Blood of the Elder Flame

The Red Keep had changed. Again.

For the first time in years, Otto Hightower’s seat at the Small Council was empty. And yet, his absence was not silence—it was an echo. The kind that lingered in corners and behind closed doors.

Vaena Targaryen sat at the long table, her back straight, her face unreadable, dressed in deep crimson with a collar lined in Valyrian scales. She said little. But her presence had the effect of a drawn blade laid gently across the council table.

Viserys sat beside her. Paler than before. Tired, yes—but there was something else now. A flicker of awareness, as though waking from a dream that had lasted years.

The council spoke cautiously.

Lord Strong gave his support in quiet tones.

Lord Beesbury rambled about trade.

Ser Harwin Strong remained still as stone, watching everyone.

When Lord Lyman Beesbury bemoaned the delay in replacing the Hand, Vaena finally spoke.

“There is no rush to refill a wound before the bleeding stops.”

Beesbury blinked. “I—of course, Princess. But—”

“We bled while Otto ruled,” she said coolly. “Let the wound scab. Then we’ll decide.”

Viserys didn’t interrupt her.

He simply nodded.

In the gardens, the whispers grew thicker.

Otto’s departure had shifted the air. The lords were uncertain, the ladies nervous, and the serving folk unusually quiet.

Alyra Hill, Vaena’s ever-loyal lady-in-waiting, moved through the Red Keep like a shadow with ears. She reported everything.

“The Tyrells were overheard asking if the king would take another queen.”

 

“Lord Redwyne sent a letter to Oldtown. His seal matched Otto’s.”

 

“Alicent has not appeared since the morning her father was dismissed.”

Vaena took the news calmly.

“Let them wonder,” she said.

Alyra hesitated. “And if they plot?”

Vaena looked up, violet eyes sharp as glass.

“Then we remind them what it means to plot against a dragon.”

Alicent did not leave the Keep.

She simply became smaller.

Quieter.

She walked only at dawn, cloaked and silent, speaking to no one but the septas. Rhaenyra saw her once, beside the weirwood tree, whispering alone.

“Is she praying?” the girl asked.

“No,” Vaena said. “She’s remembering who she is when she isn’t being used.”

That afternoon, Daemon returned from Dragonstone with dust on his cloak and tension in his jaw. He entered Vaena’s solar without knocking.

“You took your time,” she said.

“You made a mess,” he replied.

Vaena arched an eyebrow. “And?”

He grinned. “It’s beautiful.”

She set her quill down. “You heard?”

“Otto’s exile is being sung in the taverns already. You’ve made enemies.”

“I always had them,” she said. “Now they just have fewer places to hide.”

Daemon poured himself a drink. “And Viserys?”

“He’s trying.”

Daemon scoffed. “That’s not enough.”

“It’s all we have.”

That night, Rhaenyra joined her aunt again in the training yard.

She wore a new tunic, stitched with tiny dragons at the collar.

“You look like a warrior,” Vaena said, handing her a practice blade.

“I want to be one.”

Vaena smiled, a little sadly. “You’ll have to be.”

As they sparred, Vaena corrected her footwork, challenged her grip, and forced her to fail—then get back up. Again. And again.

And every time Rhaenyra rose, breathless and bruised, Vaena would whisper in High Valyrian:

“Kesīr iksā. Ziry iksis.”

In the shadows of the Keep, letters flew like crows.

One to Oldtown.

One to Storm’s End.

One to the Vale.

The leech had been pulled from the throne—

But its roots were deep.

And the garden was wide.

Vaena watched the birds.

Not the ravens. The garden birds.

Finches and gulls, fat little things that chirped nonsense into the clean morning air, wings flashing between branches like rumors darting through a court. Unpredictable. Skittish.

It was still early. The dew clung to her boots as she walked beneath the arch of goldleaf trellises behind the Queen’s Tower. Flowers bloomed there—roses and moonberries and those ridiculous sunblossoms Alicent once favored. She thought of tearing them up.

But no.

Let them wither in silence.

Vaena preferred rot she could see.

“You’re smiling again,” said Alyra from behind her. “That’s rare.”

“Am I?” Vaena replied.

“You are.”

Vaena paused at a carved bench shaped like a dragon’s back. “I suppose I am.”

She hadn’t meant to.

