar was staring at, my stomach sank into fear.

Standing before one of the Lysene booths was a tall young man, silver-haired down to his shoulders, and as he spoke to a merchant, the broker shook in fear of him. Robar marched me away before anyone saw, and I gulped hard. That was the first time I'd ever seen the man— my father, Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince . . . the walk back to the tent was swift and silent thereafter. I'd recalled seeing the shadow of a dragon overhead earlier in the day, but I'd thought of it as being Laena out on Vhagar – as Rhae informed me she often was – not Daemon's arrival.

I made mainly attempts at laying low after that, I wanted to disappear. I made sure to keep a watchful eye on the lookout, as a fortnight later, the Volantenes arrived. It was the largest part of any of the Free Cities, and most certainly the claimants. More merchants than I could count, along with . . . okay, was that a fucking elephant? Ah, that's right, one of Saera's sons had brought along the damned thing.

The day after the Volantene delegation arrived, Rhae and I were off exploring with Robar and Ser Harrold dutifully putting up with each other along the way. All to keep their charges safe, what strong-willed men. It hadn't taken me long to realize the two didn't get along. They masked it well. I raced through the stalls, not truly caring, Rhae right behind me, and we looked at the many things the new merchants had brought. Spices, exotic plants, odd weapons, many kinds of mummers, wines and foods from the far east, and many a short book of humor. Volantis were determined that they bore fruitful merchant contacts.

I couldn't blame them. The Triarchy was brand new at this time, but it was already hell for Volantene shipping. High customs duties for Volantene ships passing through put a damper on their enthusiasm. Transporting this large of a party at all must've cost a great fortune.

Rhae purchased several luxury clothes – or more accurately, gave them base measurements – for both herself and me. They were to be tailored to the Old Valyrian style, for now, and in the future. She made Ser Harrold carry every conceivable thing, I truly felt for him. I searched around for books next. Reading was still my greatest passion, although the small library in Runestone had little to offer.

I finally ran across another book stall, though I prayed it was something I would make better use of. Robar stood behind me as I walked towards it and caught the attention of the rather-bored-looking clerk.

"You . . . want book, yes?" he rasped out in a broken form of the Common Tongue, adding, "I sell book, many book."

I groaned. I certainly knew the pain of having to deal with plurals working differently between languages. The man bore platinum-white hair and deep blue eyes, however, so I assumed he was here with my Volantene cousin. With a gamble based on his appearance, I let him get a solid look at my lilac eyes, and then I spoke to him in High Valyrian.

"What books do you possess?" I asked. The man grew both terrified and relieved, a combination I didn't think to be possible.

He took a deep breath and replied, in the same tongue, "accented, but well-spoken," and with a nod, he said "I can name what I have here; nothing exceptionally rare, but I do have a collection of Valyrian tomes that were left in Volantene manses. Elsewhere as well."

I smiled happily, and gave an enthusiastic affirmation. The man retrieved from his cloak a parchment of listing and he read off his wares, pausing for explanation when I would ask.

An hour later, a group of servants left for the Royce's tent. Perhaps they were slaves. I didn't ask, I assumed he wasn't stupid enough to bring slaves to Westeros. They had been carrying a collection of books, the two most important being Maelyx Volantaeris' memoirs of his wars against the Rhoynar in the Second Spice War, and Jaenara Balaerys' writings on her three year journey flying over Sothoryos. That continent . . . scared me. At the very least, books on the subject couldn't hurt me. I hoped.

Rhae arrived during the man's listing. She herself had also purchased many books, most of them, she said, missing from the collections of Valyrian tales that House Targaryen had taken during the flight to Dragonstone. Some of them were religious texts, some were myths, others simple stories from an older time. My heart shouted at me once more, now for another reason besides loneliness.

Apparently, Lady Aemma read to her daughter every night, and Rhae had memorized what books were missing. Once everything was finally carried back to the tents, I spent the rest of the day with Rhae playing in the field again.

Over the coming days, we met our Essosi cousin and harassed them with questions. I felt bad, though to my surprise, they answered them in stride and were sure to take our questions as best they could. The Volantene one gave us each a purse of coins from one of the Free Cities, and then gave me yet another Valyrian book, this one part of a Valyrian history collection. Sadly, only a few volumes had survived the Doom.

