HELAENA
Morning light filled the nursery.
Jaehaerys played with wooden knights on the floor, arranging them in patterns only he understood. Jaehaera sat by the window, brushing a doll's hair with mechanical precision. Maelor—barely two, still unsteady on his feet—toddled between them, laughing at nothing.
My children. My beautiful, doomed children.
The dreams showed her things. Terrible things. Blood on stone floors. Small bodies broken. A choice she couldn't unmake.
But also: a shadow standing in the doorway. A man made of iron and fire. Protecting.
"Mother?"
Jaehaerys looked up. His silver hair fell across his face—so like his father's, before Aegon drowned himself in wine and resentment.
"Yes, sweetling?"
"Is the knight coming today?"
"Ulf isn't a knight."
"He fights like one. Ser Criston says he fights better than any knight in the realm." Jaehaerys moved a wooden figure—the one he'd painted silver. "I want him to teach me."
"Teach you what?"
"How to be strong. So I can protect Jaehaera and Maelor."
Six years old. Already thinking of protection. Already sensing the darkness approaching.
The door opened. Ulf entered.
He moved differently when the children were present—slower, gentler, hiding the predator beneath a carefully constructed mask.
"Good morning, Your Grace." He bowed to Helaena. Then, more casually: "Morning, prince. Princesses."
Jaehaerys scrambled up. "Can you teach me to fight?"
"Jaehaerys." Helaena's voice carried warning.
"It's all right." Ulf knelt, bringing himself to the boy's level. "Fighting's important. But it's not the only thing."
"What else is there?"
"Knowing when to fight. Knowing when to run. Knowing who needs protecting and doing whatever it takes to keep them safe."
Jaehaerys considered this with surprising seriousness.
"Father says real men fight. They don't run."
"Your father's brave. But even brave men choose their battles." Ulf picked up one of the wooden knights. "See this fellow? Good sword, strong armor. But he's alone. One enemy, he wins. Two enemies, maybe. Ten enemies?"
"He dies."
"Right. So what does he do?"
"Get more knights?"
"Or." Ulf set the figure down, picked up another. "He protects the king. Stays close. Makes sure the important piece survives, even if the knight falls."
Jaehaerys stared at the wooden figures.
"You're the knight."
"I'm not important."
"Mother is the king?"
"Your mother is everything."
ULF
After the septa collected the children for lessons, Helaena and I sat in her solar.
The morning sun painted gold across the floor. Outside, dragons circled—Vhagar's massive shadow passing over the city, Dreamfyre's smaller form somewhere in the distance.
"He loves you," Helaena said.
"Jaehaerys? He's six. He loves whoever pays attention to him."
"That's exactly it." She pulled at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Aegon never... He visits. Occasionally. But he looks through them. Like they're furniture."
"Aegon's dealing with his injuries."
"Aegon was distant before the injuries. Before Rook's Rest. Before any of it." She stood. Crossed to the window. "I've accepted what my marriage is. Political arrangement. Breeding duty. I stopped hoping for more years ago."
"What do you hope for now?"
She turned. Those violet eyes—strange and beautiful and seeing too much.
"For my children to survive this war. For one person who looks at me and sees something other than 'the mad one' or 'Aegon's burden.'" She stepped closer. "For you."
"You have me."
"I know." She touched my face. Traced the new scar on my jaw—souvenir from Rook's Rest. "But I don't understand you. Not fully. You fight like nothing I've ever seen. You know things before they happen. You take my dreams seriously when everyone else thinks I'm broken."
"You're not broken."
"What am I then?"
A woman who sees the future. Cursed with visions she can't control, trapped in a war she didn't choose, married to a man who doesn't deserve her.
"You're special. Different. Like me."
Her hand dropped. "Different how?"
Careful. How much to reveal?
"I see threats before they arrive. I train in ways that shouldn't be possible. I can do things—" I paused. Considered. "Things that would frighten most people."
"I've seen what you did at Rook's Rest. What you did to the assassin in the passages." Her voice was steady. "I'm already frightened."
"Of me?"
"Of losing you. Of watching the war take you piece by piece until nothing's left but the killer."
"I'm still here."
"For now." She leaned her forehead against mine. "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"When this is over—when the Dance ends, whoever wins—you'll still be yourself. Not just a weapon. Not just a guard. You."
Can I promise that? After everything I've done? After everything I'll have to do?
"I'll try."
"That's not a promise."
"It's honest."
She kissed me. Longer this time. Deeper.
When she pulled back, her eyes glistened.
"I've seen what you'll become. In the dreams. Standing in fire. Fighting monsters. Covered in blood that isn't yours." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It frightens me. But it also means you survive. And right now, that's enough."
"I'll survive. And so will you. And so will the children."
"You can't know that."
"I can try my damnedest to make it happen."
She laughed. The first real laugh I'd heard from her in weeks.
"My strange knight. My impossible guard." She kissed my cheek. "Stay with me. Tonight. Tomorrow. Every night until the world stops burning."
"That might be a while."
"Then we'd better start now."
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