But there was something satisfying in the way the Keep had shifted in just a few weeks.

Otto gone. His daughter silent. The king unsteady but listening.

The pieces were moving.

All that remained was to tip the board.

Rhaenyra met her in the training yard, her face flushed, her braid half-undone, sword in hand. Not a toy this time. A real one. Valyrian steel, slightly dulled for practice.

“Again,” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Vaena raised a brow. “You didn’t even greet me.”

“I said again.”

A laugh curled low in Vaena’s throat. She drew her own blade—sleek and slender, a gift from Jaehaerys in her fifteenth nameday.

They circled each other.

“You’re rushing,” Vaena said.

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m teaching.”

Rhaenyra came at her hard.

Steel clashed. The sound rang through the yard. A few guards looked up. One servant dropped a tray. Neither princess noticed.

Vaena parried. Spun. Knocked Rhaenyra sideways, then backed off.

“Too easy.”

“I’m eight,” Rhaenyra snapped.

“And I was riding dragons at eight. Try again.”

Rhaenyra roared and attacked.

Vaena deflected her once—twice—then disarmed her with a twist that left Rhaenyra flat on the ground.

The girl groaned.

Vaena crouched beside her.

“You want them to call you queen?” she said. “Make them bleed for saying otherwise.”

Later, as they walked the training yard arm in arm, Vaena looked down at her niece.

“She should be named,” Rhaenyra said quietly.

“She will be.”

“When?”

“When I say so.”

Rhaenyra looked up at her. “You don’t rule.”

Vaena smiled. “No. But I do play the game.”

Elsewhere in the Keep, Viserys sat with a ledger on his lap and too many regrets in his gut.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Not since Aemma. Not since the screaming.

He could still hear it sometimes.

The maesters told him to rest. Otto used to say he needed clarity. Alicent had once offered to read to him. They all meant well.

But only Vaena had ever said what he needed to hear.

“Get up. Open your eyes. Listen.”

She was relentless.

It was exhausting.

But it was also true.

He stared down at the empty chair where Otto used to sit.

He didn’t miss him.

That was the strange part.

He thought he would.

That evening, Vaena entered the council chamber late—deliberately so. She strode to her seat without apology, tossed a sealed letter onto the table, and folded her hands.

“I propose we name Rhaenyra as heir,” she said.

Silence.

Then: “Officially,” she added, as if it were an afterthought.

Beesbury dropped his ink pot.

Lord Strong coughed.

Viserys blinked.

“What?” he said.

“She is your only living child. She has been trained. She has blood. She has fire. There is no clearer choice.”

“She’s young—”

“Then name her young,” Vaena said. “The realm will bend if you force it. If you wait, it will break.”

The room froze.

“You would have me name my daughter… in a realm that would rather crown any man with a cock and a sword?”

Vaena smiled. “Then let her be the girl with the sword.”

Daemon watched from the shadows.

He said nothing.

Not yet.

But when the meeting broke, and Viserys staggered off in quiet distress, Daemon fell into step beside his sister.

“You’re pushing too fast,” he murmured.

“She’s ready.”

“She’s eight.”

“She’s more ready than Viserys was at twenty.”

Daemon tilted his head. “You want her queen. And?”

Vaena didn’t reply.

Daemon caught her arm.

“And?”

“I want her safe,” she said finally. “I want her strong. I want her wed to someone who doesn’t need to pretend to respect her.”

“Someone like…?”

Vaena met his gaze.

Daemon smirked. “You’re subtle as wildfire.”

“I’m direct. You’re the one who hides everything behind smirks and blades.”

“And you want me to marry her?”

“I want you to protect her.”

“I already do.”

“Not like that.”

Daemon’s face darkened. “She’s a child.”

“She won’t always be.”

That night, Vaena stood alone on the ramparts as Vhaelyx circled above, his grey wings gleaming like smoke and steel.

She watched the torches flicker below.

And whispered in High Valyrian:

“Kesrio moriot ivestraks.”

Lord Lyonel Strong had seen many kinds of fire in his long years at court.

Some men burned hot and quick—like Daemon. Others smoldered beneath the surface, like Otto. And then there was Vaena Targaryen, whose fire did not flicker or rage but consumed slowly, with purpose.

He met with her privately, beneath the old painted map in the Tower of the Hand.