Seeing all the books, Robar groaned beneath his breath. He certainly wasn't enjoying himself and I couldn't entirely blame him. I'd emptied most of our funds on books, and even gotten more out of Rhae when Robar refused. My head only rose when I heard him growl slowly a few words.

"More damned books . . . that's all he cares about. Most of our money here had gone toward stupid words on wasteful pages. I should burn them all just to see to it the brat doesn't buy more."

It was but a moment before his face paled when he saw my face. Rhae's eyes went wide as saucers, and she stepped back from him, looking between us repeatedly. She then looked up at Ser Harrold, at which point, her face hardened. Her eyes returned to me with determination. Oh dear, I don't like that look, what's she planning!?

Before I could ask a single thing, our group separated. Reluctantly, I returned back to the Royce tent and I stacked the newest books in the trunk I'd set aside for them. Robar gave a deep sigh at me and hung his head, stewing in his anger. I gave him a nod as I swiped a pear and sank myself into a cushion, nervous.

"Where's Lord Yorbert?" I asked, my head falling back into the cushion. Robar sat down at the table in the center of the tent, though it was really more of a pavilion. He rested his head in his hands.

"Meeting with the other lords, Luke," he said, glaring at me, "do not play with Her Grace anymore. She may be sweet, but she routinely comes back muddy. Ser Harrold is . . ."

I crossed my arms, angered by him.

"Ser Harrold is a good knight, he protects the Lady Rhae!" I objected, "and he seems to genuinely like her."

Robar clenched his fist and rested his fingers at the bridge of his nose, "no. Ser Harrold is ruled by her. He obeys her as though he were her maid. It's not right, Luke. She should obey him, not the other way around."

My eyes flared and my mind screeched just like a jet engine. I jumped up and walked toward him, and with pure rage, I stared him dead in the eyes.

"The Andal has no right to command the Dragon," I spat, "nor does the Blood of the First Men."

Wait a minute . . . I think that might've been racist, I thought for a moment.

Before I could think of an answer, a sudden sharp rocked across my face as I fell off my balance and tumbled to the ground. My ears rang like hell, and I tasted a light sense of iron across my tongue. The right side of my mouth felt torn, and I felt that my teeth somewhat ripped the skin against. I sat up and stared defiantly back at him, hatred coursing through me as I held my hand to my face.

"Mind your tongue, boy," he barked down, "you may be Rhea's son, but it is only by technicality that she is father's heiress. Nonetheless, you are expected to inherit that lineage after her. Your place is to become Lord Royce. 'The Dragon' will have no place amongst us. Don't be so foolish," and he took a sarcastic view of me, "mayhaps you can marry Lorra, to tie that branch of the family back in."

"I'm no Stone!" I screamed, "I already have a name! My name is Lucerys Targaryen, and you can't take it away from me!"

I never did hear Robar's response. The tent flaps opened and both of us turned towards them. A small gasp ran out as my eyes saw those familiar violet eyes. Rhae, holding onto another person's arm, stood there at the entrance.

Silver-white hair reached down to his shoulders. Pale lilac eyes adorned his face, and his lips were twisted into definitive loathing. I shook. Prince Daemon. Rhae had told him about me. I would've spoken had I not realized his eyes were trained on Robar instead of me.

"Royce," he said tersely, cold gaze steady, "how intriguing that it took nearly a moon to discover the boy's presence. And only through my lovely niece running to me about your threats of burning books."

His face relaxed for a moment as he ruffled Rhaenyra's hair.

Not sure if that's creepy or sweet . . . gonna go with creepy.

Robar's face had blanched more severely than I'd ever seen. He was eyeing where his sword rested against the table, weighing his odds of reaching it before the Dark Sister could disembowel him.

"When were you to inform me of his being here?" the callous prince leered.

Robar sweat profusely from his forehead and he struggled to answer.

"We- we were going to tell you, of cour-" he began.

