The crackling of a brazier fire echoed faintly through the chamber, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the Tower of the Hand. King Rhaegar Targaryen stood near the arched window, one hand resting on the hilt of Blackfyre, the other clutching a rolled parchment—an ancient prophecy written in High Valyrian, smudged and worn by time.
"The dragon must have three heads…" he whispered, reading the line over for the thousandth time. "But where are they? Where are the three?"
Behind him, the chamber door creaked open.
"Your Grace," said Maester Olivar, a slender, pale man with sunken eyes and a voice like dry parchment. "Princess Elia is awake."
Rhaegar turned, eyes unreadable. "And the child?"
Maester Olivar looked away. "Gone… again."
The silence was suffocating.
"She miscarried?" Rhaegar asked, voice low and trembling.
"Yes," Olivar said. "The bleeding was too heavy this time. I fear… if you attempt another child, it will kill her."
The parchment in Rhaegar's hands crumpled. He turned back to the window, staring into the stormy horizon over Blackwater Bay.
"Elia wanted a third child as much as I did," he said quietly. "She wanted to give me my dream."
The maester said nothing.
"She wanted to be the flame in the dark," Rhaegar murmured, more to himself now. "But the flame is dying."
Later that night, Rhaegar sat by Elia's bedside, her hand limp in his. Her face was pale, lips cracked, but her eyes fluttered open at his touch.
"Rhaegar…" she croaked.
"I'm here, my sun," he said gently. "You're safe. Rest."
"I lost her, didn't I?" she whispered, glancing down at her still-flat belly.
Rhaegar nodded slowly. "You mustn't blame yourself."
"I am not blaming anyone," Elia said, her voice suddenly clear despite the pain. "But I can't give you what you seek."
He looked away.
"I've read the book of prophecies," she went on. "You chase ghosts and riddles. Visions of doom."
"They are not riddles," Rhaegar said. "They are truth. The prince that was promised will come. The dragon must have three heads. And he must be born of ice and fire."
Elia smiled sadly. "And you think Lyanna was the ice to your fire?"
A few months later…
A storm raged across Dragonstone. Winds howled like banshees through the towers, and the sea clawed at the rocky shore with foaming anger. Lightning split the sky again and again.
Inside the birthing chamber, Rhaella Targaryen screamed in agony as her final child came into the world.
And then—a single, shrill wail pierced the storm.
"It's a girl!" cried the midwife.
The babe was pale as moonlight, her hair as silver as snow, her tiny eyes like amethysts. She opened her mouth and screamed again, louder than the wind outside.
The chamber doors opened as a soaked, cloaked figure entered. Rhaegar pulled down his hood and rushed to the bed.
"Mother?" he asked. "Is she—?"
Rhaella, exhausted, managed a weak smile. "She is strong," she said. "Stronger than I ever was."
Rhaegar stepped forward, looking down at the child. The midwife placed the baby in his arms. She stared up at him with wide, fearless eyes.
"What will you name her?" the maester asked.
Rhaella smiled. "She was born during the fiercest storm I have ever seen… We shall call her Daenerys. Daenerys Stormborn."
Rhaegar cradled his newborn sister and felt a flicker of hope warm his chest.
"A dragon is born," he whispered.
Back at King's Landing, Rhaegar sat at his writing desk, scrolls and tomes spread before him, maps of old Valyria and diagrams of comet paths.
He dipped his quill and wrote:
"The dragon must have three heads. Rhaenys. Aegon. Daenerys."
But something felt wrong.
He looked toward the fire, and Lyanna's face swam before his eyes, her laugh like a wind-chime in spring. And then—a child with her eyes, running through snow, his hair dark as night, his smile unmistakably Stark.
Rhaegar closed his eyes.
"No," he whispered. "It cannot be three heads from three mothers. It must be one song… one harmony. A song of ice and fire."
He stood abruptly. "I must find her. The gods are speaking. I will not ignore them anymore."
The Red Keep loomed silent under the weight of twilight, its towers veiled in the orange glow of the setting sun. King Rhaegar Targaryen stood alone in the Hall of Painted Table, gazing down at the massive map of Westeros carved into ancient wood. His silver-blond hair shimmered in the light, but the color in his violet eyes had dulled with time and sorrow.
He placed a single hand on the North, brushing the lands around Winterfell. His fingers hesitated—hovering above the location of Harrenhall, where he met Lyanna for the first time, before retreating back to his side. His jaw clenched.
"I should have gone to her…" he whispered.
There was no answer, only the distant call of crows from the city walls.
It had been a year since he had taken the Iron Throne, and yet the crown weighed heavier each passing day. Aerys II, his father had left behind a realm of ashes, enemies, and unrest. Rhaegar had believed that with the madman gone, the people would welcome peace. But it hadn't been so simple.
"Every day I delayed… was a betrayal," he muttered, remembering the promise.
"You must go now, Rhaegar," Lyanna's voice had been soft that night, under the cold northern night.
"I will," he had said, taking her hand in his. "Just give me a little time. When I wear the crown, it will be easy to ask for your hand. I will come to Winterfell as a king… with a proper betrothal."
Her eyes had narrowed slightly. "I don't care for crowns. I only care for our future."
Rhaegar had kissed her knuckles. "One moon's turn. Then I'll come. And I will bring the whole world to you."
But one moon's turn became two. Then three. And then, it was too late.
"Queen Elia is waiting in the solar," said Ser Jonothor Darry from the doorway. "She wishes to speak about Rhaenys' tutors."
Rhaegar didn't look up. "Tell her I will come shortly."
When the knight left, Rhaegar moved to the window and stared out over King's Landing. Smoke curled from chimneys, children laughed in the distance, and bells rang to mark the hour. Yet, inside him, it was silence.
