Serpent and Blood

The sky over Claw Isle was painted in shades of dusk. A sense of peace was felt within the halls of the Celtigar keep. Bartimos Celtigar sat beside his heir, Clement, in their receiving hall. Both men admired the finely crafted pins in their hands—a crimson crab made of shiny dragonglass sat embedded in Valyrian steel. The delicate details glinted in the light of the many candles that lit the chamber.
“These are fine gifts,” Bartimos said, his voice gravelly yet thoughtful as he turned the pin over in his hands. “Lucerys Velaryon has an eye for artistry. It also seems that he understands the value of diplomacy.”
Clement, younger and less restrained in his opinions, nodded with a hint of a smile. “And cleverness. A crab for the Celtigars—an obvious choice, yet no less meaningful. A statement, perhaps that the sea and its creatures endure.”
Bartimos gave a low chuckle. “Perhaps, Clement. Or perhaps it’s simply a gesture to ensure loyalty.”
They both turned to the boy seated across the room. Though his demeanor was quiet, Daeron Targaryen still had a regal presence. The youngest son of the king, studied the blue pendant Lucerys had sent. It was shaped in the likeness of his own dragon, Tessarion. The dragonglass had a sapphire hue to the scales catching the light. He fingered the necklace absently, his mind clearly elsewhere.
“What say you, young prince?” Bartimos asked, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Do you think the gifts of your nephew come with strings?”
Daeron glanced up, his expression contemplative. “Perhaps. But it is the nature of rulers to weave webs. Nephew or not, Lucerys is a Velaryon. The Velaryons are nothing if not masterful sailors of the tides, whether sea or politics.”
Bartimos leaned back in his chair, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Spoken like a boy growing into a man who understands the game.”
But Daeron’s attention wandered again, his hand tightening around the pendant. Tessarion. The dreams had started soon after the necklace arrived. It was as if the pendant connected him to something ancient, something vast and unknowable.
The goddess, Tessarion herself, seemed to whisper to him in the dead of night. Her voice carrying visions—visions of a future steeped in fire and ash. The end of dragons. The end of their legacy, all tied to the throne his mother sought for his brother, Aegon, so desperately.
“Did the gift not please you, Prince Daeron?” Clement asked, drawing him back to the present.
Daeron forced a smile, though his heart was heavy. “It does indeed, Clement. It is a fine gesture from my nephew.”
His response satisfied them, but he could see Bartimos studying him more closely. He excused himself soon after, leaving the hall and the conversation behind.
*********************
The cave that housed the dragon, Tessarion, was a short walk from the keep. The entrance nestled against the cliffs that faced the open sea. Daeron’s boots crunched against the rocky ground as he approached. Tessarion stirred as he neared, the dragon’s cobalt scales glinting faintly in the dim light of the cave. Her golden eyes glowed as she greeted him with a low rumble.
“Hello, my beauty,” Daeron murmured, stepping closer. He placed a hand on her warm scales, his pendant seeming to hum faintly against his chest. “I dreamt of you again.”
Tessarion tilted her head, as if listening.
“The goddess showed me… destruction,” Daeron continued, his voice faltering. “Aegon on the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra and her children were cut down. The people of Kingslanding tortured and starved. The dragons… gone.”
The dragon let out a soft growl, her wings shifting slightly. Daeron sighed, leaning his forehead against her side.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “Aegon is my brother, but I fear his reign would bring ruin for us all. I see it every night.”
In the quiet of the cave, the pendant grew warmer against his skin. Daeron stepped back, looking down at it as it pulsed faintly with light. He felt the presence of something vast and maternal—a whisper in his mind.
Protect the dragons. Protect your kin.
The words echoed, and Daeron’s heart clenched. Tessarion let out a sharp, resonant call that seemed to vibrate through the very walls of the cave. It was as if she understood his turmoil and sought to answer it.
Daeron exhaled slowly, a sense of resolve beginning to form. “If Aegon’s reign will bring destruction, then I must find a way to stop it.”
The dragon’s gaze met his, steady and unflinching. For the first time, Daeron felt the weight of his lineage. A call to the blood of Old Valyria with the weight of responsibility it carried. It was not loyalty to one brother or another that mattered, but the survival of their legacy—of their dragons.
As the night deepened, Daeron sat beside Tessarion, lost in thought. The dreams haunted him still, but they also gave him purpose. The goddess had shown him the end, but perhaps she would also show him the path to prevent it.
***************************************************
Harwin was gone.
The news struck like a blade to the heart.