"-Tell me, when!?" the Prince bellowed, "when the Council begins to debate, and you raise his claim to gain concessions for your support? Don't think I don't know of Yorbert's pathetic game. You brought him here . . . to threaten us."

"Y-Your Grace, please-" he began, but he clearly had never met an angered Targaryen before.In a moment, Rhae was shoved behind with a yelp and Dark Sister was bared openly, its rigid point just barely touching the dirt.

"'Please' what, Ser?" he snarled, "allow you to use my own blood as leverage against his rightful family? To advance nothing more than your own greed?"

A tense moment of silence grew, Robar's face hardening into a serious scowl. Rhaenyra tugged on Daemon's sleeve, and he glared down at her. With a cursory smirk, he looked back at the man.

"I would cut you down right where you stand, but I don't wish to taint the Dark Sister with craven blood," and he then tipped his head toward me. Rhae came to me and offered her lovely embrace once more.

"Lucerys, is your face alright?" she asked quietly, and I nodded, feeling my anger drain. She smiled brightly at me. I was beginning to relax till more swords were drawn. Staring at the tent flap, there stood Yorbert now, Lamentation in his hand.

"Prince Daemon," he said calmly, "we were not expecting you."

Daemon offered a mere glance back to them. "Nor was I expecting to see my blood for the first time this way. After you refused to send him to King's Landing to present to my grandfather-" he said, his voice slowly growing louder with each word.

My heart skipped a beat, and I couldn't help but interrupt, "what?"

I looked at the old man with a sense of utter betrayal. Daemon looked at me with a thing resembling pity. Was he even capable of that?

"You didn't even tell him the truth. That is all I need to see from you," the Prince growled, and he took a step to me, though Yorbert raised Lamentation in his way.

"Leave, Your 'Grace,'" Yorbert snarled, fury caged in his eyes, "you'll not take him. He's my great-grandson. He will inherit Runestone, one day, after all. He's needed there. If you try, well . . . you don't have a dragon here, do you?"

His men behind him looked at one another, as Yorbert glared at Daemon, daring him to try.

"And leave him to be struck again by that pig?" Rhaenyra screamed, pointing off towards an enraged Robar, "you're not grandfather, grandfather never let anyone touch me, he would never let anyone hurt Luke, either!"

Daemon raised an eyebrow, and the child glared at Robar, continuing to yell, "his blood is of the dragon, and hurting him is hurting all of us dragons."

She pronounced dragon wrong, but her points stood tall, at the very least. Robar himself swallowed hard, hatred on his breath and hell in his eyes. Daemon stood bemused, head cocked to the side, a smile almost present.

"Rhaenyra, come," Daemon said, and reluctantly, she nodded, though she hugged me once more and then parted, returning to Daemon's side. Crouching down, he hoisted her up into his right arm and then took a look at me once more. Was that . . . regret? I'd never expected to see that on his face. Even now, I was unsure how to feel at seeing him Rhae so fatherly. I suppose he thought my face was a lost one, lost from him, and lost from its rightful house. Maybe he thought I was simply a boy caught in the wrong place, someone who knew nothing yet, someone moldable. Or, perhaps, he was simply under the conception that I truly unfit for this place. Whatever it was, he couldn't know for sure, he couldn't truly know me.

"Very well," the Prince spoke, "but rest assured, my grandfather will hear of this before the night is over. Pray now that he forgives you. I will not."

As he walked past Yorbert, he spoke one final time, ". . . just because you have the steel of one does not mean that you are one. You are no dragon. Never forget that, old man."

And with that, the Targaryens marched into the night, fading away into darkness. Rhae waved goodbye to me and her face fell heavy with sadness. I waved back. The very moment they had left sight, Yorbert glared at Robar.

"Luke is not to leave the pavilion again. He will be kept here, under strict guard. I'll not give Daemon any opportunity to take him!" he growled. Robar bristled and with clenched hands, he accepted. The old man looked down at me.

I looked him straight on, "he did want me," I said, trembling from anger, "you lied . . . you lied!!"" I screamed, hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Yorbert ignored me and walked on. None spoke for the rest of the night, the events bearing down heavily upon us all, more so than anything the pressures of the Council had imposed.

Notes:

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