Otto’s former tower.

She stood before the map like a dragon considering prey. The candlelight made her hair look like melted silver and her eyes like coin struck in fire.

“You summoned me,” Lyonel said carefully.

“I need men I can trust,” Vaena said without turning.

“That list grows short,” he replied.

“I’m not asking for loyalty. I’m asking for clarity.”

Lyonel moved closer. “You’ve already made enemies.”

“I was born with enemies,” she said. “But I intend to raise a queen who will outlive them all.”

“And the betrothal?”

Vaena glanced back. “Not yet. The timing must be perfect.”

“You want the lords unsteady before you steady them.”

“Exactly.”

At Storm’s End, a raven landed with quiet talons.

Lord Boremund Baratheon broke the seal, read the parchment twice, and poured himself wine.

It was from Oldtown.

A warning.

The Targaryen girl will be named heir.

She will not rule alone.

Prepare your banners. The realm may forget its roots, but House Hightower does not.

He drank deep.

And sent his own raven.

Back in King’s Landing, Rhaenyra walked into the throne room with her chin high and her boots muddy.

She had just returned from the training yard, hair stuck to her forehead, and a bruise on her left arm the shape of Vaena’s practice hilt.

Guards moved aside for her.

She passed lords who looked twice.

She climbed the steps of the Iron Throne—not to sit, but to stand beside it.

She looked at the cold metal.

Then turned and faced the room.

No one had summoned her.

No one needed to.

She stood there, arms crossed, head tilted, daring the realm to look away.

Vaena watched from above.

She said nothing.

But inside her chest, something cracked open like a flame-starved furnace.

Daemon arrived late to the evening feast, smelling of steel and leather and vague trouble.

He dropped into the seat beside Vaena with a tankard in one hand and a grin tugging at his mouth.

“She’s made her stand,” he said.

“I know.”

“She didn’t ask permission.”

“She didn’t need it.”

Daemon leaned back, smiling to himself. “You’re making a monster.”

“I’m making a queen.”

In a hidden alcove beneath the sept, Alicent met with a maester whose name she did not speak aloud.

He handed her a folded note. Thin. Short.

She did not ask who it was from.

She only read it.

He’s naming her. Be ready.

She folded it with shaking hands.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The maester nodded once—and was gone.

Alicent stood alone in the candlelight.

Not a child.

Not yet a queen.

Just a girl made of silence and survival, holding a warning she wasn’t sure she wanted to understand.

The lords gathered like crows.

Some came out of habit. Others came because they feared being absent. And some—like Lord Boremund Baratheon—came with pleasant faces and sharpened knives tucked behind their smiles.

Vaena entered the Great Hall with Rhaenyra at her side. Not behind her. Not in her shadow. Beside her.

That alone was enough to turn heads.

The girl was dressed in a deep crimson tunic embroidered with dragons. Her bruises were not hidden. Her sword was visible at her hip, real and functional. Her silver-gold braid ran like a banner down her back.

Vaena did not announce Rhaenyra.

She did not need to.

Every lord who turned saw the flame walking.

Viserys watched from the dais, sweat beading beneath his crown. His heart had not been still in weeks. His thoughts were not his own, half the time.

But when he saw them—Vaena and Rhaenyra, walking together like prophecy made flesh—something in him stilled.

My daughter, he thought.

My sister. My fire. My future.

And then:

Am I strong enough to hold them together?

Later, in the solar, Vaena met with Lord Boremund Baratheon, whose smile never quite touched his eyes.

“I hear the Princess favors steel these days,” he said smoothly.

“She favors survival,” Vaena replied. “Westeros is not kind to soft queens.”

Boremund laughed. “Then it will devour a girl.”

Vaena’s smile was a blade. “Only if she allows herself to be one.”

He raised a brow. “You think her training will change the hearts of lords?”

“No,” she said. “But it will change their fear.”

She rose slowly, eyes burning. “You received a raven from Oldtown. You did not respond. Curious.”

Boremund tensed. “I receive many ravens.”

“Not all of them smell like rot.”

He stared at her.

She stepped close enough that he could see the dagger at her hip. “If you plan to back Aegon, you’d best know this: he is not the heir. He was never meant to be. And if you throw your banners behind Hightower dreams, I promise you—when the dragons come, they will not ask your name before they burn your seat.”

