Chapter Text
King's Landing, the once magnificent capital of the Seven Kingdoms, stood in the shadow of destruction. The city had fallen into chaos as the armies of House Lannister descended upon it. The banners of lions flying high gave false hope to the people within its walls, as the Lannisters had ridden into the city under the guise of loyalty to the Iron Throne. Yet the moment the gates were opened, King’s Landing was not saved. It was damned.
Civilians cried out in terror as gold-cloaked guards tried in vain to maintain order. Lannister soldiers swept through the streets, pillaging, murdering, and raping with impunity. The Red Keep loomed above the smoldering chaos, once a symbol of Targaryen power and now the last refuge for the remnants of House Targaryen.
Elia Martell of Dorne had already felt the shadow of doom creeping upon her. She had heard the sounds of steel clashing, of men shouting and dying, and of the enemy tearing down the gates of the city. Rumors swirled in the streets, whispers carried on the wind, and soon, Elia knew what she had dreaded—Tywin Lannister’s forces were not here as allies. They had come to end her family, to extinguish the last embers of Targaryen rule.
She stood by the window of her chambers, her breath shallow, her skin pale beneath the dusky glow of the setting sun. Her children, Rhaenys and Aegon, played in the room behind her, unaware of the storm of steel and blood raging beyond the walls of the Keep. Rhaenys, her firstborn, sang softly to her younger brother, a lullaby Elia’s mother had once sung to her in the heat of Dorne’s deserts. The words floated over her like a ghost, haunting her, wrapping her in memories of a safer time.
Elia’s hands trembled as she looked down into the chaos below, watching Lannister men butcher their way through the gates. She turned away from the window, fighting the rising bile in her throat. Her body was weak, her spirit weaker still from years of illness and heartbreak, but she was not afraid for herself. She would face her end with whatever strength was left in her. It was her children’s fate that twisted her heart in anguish.
They're coming," Elia whispered, her voice cracking with fear. She knelt before her daughter, gripping her by the shoulders. "Rhaenys, listen to me. You must be brave. Do you understand?"
Rhaenys shook her head, her lips quivering. "Where is Father? Why isn’t he here? Where is he, Mother?"
Elia’s heart broke at the question. Rhaegar was gone, and soon, they would be, too. But her daughter—her beautiful, innocent Rhaenys—still had a chance.
“There’s no time to explain,” Elia said, her voice urgent. “We’re going to play a game, do you understand? A game of hide and seek. You must go, Rhaenys. Go now, and do not look back. You remember the secret passageways I showed you?”
Rhaenys nodded, her sobs stifled as she tried to be brave, just as her mother had asked. "But I don’t want to leave you."
"You must!" Elia snapped, before softening her tone, smoothing her daughter’s dark hair. "Go now, my love. Hide. Run and do not stop until you are far away from here. I will find you. I promise."
With a final kiss on Rhaenys’s forehead, Elia watched her daughter disappear through the hidden passageway in the back of the royal apartments. Her steps echoed faintly as she fled into the bowels of the castle.
Elia turned back to Aegon, her arms cradling him tightly. Tears flowed freely now, though she made no sound. She would not give Tywin Lannister or his beasts the satisfaction of seeing her terror. Her son gurgled in her arms, his innocent eyes looking up at her, unaware of the doom that awaited them.
The door burst open with a crash of iron and steel. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, stood in the doorway, his hulking frame filling the room like a nightmare made flesh. Behind him was Amory Lorch, his sword already slick with blood.
Elia’s heart seized in terror, but she stood tall, even as her legs threatened to buckle beneath her. "In the name of the king, I demand you leave."
Gregor’s only response was a guttural growl as he stepped forward, his massive hands reaching for the boy in her arms. Aegon’s cries filled the chamber, high and desperate, as the Mountain ripped the infant from Elia’s grasp.
“No!” Elia’s voice broke, but Gregor did not flinch. He held the child as though he were a mere doll, and without hesitation, he smashed the boy’s head against the stone wall with a sickening crack. Blood and brain matter spattered across the floor.
Elia screamed, collapsing to her knees, her hands reaching for her dead son, but Ser Amory Lorch stepped forward, his blade gleaming in the firelight. He grabbed her by the hair, dragging her back as she clawed at him, her shrieks echoing through the chamber.
Lorch’s sword came down again and again. It pierced her stomach, her sides, her chest. Elia felt each thrust, felt her life draining from her with every stab, but she never stopped screaming, never stopped calling for her children, even as the world turned dark and cold.