The family solar of Dragonstone was shrouded in an unusual stillness. Rhaenyra sat by the fire, her face an unreadable mask, though the slight tremble of her hands betrayed her emotions. The flames flickered, casting long shadows on her grief-stricken features. Across from her, Laenor stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the churning sea. His shoulders slumped, his usual buoyant demeanor dimmed to something somber and heavy.
Rhaenyra stood motionless, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the table. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts, her face pale with shock. Laenor sat slumped in his chair, his elbows braced on his knees, his head buried in his hands. The weight of grief hung heavy in the room.
“Tell me again,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice brittle. “What happened?”
Daemon stood a few feet away, his expression grim. “He was on patrol in the city, near the Dragonpit. He stopped at a tavern—one known to harbor spies and cutthroats. A fight broke out, and Harwin…” Daemon hesitated, his jaw tightening. “He was stabbed. Multiple times.”
Rhaenyra’s hand flew to her mouth as a broken sob escaped her. “No,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Not Harwin. He was—He was our balance,” Rhaenyra said finally, her voice raw, barely above a whisper. Her gaze was fixed on the fire, as if she were searching its depths for answers. “Fire and sea… and Harwin was the earth. He grounded us.”
Laenor lifted his head, his eyes red and swollen. “He was our anchor, Rhaenyra. The one who kept us steady when we faltered. And now…” He looked away, unable to finish the sentence.
Rhaenyra’s tears began to fall freely. “I should have kept him closer. He was too good, too loyal. And now the Greens will whisper it was his own folly that led to his death, but I know—” Her voice broke. “I know this was no accident.”
Daemon’s expression darkened. “You think Otto had a hand in it?”
“Or Alicent,” Rhaenyra said, her voice sharpening with anger. “They see loyalty to me as a threat. And Harwin… Harwin was more than loyal. He was family.”
Laenor rose from his chair, his posture unsteady. “We will make them answer for this,” he said quietly, his grief hardening into resolve. “For Harwin, for all of us.”
Rhaenyra turned to him, her eyes searching his. “We will, Laenor. But not out of rage. We will strike with precision, with purpose. They cannot know how deeply this wounds us.”
The words hung in the air, their grief palpable. Neither spoke for a long moment, lost in their shared loss, each mourning not just the man but the stability and strength he had brought to their lives.
He had been their anchor, their balance. His steadiness had complemented Rhaenyra’s fire and Laenor’s fluidity. Rhaenyra finally broke the silence. “He was everything we needed,” she said, her voice cracking. “He steadied me, reminded me of who I was when the weight of the crown became too much. And now… he’s just gone.”
Laenor turned from the window, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “He kept us grounded. When I couldn’t face the court, when I felt like I was drowning under their judgment, Harwin reminded me who I was, too.” He shook his head, anger flickering beneath his grief. “I should have been there. I should have—”
“Don’t,” Rhaenyra interrupted, her voice sharp as steel. “This isn’t your fault. It’s theirs. It’s always them.”
The door creaked open as Laena entered. Laena’s face was soft with sympathy, assessing their states.
“Rhaenyra,” Laena said gently, crossing the room to place a hand on her shoulder. “I just heard the news. I’m so sorry for you both.”
Rhaenyra’s shoulders sagged, and she allowed herself to lean into Laena’s comforting touch. “It feels like a piece of me has been ripped away,” she admitted.
Daemon moved to Laenor, placing a hand on his brother-in-law’s arm. “Grieve him,” Daemon said simply. “But don’t let them see it. Don’t let them think they’ve broken you.”
Laenor gave a bitter laugh. “They’ve done more than break me, Daemon. They’ve left us hollow.”
***********************************************
Lucerys listened from the shadows, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never seen his parents so shattered, so vulnerable. Harwin Strong had been a constant presence in his life, a figure of unwavering strength and guidance. To lose him now, in such a brutal and senseless way, felt like losing a piece of their family.
As the adults spoke in hushed tones, Lucerys lingered in the doorway, unnoticed. He watched his parents, their grief raw and unfiltered. His mother, always so strong, seemed smaller now, weighed down by the loss. His father, usually full of smiles and laughter, was a shadow of himself.
It made something deep within Lucerys twist painfully. Draco knew this feeling of helplessness. After the war Narcissa and Lucius were shells of their former selves who never really recovered from the distraction it wrought. It stirred something deep within him, a fierce determination that made his young heart pound in his chest. He had to protect them all.
Later that night, while the rest of the family mourned, Lucerys locked himself away in Visenya’s workshop. He rummaged through the chest of curiosities he had collected over this past year, pulling out a shard of dragonglass that glinted in the firelight. Harry had once shared with Draco stories of mirrors that could connect people across great distances. If such a thing existed here, it could make it faster and safer for their family to communicate.