Daemon found Rhaenyra in the royal library, poring over battle records and dragonrider histories.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.

She didn’t look up. “Neither are you.”

He chuckled. “Takes after your aunt.”

“I want to learn.”

“You want to win.”

She finally looked at him. “Is that wrong?”

Daemon crouched beside her. “No. Just rare.”

She studied him. “Will you teach me?”

He tilted his head. “Teach you what?”

“How to be… them,” she said, motioning to the scrolls. “The riders. The warriors. The ones who weren’t forgotten.”

Daemon’s expression turned serious.

Then he nodded once.

“Tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”

In the shadows of the godswood, Vaena stood alone, listening to the wind move through the trees.

It whispered to her like it used to when she was a girl.

Before thrones.

Before betrayal.

Before exile.

She closed her eyes.

“Rhaenyra, ñuha ābrar, zaldrīzes issa.”

And with that truth in her heart, she made her next move:

She wrote letters to every major house that had once supported Rhaenys’s claim.

You were wrong then. You do not have to be wrong now.

Rhaenyra stood at the edge of the training yard, her hands aching, her tunic soaked through with sweat. The sword was too long for her, and her arms burned from the weight of it. But she didn’t drop it.

She wouldn’t.

Not in front of him.

Daemon Targaryen watched her with his arms crossed, face unreadable, mouth set in a line.

He thinks I’ll quit, she thought.

He’s waiting for me to fail.

She tightened her grip. Raised the sword again.

He said nothing.

Say something. Anything.

She swung.

He blocked it in half a breath, twisted her blade free, and had the point of his sword at her throat before she could blink.

Again.

She gasped, chest heaving.

“I’m trying,” she said, the words pushed out like heat.

“I know,” Daemon said.

And he lowered his blade.

Daemon didn’t know why he kept showing up.

It started as a favor to Vaena. Then it became curiosity.

And now?

Now he didn’t know.

There was something sharp about Rhaenyra. Too sharp for a girl her age. She asked questions that lingered. She didn’t cry when she fell. And when she was furious, she went quiet. Like Vaena.

That was the unsettling part.

She reminded him of her.

Not just in blood—but in silence. In stillness. In how she watched before she struck.

“She’s not ready,” he had told Vaena once.

“She will be,” she had replied. “And you’ll be the one who makes her.”

He didn’t like how true that felt.

Later that evening, Rhaenyra sat with her boots tucked under her and an ink-stained page in her lap. Her hand still trembled from training.

Vaena entered without knocking.

“You held your guard too low,” she said.

“I know.”

“You favor your right arm.”

“I know.”

“You stare at Daemon too long.”

“I—” Rhaenyra froze.

Vaena arched a brow.

“I wasn’t—”

“I said nothing,” Vaena said.

Rhaenyra looked down at the ink smear on her page.

“He treats me like I matter.”

Vaena’s voice softened. “You do.”

“No,” Rhaenyra said. “I mean… he doesn’t look at me like I’m breakable.”

“That’s because he only breaks the ones he cares about.”

Rhaenyra looked up.

Vaena sat beside her, brushing a silver strand from her niece’s brow.

“You’re not in love with him,” she said. “Not yet.”

“I’m not—”

“You will be,” Vaena said simply. “And that’s fine.”

Rhaenyra’s heart thudded in her chest.

“You said I was meant to rule,” she whispered.

“You are.”

“Then why does everything hurt?”

Vaena looked at her for a long time.

“Because power always hurts before it settles.”

Meanwhile, Daemon stood on the balcony above the Great Hall, watching the court as it prepared for the feast Vaena had arranged.

Silks. Candles. Music.

All distractions.

But his eyes found her again.

Rhaenyra.

Laughing quietly with her aunt. Her braid glinting like a sword unsheathed.

She wasn’t just a girl anymore.

And that was… dangerous.

She sees me now, he thought.

And I see her.

The Great Hall glowed gold that night.

Banners fluttered from the rafters, wine poured like riverwater, and the scent of roasted venison, clove, and honeyed apples curled through the air like perfume. Minstrels strummed soft chords in the corner, their music meant to soothe, to charm.

But Vaena Targaryen watched the crowd like a wolf among songbirds.

She sat beside Viserys—not behind him, not in the shadows—and wore no crown, but every lord who looked her way averted his eyes first.