In the secret passage beneath the Red Keep, Rhaenys could still hear her mother’s screams echoing behind her. She didn’t know where she was running to, only that she had to get away, had to escape the men who had come to kill her family.
The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, winding through the bowels of the castle in a maze of stone. Finally, she emerged into the open air, stepping out into a courtyard overgrown with weeds, the Red Keep’s towering walls looming behind her like a cage.
For a moment, Rhaenys didn’t know where to go. The sounds of battle still echoed through the city, the clang of steel and the screams of the dying carried on the wind.
And then she saw him.
A man in dark leather, tall and stern, with a face like stone. He was not one of the Lannisters; his clothes bore the direwolf of House Stark. He had kind eyes, though they were filled with sorrow as they fell upon her, this little girl drenched in blood.
"Who are you, child?" he asked, his voice gentle despite the grim scene around them.
Rhaenys could barely speak, her lips quivering as she looked up at him. "R-Rhaenys... Rhaenys Targaryen," she managed to whisper.
At the sound of her name, Ned Stark’s expression shifted, though he hid his shock well. "The princess," he murmured to himself. His gaze hardened as he rose to his feet, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.
But even as he spoke those words, the gates of the courtyard crashed open once again, and through them strode Ser Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch, their armor dripping with the blood of Elia Martell and her son.
Eddard stepped in front of Rhaenys, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. “Leave her be,” he commanded, his voice cold as the winds of Winterfell.
The Mountain sneered. “The girl is a Targaryen. She’s coming with us.”
“Not while I draw breath,” Eddard replied, drawing his blade with a flash of Valyrian steel.
Lorch grinned wickedly, his bloodstained sword already raised. “You’re outnumbered, Stark.”
Before the fight could begin, a new figure appeared in the doorway. Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, strode into the courtyard, his eyes sweeping over the scene with cold detachment. “Enough,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.
The Mountain and Lorch froze, their swords still raised, but they did not strike.
Tywin’s gaze shifted to Eddard. “Lord Stark,” he said, his tone measured. “There’s no need for bloodshed here. This girl will be taken into our custody.”
“She is under my protection,” Eddard said firmly. “I will not allow her to be butchered like her mother and brother.”
Tywin’s face was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—perhaps calculation, perhaps disdain. “She will not be harmed,” he said after a long pause. “In fact, I’m sure King Robert would prefer her alive. After all, there must be some way to keep Dorne in line after what’s happened.”
King Robert Baratheon stood in the throne room of the Red Keep, his war hammer still fresh with the blood of Rhaegar Targaryen. The Iron Throne loomed behind him, a monstrous symbol of power that had been forged in the fires of dragonflame. Yet, for all its grandeur, Robert’s eyes were not on the throne. They were on the young girl standing before him—Rhaenys Targaryen, the last living child of Elia Martell and Rhaegar, her blood-soaked clothes still clinging to her frail body.
“She is a dragonspawn,” Robert spat, his voice filled with disgust. “Why should I care if she lives or dies?”
Ned Stark, standing at his side, felt his stomach churn. “Because it’s the honorable thing to do,” he said quietly. “Because if you kill her, you’ll have Dorne at your throat for the rest of your reign. The Martells will never forget, nor will they forgive the murder of their princess and her children. Blood calls for blood, Robert.”
Robert Baratheon’s face twisted into a grimace. He was not a man to be easily swayed by talks of honor or consequences. His mind was still full of the battle at the Trident, of the way his hammer had crushed Rhaegar’s chest, of the blood, the noise, the fury. In his eyes, Rhaenys Targaryen was no different from the rest of her kin—a snake, a dragon, something to be stamped out before it could grow and strike at him from the shadows.
But Jon Arryn, the Lord of the Eyrie and Robert’s mentor since boyhood placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Ned is right, Your Grace,” he said, his tone measured and diplomatic. “We cannot afford to alienate Dorne. The Seven Kingdoms have already been torn apart by this war, and the last thing we need is another rebellion in the south.”
Robert shrugged Jon’s hand off, his expression still dark. “You think I give a damn about Dorne? About their precious snakes? They’ve hated us since the days of Aegon the Conqueror. They’ll hate us still, no matter what we do.”
“Perhaps,” Jon said calmly. “But hatred can be managed. Wars cannot.”
Ned stepped forward, his grey eyes meeting Robert’s with quiet intensity. “If you kill this child, it will not end here. You’ll have blood feuds to contend with for generations. We’ve spilled enough blood, Robert. Let the girl live. She can be useful.”
Robert snorted, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Useful? How?”