He sat at his desk, carefully chiseling the dragonglass into the shape of small, circular mirrors. His fingers worked with precision, his young face set in determined concentration.
When the mirrors were finished, he bound them in a thin silver frame, attaching it to a delicate chain that could be attached to clothing resembling an eyeglass.
“This will keep us connected,” he whispered to himself, his voice firm with purpose. “No matter where we are, we’ll know if danger is near.”
As dawn broke, Lucerys presented his creation to his mother and father. They were still subdued, their grief fresh, but when Rhaenyra took the small device in her hand, her fingers brushing over the cool surface of the dragonglass, she looked up at her son with a flicker of hope in her eyes.
“You made this?” she asked, her voice soft but tinged with pride.
Lucerys nodded. “It’s for us. For our family. So we’ll always know if someone’s in danger. They are communication mirrors. If you carry it with you, I can enchant another to match it. If there’s danger, we’ll know instantly. No waiting for ravens.”
Laenor took one of the mirrors, examining it closely. “This… this is incredible, Luke,” he said, his voice breaking slightly as he looked at his son. “You’re incredible.”
Lucerys sighed. “We can’t let what happened to Ser Harwin happen to anyone else. We need to stay connected, no matter where we are.”
Laenor placed a hand on Lucerys’s shoulder. “You’ve done well, Luke. Truly.” Rhaenyra pulled her son into a tight embrace, her grief momentarily giving way to pride.
Lucerys didn’t reply, but the determination in his eyes burned brighter than ever. If the Greens wanted to break their family, they would have to go through him first.

**********************************************

The air was thick with grief and tension at Dragonstone, but Rhaena Targaryen felt neither. Not in the way her family did, at least. The news of Ser Harwin Strong’s death weighed heavily on the household. Yet, while others gathered in hushed circles of mourning or comfort, Rhaena slipped unnoticed through the shadows of the castle corridors.
She tightened her cloak against the brisk sea air as she made her way down the rocky path to the shore. The moonlight guided her steps, illuminating the jagged rocks and the glistening spray of waves crashing below.
Her heart raced, not with fear, but with determination.
Tomorrow isn’t promised, she reminded herself. Life was fleeting, unpredictable, each could come at any moment. If she was to make her mark, to prove herself worthy of her Targaryen blood, she couldn’t wait for permission.
The mouth of the cave loomed ahead, a dark, yawning void against the cliffside. Rhaena hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, her boots splashing in the shallow pools left by the tide.
“Grey Ghost,” she called softly, her voice trembling but resolute.
The sound of her voice echoed off the damp stone walls, but no reply came. The cave was eerily silent, save for the distant crash of waves outside. She moved deeper, her hands brushing against the rough, wet surface of the walls.
“Grey Ghost,” she tried again, louder this time. “I know you’re here. I’ve seen you before, circling the island, disappearing into the mist. I’ve felt your presence. I’ve dreamed of you.”
A low rumble broke the silence causing Rhaena to freeze, her breath catching in her throat.
Then, out of the shadows, he emerged.
Grey Ghost was unlike any dragon she had ever seen. His scales shimmered in the dim light, a shifting mix of seafoam green and pale silver, like the mist over the ocean at dawn. His wings were vast and translucent, catching the faintest glimmers of moonlight, and his webbed claws clicked softly against the stone floor as he approached. His thick, muscular tail swished behind him, splashing through the shallow pools with ease.
Rhaena’s knees nearly buckled as she took in the sheer majesty of him. This was no ordinary dragon. He was a creature of both sea and sky, a legend made flesh.
Grey Ghost lowered his head, his glowing yellow eyes fixed on hers. There was an intelligence in that gaze, a testing, as though he were measuring her worth.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Rhaena said, though her voice wavered. “You’ve stayed hidden for so long, but I know why. You’re waiting. Waiting for someone who understands what it means to be different, to not belong. That’s why I came here. Because I do understand.”
Grey Ghost let out a deep, guttural growl, his breath warm and briny as it washed over her. Rhaena raised a trembling hand and stepped closer.
“I won’t leave until you hear me,” she continued. “I know I’m not my sister. I don’t have a dragon of my own yet. But I can be strong, too. Just like her. Just like my family. And I’ll prove it to you.”
The dragon watched her, his massive head tilting slightly. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, he leaned forward, his snout brushing against her outstretched hand.
Rhaena gasped, the connection sending a shock of warmth through her veins. Images flashed in her mind—a stormy sea, the taste of salt, the pull of currents deep below the surface. She felt his power, his loneliness, his longing for a kindred spirit.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
Grey Ghost let out a low, rumbling hum, a sound of approval. He shifted, lowering his body to the cave floor, his vast wings folding neatly at his sides.