She was not queen.

But she was something older than a queen.

She was memory made flesh. The warning in the bones of dragons long dead. The elder sister whose presence meant things were no longer simple.

And tonight, the garden they had grown in her absence would burn.

Rhaenyra sat two seats away, her small hands folded in her lap, her face composed, her back ramrod straight. The dress she wore was dark red, with tiny silver dragons stitched along the sleeves—a gift from Vaena. She felt regal. Powerful. Seen.

She hated the attention.

She loved it.

She didn’t know what she felt.

Eyes were on her. Not just because of her name—but because of what she might become.

She could feel it, like a cloak too big for her shoulders.

They’re wondering if he’ll name me tonight, she thought.

And they’re wondering if they’ll have to bow to me one day.

Her stomach ached with it. But she sat taller.

She looked once to her aunt.

Vaena said nothing.

But the glance was enough.

I see you, it said.

Now let them see you too.

Daemon arrived late.

As always.

He wore black armor beneath a crimson doublet, the hilts of his swords gleaming, his hair windswept, his face unreadable. He bowed to no one. He kissed no ring. He walked through the court like he owned it—and stopped only when he reached Rhaenyra.

“Princess,” he said, voice low.

She blinked.

He rarely addressed her so formally.

“Prince,” she returned, proud of how steady she sounded.

He looked her over. Saw the dress. The braid. The quiet fire in her posture.

“You look… different.”

“Do I?”

“Not a child.”

She stared up at him.

“I’m not.”

He said nothing else.

But he sat beside her.

And Rhaenyra felt her breath catch.

Vaena noticed.

Of course she did.

She noticed everything.

But she said nothing—only sipped her wine, smiled politely, and turned to the lords seated nearby.

Lord Beesbury. Lord Redwyne. Lord Harroway. Each one a coin waiting to flip.

“Tell me,” she said lightly, “what do you make of the realm’s future?”

They gave the expected answers.

Prosperity. Growth. Stability.

She waited.

Then asked: “And should the king’s heir wear a crown… with hips instead of a sword?”

Awkward laughter.

Silence.

Then Lord Redwyne muttered, “If she commands dragons, I suppose she can wear what she likes.”

Vaena raised her cup. “Well said.”

They laughed. But they also looked afraid.

That was the goal.

Later, as the hall dimmed and lords grew drunker, Vaena stood without ceremony and clinked her goblet with a single knuckle.

The music died.

All eyes turned.

“I thank you all for your attendance,” she said, voice smooth as silk over steel. “The king is pleased by your loyalty—and your discretion.”

Some lords shifted in their seats.

“I am told,” she continued, “that many of you wonder what becomes of legacy when tragedy strikes. What becomes of power when it is passed down… rather than earned?”

She turned slightly, her hand resting on Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

“You need not wonder.”

She said nothing more.

She didn’t have to.

She walked away.

And the silence that followed echoed like a verdict.

Daemon walked Rhaenyra to her chambers.

They said nothing at first.

When they reached the door, she turned to him.

“Would you follow me?” she asked.

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“If I wore the crown. If it were me instead of him. Would you follow me?”

He stared at her.

Long.

Hard.

Then smiled—just barely.

“I already do.”

Lord Redwyne should have left earlier.

He lingered. Drank too much. Let his words stretch like soft flesh over bone.

He laughed at the wrong moments.

And when he leaned too far across the table to murmur to Lord Harroway, he forgot who else might be listening.

“She’s a child in silk,” he whispered. “You can dress a rabbit in armor, it still runs when the hounds come.”

He did not know Alyra Hill stood nearby, quietly replenishing goblets. She had been taught by Vaena to listen with both ears and silence.

She said nothing.

But the next morning, Redwyne found himself summoned to the Queen’s Tower—not the Small Council chamber. Not the throne room.

And not by the king.

Vaena Targaryen met him alone.

She stood by the window, hair unbound, robe pale as ash, the morning sun behind her like a rising pyre.

“Lord Redwyne,” she said without looking. “Sit.”

He did.

“You served under my father,” she said. “You stood with us during Maegor’s War. I remember your voice at court when I was still learning to speak.”

He smiled tightly. “An honor, Princess.”

She turned to face him.

“You whispered last night.”

He went very still.