Ned exchanged a glance with Jon Arryn before continuing. “A hostage. A betrothal. If you marry her to your heir, you can bind Dorne to the Iron Throne. They’ll have no choice but to bend the knee.”
There was a long pause as Robert digested the suggestion, his eyes narrowing as they flicked between Ned and the girl. Rhaenys stood there, pale and silent, her dark eyes wide with fear and confusion. She had been through more than most could endure in a lifetime, but she was still just a child.
Robert’s brow furrowed, and he glanced at Jon Arryn, who gave a small nod of approval. The logic was sound, even if Robert hated it. His victory was built on fragile alliances, and killing Elia Martell’s daughter would only bring Dorne’s wrath upon them. A marriage to Rhaenys would cement peace.
"Marriage," Robert muttered, his distaste still evident. "A marriage to a dragonspawn. Hells, what has the world come to?"
"It’s the best way to keep the peace," Jon Arryn said gently, his voice laced with the quiet authority that had guided Robert through the rebellion. "Dorne will not rise against you if they believe their blood will sit on the Iron Throne one day."
Another long pause followed, before Robert finally nodded, though begrudgingly. "Fine. She’ll live… for now. But don’t expect me to like it."
Ned let out a silent breath of relief. He had saved the girl’s life, for now at least. But he knew Robert’s mercy was fragile, and if anything threatened the peace they had won, Rhaenys Targaryen might yet find herself at the mercy of the crown.
Tywin’s cold, calculating gaze moved between them all, but he remained silent. The Lannisters had already played their cards, and with the war effectively over, they had what they wanted—their position at Robert’s side was secure, and the future of the Seven Kingdoms rested in their hands.
"Now," Robert said, turning his gaze to Ned once more, "there is still one matter to attend to. We have news from the siege at Storm’s End. I want you to take your men and relieve the siege. And after that… find her, Ned."
Ned’s heart clenched. He knew who Robert spoke of. Lyanna.
"Find Lyanna," Robert repeated, his voice softer now, filled with a mixture of sorrow and longing. "Bring her home."
Ned nodded. He would do as Robert asked. But his mind was already turning to darker thoughts, to the rumors he had heard in whispers, of a tower in Dorne where his sister had been taken. And of the horrors that might await him there.
Storm’s End
Eddard Stark rode south to Storm’s End with a heavy heart, his mind still turning over the events in King’s Landing. The streets had run red with blood, and the Lannisters had claimed their victory with fire and steel. Yet for all their cruelty, Robert Baratheon was now king, and Westeros would soon be forced to accept him as such.
But for Ned, there were still other matters that weighed on his soul. The war had brought him victory, but it had also taken much from him. His brother Brandon, and his father Rickard—both died at the hands of the Mad King. And now, as the siege of Storm’s End loomed before him, there was still the matter of his sister, Lyanna.
Word had come to him in King’s Landing of Lyanna’s possible whereabouts, rumors that pointed to Dorne and a tower hidden deep in its deserts. Rhaegar Targaryen had taken her, that much was certain, but what had become of her after that was shrouded in mystery. Some said she had died during the war; others claimed she had been hidden away, guarded by Rhaegar’s most loyal knights.
But first, Ned had to see to Storm’s End. The castle had been besieged for nearly a year, and Stannis Baratheon, Robert’s grim and unyielding brother, had held the castle with the last remnants of Robert’s forces. Supplies were gone, and the men were weak from hunger, but they had refused to surrender.
As Ned’s forces approached, the Tyrell banners retreated. The news of Robert’s victory at the Trident and the sacking of King’s Landing had reached the ears of the besieging forces, and with no hope of victory, they abandoned their positions. The gates of Storm’s End creaked open, and Ned rode through them to find a gaunt and haggard Stannis standing upon the battlements, his eyes sunken but his posture as unyielding as ever.
“Lord Stark,” Stannis said, his voice rough from disuse, but there was no mistaking the iron resolve beneath it. “You’ve come to relieve us, it seems.”
Ned dismounted and approached the Baratheon lord. “I’ve come with the king’s orders. The siege is over.”
The men inside the castle, though weakened by the long siege, greeted Ned and his forces with weary cheers. They had survived on rats and dogs, and many of them were little more than skeletons, but Storm’s End had held, a testament to the sheer will of Stannis Baratheon.
The Tower of Joy
The Dornish sun beat down upon Eddard Stark as he and his most trusted men rode through the arid desert. It had taken days to reach the remote location where the Tower of Joy stood, its pale stones rising like a beacon against the clear blue sky. There, at the foot of the tower, were three knights in silver armor, their cloaks billowing in the wind.
