Daeron Targaryen
"You know," Gerold said dryly as he dabbed at Daeron's bruised knuckles with a damp cloth, "I expected a conflict between you two someday—but I didn't think you'd be so eager to start it."
Daeron winced as the linen pressed tighter. "He's been needling me ever since I arrived—and today he shouted in my face like I'd wronged him. I couldn't control myself," he muttered.
Gerold gave him a pointed look. "Perhaps. But you finished it, and far too eagerly. You must learn to control your anger, my prince. Rage may serve a beast, but never a Prince of Blood."
"That aside," Daeron said, his grin returning—sharp, all teeth and triumph—"the move I used worked. I can slam someone bigger and heavier than me flat on the ground. Easy."
He chuckled, the grin turning greedy. "I'm going to perfect it. Make new ones. With this… I could kill someone with my bare hands."
Gerold rose to his feet, brushing his hands against his cloak. "We'll see. Get some rest, my prince. I'll wake you for lunch. When young Lord Tywin wakes, there'll be explaining to do—and you'd best face it with a clear head."
Daeron nodded. Exhaustion began to sink into his bones as the last of the adrenaline bled away. His limbs felt heavy; his knuckles throbbed with a dull ache. He lay back, staring up at the carved lion on the ceiling—silent, unmoving.
For all his earlier pride, the room felt colder now. Quieter.
"I miss Rhaella already," he murmured.
=====================
Lord Tytos Lannister
"A broken nose, a few cuts and bruises," Maester Loren said as he adjusted the bandages on Tywin's face. "Nothing permanent. I've set the nose; it will heal well enough. He'll be sore for a fortnight, perhaps three weeks."
Tytos exhaled in relief. "Good." He looked down at his son—the boy's fury seemed eternal, and today it had bitten him back. "I only hope the prince will forgive him."
Jeyne, rigid beside the bed, snapped as though struck. "What kind of father are you?" she demanded. Her hands twisted at the hem of her gown. "An outsider comes into our halls and beats our son in our own gardens. We should seize the dragon spawn, throw him into a cell, make him pay."
"You heard Joanna," Tytos said quietly, sinking into a chair. "Tywin went to them. He raised his voice first. If we retaliate—if we make a scene—we'll make this worse. The Crown will answer harder."
"So we bend and take it?" Jeyne hissed. "Let our son be made a fool? We could at least have the guards rough him up—blame it on the soldiers—"
"And when they find out?" Tytos cut in, voice firming. "If we harm the prince, Jason will inherit the Rock—because our line will end. Daeron is beloved in the royal family. Harm a single hair on his head, and we're finished. I'll write to the King myself. We'll explain, apologize where needed, and ask for mercy—quietly, with humility. No more blind fury."
As he left the chamber, he found his brother Jason and his niece Joanna waiting in the hall.
"Brother, how's Tywin?" Jason asked, concern in his tone. "I heard he made some… arrogant decisions."
"Maester Loren says he'll recover soon enough," Tytos replied, glancing at Joanna, who looked unusually tense. "Don't worry, Joanna. Tywin's fine."
Joanna's gaze dropped. Her voice was barely a whisper. "It's not Tywin I'm worried about, Uncle. It's the prince. What if he leaves the Rock? The tourney could be canceled, and the lords already here… they'd be disappointed."
Tytos paused, realizing for the first time how shrewd the girl truly was.
"You're right," he said at last, a crease forming on his brow. "We should speak with the prince." He looked down at her. "You'll come too. I think he'll listen to you."
As they neared the prince's chambers, the sight of the Kingsguard posted outside greeted them.
"Ser Gerold," Tytos called politely. "We've come to speak with the prince—and to offer our apologies."
"I'm afraid the prince is asleep, my lord," Gerold replied evenly, though his eyes softened when they met Joanna's. "As for apologies—I've known this prince since the day he was born. Scuffles like today's are… regular. I'll convey your words when he wakes."
"I see," Tytos said with a nod. "Then I hope you'll remain and enjoy the tourney, Ser Gerold."
Gerold allowed a faint smirk. "Oh, don't worry, my lord. The prince has few interests—but betting during tourneys is one of them."
Tytos smiled weakly. "I see."
≈==================
Essos — Volantis, Temple of the Lord of Light
(Serenya POV)
"You summoned me, High Priestess?"
"Serenya, good—you've come. Follow me," Kinvara said, her voice calm yet commanding as she led the girl deeper into the temple's heart. "Last night, I received a prophecy. From our Lord."
"A prophecy?" Serenya asked, voice trembling slightly. "About what, Kinvara?"
"About you." Kinvara's eyes gleamed with something between awe and reverence. "I saw you gazing into the Great Flame. Then, I saw the world consumed by vast darkness—and yet… a single flickering flame endured. That flame grew, brighter than all others, restoring balance to the world."
Serenya's gaze fell on the towering red doors ahead, carved with golden sigils. Despite nine years in this temple, she had never been this close to the Great Flame.
"Prepare to be humbled, child," Kinvara said, pushing the doors open.
Inside, a massive black pedestal rose nearly eight feet tall. Atop it, light red flames danced—floating freely in the air. Serenya gasped. "How… how is that possible?"
"You've only glimpsed a fraction of our Lord's glory," Kinvara murmured. "This is nothing."
Serenya Maegyr had been pledged to the Red God the day she was born—a gift that had won her father his seat among the Triarchs. Since then, she had been trained relentlessly: protections against curses, the arts of fire, and the defenses against darker magics—those of the Black Goat's worshippers.
"Now, child," Kinvara said, guiding her forward, "look into the Flame. Tell me what you see. What does our Lord reveal?"
Serenya stepped closer. The heat kissed her skin, but the light pulled her in—until the world vanished.
She stood in a void: vast, silent, endless. No sound, no shape, only blackness. Panic welled in her throat. "Kinvara?" she called, but the darkness swallowed her voice.
Then—three flames appeared before her.
One burned a deep, blood-red.
Another, bright crimson.
The third shimmered between them—a fusion of both.
From the shadows came hundreds of spears of pale red flame—like those she had seen on the pedestal—followed by cold blue spears of ice. They whirled around the three flames, then struck the blood-red one. It shattered each assault, then surged forward, merging with the third.
Another wave—thousands this time—rained down upon the bright-red flame. It too shattered them, before fusing with the third, making it burn fiercer, richer.
Now the third flame blazed brighter than ever. At its core, the blood-red fire roared, surrounded by the swirling crimson, both united in perfect harmony.
Then came the final storm—millions of spears, from every direction. Yet the third flame shone brighter than all, dazzling and unyielding. Serenya closed her eyes against the brilliance. When she opened them again, the spears were gone. Only the radiant flame remained—alive, pulsing, divine.
It drifted toward her.
Terror seized her. It's going to burn me!
But when it touched her, there was no pain. Only warmth. The fire flowed into her chest, settling over her heart like a living thing.
Then came the voice—deep, commanding, masculine.
"Put down the three flames, Serenya."
Every fiber of her being trembled with the urge to obey.
"Why put down something so precious?" she thought—her last flicker of resistance—before the darkness claimed her again.