“I understand wine makes fools of us all. But it also makes men truthful.”

“I meant no—”

“You compared my niece to a rabbit.”

“My lady—”

Vaena stepped closer. “Say it again. Now. Sober.”

He swallowed.

“Forgive me,” he said.

“No.”

She said it softly.

“I won’t. Because you don’t mean it. And because I need you to understand—this isn’t my father’s court. I am not Jaehaerys. And you will not speak about Rhaenyra as if she is something to be hunted.”

Lord Redwyne’s mouth opened. No sound came.

“Your banners are in the Reach,” she said. “And Oldtown may yet whisper from behind its stone walls. But I promise you, if even one of your men breathes treason in the wind, I will burn your vineyards down to their roots.”

A long silence.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“…Crystal.”

Vaena smiled.

“Good. Now get out.”

Rhaenyra stood in the dragonpit that morning, her hands behind her back, eyes fixed on Syrax as the dragon stretched beneath the morning sun.

She felt taller. Not in her bones—but in the way the dragon looked back at her.

You are mine, it seemed to say.

And I am yours.

She reached a hand forward, fingers trembling.

Syrax lowered her great head.

And for the first time in days, Rhaenyra didn’t feel small.

She felt like something ancient was watching through her eyes.

Daemon watched from above.

Leaning against the stone, arms crossed, he said nothing.

She didn’t notice him at first.

Not until Syrax growled low—not in warning. In recognition.

She turned, eyes narrowing.

“You’re always watching,” she said.

“I like dragons,” he replied.

“She’s not yours.”

“I didn’t say she was.”

They stared at each other.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t soft.

It was recognition. The kind born between wolves in the same den.

That night, Vaena returned to her solar and found a message on her desk—no seal, just folded parchment.

She read it once.

Otto Hightower has not left Oldtown.

He gathers. He waits.

He has not given up the game.

Vaena set the letter down.

Closed her eyes.

And whispered in High Valyrian,

“Perzys āeksia ūndegon.”

The throne room had never been so silent.

No steel rang. No banners rustled. No birds called from the high windows.

Only breath.

And the sound of the king’s boots as he climbed the dais—slowly, like the weight of the moment dragged behind every step.

Viserys wore his crown.

Not because he felt strong.

But because today, he needed to look like a king—even if he didn’t feel like one.

Beside him stood his daughter.

Rhaenyra.

And behind her, in shadow like a specter made flesh, stood Vaena Targaryen.

Not smiling.

Not triumphant.

Steady.

Like the foundation of a house the realm had forgotten was built on blood.

Daemon stood in the crowd, arms folded, silver hair unbound, expression unreadable.

He said nothing.

But he didn’t look away once.

Viserys turned.

His voice cracked once. Then steadied.

“The realm must know… what I have long known.”

He looked at Rhaenyra.

Then at the court.

“This is my heir.

The blood of the dragon.

My chosen successor.

My daughter.”

Silence.

Then, “Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne.”

Vaena watched it unfold.

She watched the way lords bowed—some too slow, some not at all.

She saw the way the Hightower bannermen kept their eyes down. The way the older women whispered behind their veils.

She saw Lord Redwyne sweat.

She saw Baratheon’s mouth twitch.

And she remembered.

All of them.

Rhaenyra bowed her head once, perfectly poised, heart pounding so loud she could barely hear the applause that followed.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t need to.

She was no longer just the daughter.

She was the heir.

She was the future.

That night, Rhaenyra sat in the gardens, the stars cold above her, her new pendant—engraved with the Targaryen crest—hanging heavy around her neck.

Vaena sat beside her in silence.

Finally, Rhaenyra asked, “Is this how it feels? When the world sees you?”

Vaena didn’t answer for a while.

Then, softly: “No. This is how it feels when the world fears you.”

Rhaenyra turned her head. “And is that enough?”

Vaena looked up at the stars.

“It has to be.”

Daemon watched her from a distance.

Watched the girl he once dismissed become something else.

Something still blooming. Still rising.

One day, he thought, they’ll fear her more than me.

And he didn’t know if that made him proud—

Or terrified.

In Oldtown, Otto Hightower sat alone in the tallest tower of the Hightower, the candlelight flickering across an open scroll.

He did not speak.

He did not curse.

He only reached for a fresh quill.

And began to write.