Ned knew them by sight, though he had never met them before this day. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, stood among them, his hand resting on the hilt of Dawn, the legendary sword of House Dayne. Beside him were Ser Oswell Whent and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, their eyes sharp and their expressions unyielding.
“We have no wish to fight you,” Ned called out, though he already knew the truth of what was to come.
“And we have no wish to yield,” Ser Arthur replied, his voice calm, almost sad.
“For our king, we serve,” Lord Hightower said, his grip tightening on his sword. “And for him, we die.”
Ned drew his sword, his heart heavy with the knowledge that these men would not leave this place alive. Behind him stood six of his bannermen—Howland Reed, Jory Cassel, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, Ethan Glover, and Ser Mark Ryswell—each ready to defend their lord and find the truth they had come for.
The fight was swift, brutal, and bloody. Ser Arthur Dayne fought like a man possessed, his sword flashing through the air like lightning. Even in the heat of battle, Ned could not help but admire the skill and grace with which the Sword of the Morning moved. But in the end, it was Howland Reed’s intervention that saved Ned from certain death. With a sudden strike, Howland brought down Ser Arthur, and the last of the king’s guards fell.
Panting and bloodied, Ned stood over the fallen knights, his sword heavy in his hand. The sound of the wind howled through the empty desert, and for a moment, all was still.
Then he heard it. A faint sound, like the softest of whispers, carried on the wind from the tower above. A woman’s voice, weak and pleading.
Ned rushed up the stone steps of the tower, his heart pounding in his chest. At the top, in a room filled with the scent of blood and roses, he found her. Lyanna Stark, his sister, lay upon a bed of bloodied linens, her face pale and drawn. She was dying.
“Ned,” she whispered, her voice so weak he had to lean close to hear her.
“I’m here,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I’ve come for you, Lyanna. I’ll take you home.”
But Lyanna shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “No, Ned. I... I’m not going home. I’m sorry... I never wanted any of this...”
Ned felt his heart breaking as he looked down at his sister, the girl who had once laughed and danced in the godswood of Winterfell. She had been so full of life, and now here she was, fading before his eyes.
“Promise me, Ned,” she whispered, her voice trembling with desperation. “Promise me you’ll protect him.”
Ned frowned, confusion clouding his mind. “Who, Lyanna? Who do you want me to protect?”
She looked down at her side, and for the first time, Ned noticed the small bundle lying beside her. Wrapped in bloodstained blankets was a newborn baby, his tiny face scrunched up in sleep.
“He’s mine,” Lyanna whispered. “His name... is Aemon. Aemon Targaryen. Promise me, Ned. Promise me you’ll keep him safe.”
Ned’s breath caught in his throat. A Targaryen. His sister had borne the child of Rhaegar Targaryen, the man who had taken her from them, who had started this war that had torn their family apart.
But as he looked down at the baby, so small and innocent in his sister’s arms, he knew what he had to do.
“I promise,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ll keep him safe.”
Lyanna smiled, her fingers gripping his hand weakly. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Thank you...”
And with that, Lyanna Stark drew her last breath, leaving her brother alone in the quiet, bloodstained tower.
Dragonstone
On the storm-lashed island of Dragonstone, Queen Rhaella Targaryen gave birth to her last child as the winds howled and the waves crashed against the rocky shores. She had lost her eldest son, her daughter, and her husband to the fires of war, and now all that remained was the tiny life she had brought into the world.
As the maester cleaned the blood from the newborn’s face, Rhaella whispered the name she had chosen for her daughter. “Daenerys. Daenerys Stormborn.”
With the last of her strength, she placed the crown of House Targaryen upon the brow of her son, Viserys, now the last male heir of their line.
“You are king now,” she said, her voice weak and trembling. “Promise me you’ll protect her. Promise me you’ll take back what is ours.”
Viserys, still a boy himself, looked down at his mother with wide, fearful eyes. He nodded, though he did not fully understand the weight of the words.
“I promise, Mother,” he whispered.
And with that, Queen Rhaella Targaryen closed her eyes, her last breath stolen by the storm.
Across the Narrow Sea, Viserys Targaryen stood on the deck of a ship, his sister Daenerys swaddled in his arms. As they sailed away from the burning ruins of their home, Viserys swore to himself that one day, they would return. One day, they would take back the throne that had been stolen from them. And when that day came, he would be king.
But for now, they were nothing more than refugees, the last survivors of a dynasty that had once ruled the world with fire and blood.