He walked slowly to a tall cupboard and opened its doors. Inside lay a bundle of parchment, sealed letters yellowed with age, reports from spies he had placed months ago—men and women tasked with finding Lyanna Stark, quietly, without anyone knowing.
He sat by the hearth, opened one, and read.
"No sign of the lady in the Vale. Rumors claim she left for Essos."
Another:
"A trader from Braavos mentioned a northern girl with wolfish eyes, but she was traveling with a dark-haired merchant."
Rhaegar crushed the parchment in his fist.
He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. "I failed you, Lyanna. I failed everything we dreamed of."
The Maesters called it love, but in Rhaegar's heart it had been something more. Lyanna had been a storm in his soul—wild, unyielding, free. He could never forget her laugh, the way she challenged his solemn thoughts with fierce Northern wit.
Elia had been kind. Gentle. Obedient. She had given him heirs. But she was not Lyanna. And he had stayed with her not out of love—but politics. The Martells had remained the only powerful family still loyal to the Targaryens after his father's rule. Losing them would mean losing the throne. And so, he stayed in King's Landing, wearing the crown and pretending he had never promised his heart to the North.
The tale of her elopement with a secret lover was mocked by bards and whispered in corners. He had done nothing to stop it—only to preserve his seat.
But at night, her name came back in dreams.
A knock sounded again.
"Your Grace," said a voice this time—Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning and his oldest friend. "We've had word from Braavos."
Rhaegar stood so fast the parchment dropped from his lap.
"Braavos?" he asked, his voice tense. "From whom?"
"An old contact. The letter was delivered to the Citadel first. They claim… Lady Lyanna's husband visit Braavos frequently."
Rhaegar's eyes lit with fire. "Husband?"
"We don't know. It was vague. But they said the man called herself Lord Griffindor."
Rhaegar moved toward the fire. "Find him. Find whatever information they have on the Lord Griffindor. And triple the gold. I want answers."
Arthur hesitated. "Rhaegar… if this is true… Lyanna is moved on and may be you should move on too…"
He stared once more at the map of Westeros—his eyes resting again on the far North.
"Forgive me, Lyanna. I am coming. Even if I must forsake the Iron Throne to do so."
The storm had passed, but the skies over Storm's End were still heavy with the scent of rain and salt from the crashing sea. In the great stone hall, the servants whispered the news with hushed excitement—Lord Robert Baratheon had been blessed with a child.
The Hall of Storm's End, built to withstand the fury of tempests, now echoed with the soft cries of a newborn. Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Warden of the South, stood near the hearth with the infant in his arms.
She was swaddled in fine Baratheon black and gold, her tiny fists waving as she squealed. Thick tufts of black hair crowned her head, and her wide, deep blue eyes blinked up at the towering man who held her.
Robert chuckled, soft and almost wistful. "Seven hells… she's got my bloody hair," he muttered, cradling the babe with an uncharacteristic gentleness. "And those eyes—by the gods, she looks just like Mya did…"
He paused, thinking of the daughter he had sired in the Vale so long ago. "Mya never cried this much," he mused, but the words carried no regret—only a strange, almost tender nostalgia.
A steward stepped forward. "My lord… Lady Cersei is awake."
Robert nodded, pressing a kiss to the babe's forehead before handing her back to the midwife. "Make sure she's wrapped warm," he said. "She's got a storm in her lungs already."
The birthing chamber still smelled of blood and milk, the air thick with the scent of herbs and sweat. Cersei Lannister lay against a stack of pillows, her golden hair damp and clinging to her brow. Her cheeks were flushed, but her eyes were glowing.
"You took your time," she said when Robert stepped in.
Robert gave a grin and sat beside her. "I had to admire my handiwork," he said. "You've given me a fine one, Cersei. Black hair. Blue eyes. Strong lungs. The gods were smiling."
Cersei smiled tiredly. "She kept kicking the whole time. I knew she'd be a fighter."
Robert reached for her hand and kissed it. "She's a Baratheon, all right. Born in a storm, just like this castle."
Cersei chuckled weakly. "I hope she'll be more than a storm."
"You're more than a storm, and you've kept me on my toes since the day we were wed," Robert said. "The girl's already got your stubbornness. She was holding onto your ribs like she didn't want to come out."
Cersei closed her eyes for a moment. "You were scared," she said softly. "I saw it in your face when the maester called you in."
"I'm always scared when I can't swing a sword to fix things," Robert admitted. "But you… you're tougher than any knight I know."
She opened her eyes and smiled. "Even tougher than Ser Barristan?"
Robert laughed, a booming, full-bellied sound. "Barristan's never given birth."
They shared a moment of silence, their fingers laced together.
Then Cersei asked, "Have you thought of a name?"
Robert nodded. "Aye. Cassandra. Cassandra Baratheon."
Cersei arched an eyebrow. "A foreign name?"
"It was my mother's favorite, from an old tale she used to tell me," Robert said. "A woman who saw the future but no one listened. I figure this girl will see the world clearer than we ever did."
Cersei looked thoughtful. "Cassandra… it suits her."
Robert stood and turned to the door. "Let the ravens fly. Let all the realm know. A new lioness has been born into the storm."
Cersei narrowed her eyes playfully. "Lioness?"
"She's half Baratheon, half Lannister," Robert said with a grin. "She'll roar like a lion and charge like a stag."
As the door shut behind him, Cersei looked down at the baby girl swaddled beside her. The infant's tiny fingers curled around her thumb.
Cersei whispered, "Cassandra… you'll be everything I couldn't be. And the world will listen to you."