Rhaena stepped closer, her courage growing with each step. She climbed onto his back, her fingers gripping the ridges of his scales. The moment she was seated, Grey Ghost rose, his powerful legs propelling them toward the cave’s entrance.
As they emerged into the open air, the moonlight bathed them both, and Rhaena felt a surge of exhilaration.
Grey Ghost leapt into the sky, his wings unfurling with a mighty snap. The wind roared in her ears as they ascended, the island shrinking below them. But as they soared higher, Rhaena felt a new strength settle within her.
She had claimed him—not through force, but through understanding.
Above Dragonstone, Rhaena and Grey Ghost disappeared into the mist, their bond forged and unbreakable. Tomorrow wasn’t promised, but tonight, she had taken control of her destiny.
*************************************
The sun had set over King’s Landing, leaving the Red Keep bathed in flickering torchlight. In his private chambers, Viserys Targaryen sat slumped in his chair, his hand resting heavily on the table before him. The parchment bearing the news of Harwin Strong’s death lay there, the ink smudged where his fingers had brushed over it too many times.
“Another one,” Viserys murmured, his voice thick with grief. “Another life lost in this cursed city.”
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
“Enter,” he called, straightening slightly.
The door creaked open, and Lyonel Strong stepped inside, his expression heavy. The lines on his face seemed deeper tonight, his usual composure strained by the weight of both his personal loss and his duties as Hand of the King.
“Your Grace,” Lyonel began, bowing low. “You sent for me?”
Viserys waved him closer. “Come, Lyonel. Sit. I won’t have you standing when you’ve just lost your son. By the gods, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Lyonel hesitated before taking the offered seat. “I thank you for your kind words, Your Grace. Harwin… he was a good man, devoted to his duties. His loss is a heavy blow to my family.”
“And to the realm,” Viserys added, his voice soft but resolute. He leaned forward, his tired eyes meeting Lyonel’s. “This should not have happened. The city is unsafe, Lyonel. If the heir to Harrenhal can be slain so easily, what of the common folk? What of my own children?”
Lyonel inclined his head solemnly. “The safety of the city is indeed a pressing concern, Your Grace. Harwin’s death highlights the dangers that lurk in the shadows of King’s Landing.”
Viserys sighed deeply, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Alicent believes new leadership among the Gold Cloaks is the solution. She has suggested Ser Criston Cole for the role. She says he is disciplined, loyal, and unafraid to take decisive action.”
Lyonel’s brow furrowed at the mention of Cole. “Your Grace, while Ser Criston has certainly shown himself to be… assertive in his duties, he is a member of the Kingsguard. His primary responsibility is to protect the royal family, specifically Queen Alicent, as her sworn shield. To appoint him as Commander of the City Watch would divert him from his sworn oath and his true purpose.”
Viserys nodded slowly, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I thought as much. But if not Cole, then who? The City Watch needs strong leadership, someone the people can trust to bring order to the chaos.”
Lyonel hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. “There is one man who has held the position before, Your Grace. Under his command, the citizens of King’s Landing felt safer. He enforced the law with an iron hand, yes, but he did so within the bounds of justice.”
Viserys raised an eyebrow. “You speak of my brother.”
“Prince Daemon,” Lyonel confirmed, his tone even. “His methods were harsh, but effective. During his tenure as Commander, crime in the city fell significantly. Those who broke the law were punished swiftly, and the people knew they were protected. Say what you will of his temperament, but Daemon inspired both fear and respect.”
Viserys let out a rueful chuckle, leaning back in his chair. “Fear, indeed. The man has a way of turning every post into a theater for his own ambitions. But…” He trailed off, his gaze distant.
“But?” Lyonel prompted gently.
“But he got results,” Viserys admitted. “He brought order to chaos, something this city desperately needs.”
Lyonel nodded. “Precisely, Your Grace. And while Daemon’s methods may not align with those of a softer hand, they are effective. Should you wish to reappoint him, it would send a message to those who would sow disorder in your streets.”
Viserys tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, the weight of the decision settling over him. “I’ll consider it,” he said finally. “Though gods know, it’s not an easy choice. My brother is… complicated, to say the least.”
“Complicated he may be,” Lyonel said, standing, “but he is also capable. And in times like these, capability is what the city needs most.”
Viserys nodded again, his expression pensive. “Thank you, Lyonel. Your counsel is, as always, invaluable.”
As Lyonel left the room, Viserys turned back to the parchment on the table, his thoughts heavy. The city was unraveling, and with it, his family. He only hoped he could make the right choices before it was too late.