Ash

'His head was aflame.'

-Taken from The Travels of Fyrio Fartold.

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The sky was a clear blue the day they laid Queen Aemma to rest, as if the heavens themselves opened to welcome an angel home.

The pyre was built on a rocky cleft along the shoreline, a mile outside King's Landing. 

Guards stood watch, dragon banners flapping against the coastal wind.

It was an intimate affair — no more than two dozen lords and ladies had the privilege to attend.

For a long time, they stood in silence. None dared defile the sanctity of words left unsaid.

Rhaenyra watched her brother, standing at the forefront, dangerously close to the edge of the unlit pyre.

The King was the next closest to him, but to Rhaenyra, the distance between them felt like worlds.

Her brother seethed in silent rage. Her father was catatonic with grief, the proud knights of the Kingsguard flanking him.

And she? Helpless to intervene. This was not her moment to act.

Prince Daemon appeared behind her, silent as a shadow.

"They're waiting for you," he whispered.

She knew it. But it all felt absurd. Why her? Why should she be the one to send her mother off?

When she asked her brother, his answer was cold: "You're the eldest."

So it was her dragon, Syrax, who loomed on the hill above them all.

<"I wonder,"> Rhaenyra said in Valyrian, <"if, during the few hours my brother lived, my father found happiness. Another son, like he always wanted.">

<"Your father needs you,"> Daemon said.

<"Now more than ever.">

<"I will never be a son,"> Rhaenyra replied, her eyes misty as she looked at her father. It was time to end this.

She stepped forward. <"Dr—">

The word caught in her throat. She turned back to her father one last time, hoping for something—acknowledgment, reassurance, anything.

Nothing.

He stood there, a man hollowed out by grief, crushed under the weight of his crown. 

So weak, so pathetic, Rhaenyra thought, that the wind might carry him away if not for the heavy gold on his head.

He couldn't even meet her gaze.

Her brother, too, gave her nothing — no strength, no support, only a cold, rigid stance.

How could the men in her life be so selfish with their feelings? What about her?

Defiance rose in her stomach, hot and unrelenting.

Sometimes, she realized, you must stand alone, even when surrounded by those who should be there for you.

<"Dracarys!"> she commanded.

Syrax moved at once, descending from the hill to breathe fire upon the pyre. Flames roared to life, heat forcing the guards to step back.

Not Rhaenar. He stood firm, arms crossed. 

That was it. Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon were ash, scattered to the wind.

Rhaenar didn't move. He watched until the last flame burned out.

The King did the same, forcing everyone to linger in an awkward silence.

When it was over, Rhaenar stepped forward and reached into the remains, pulling out a sword—Blackfyre, blackened with ash.

Rhaenyra remembered when her brother had done the same, after they burned the Cannibal on Dragonstone's eastern beach. A strange ritual, dating back to the days of King Maegor.

Without a word, Rhaenar turned and walked away. To everyone's shock, he bumped into the King as he passed—a deliberate act, childish in its provocation.

The collective gasp of the mourners broke Viserys from his stupor. Even the Kingsguard shifted uneasily.

Rhaenar kept walking.

A chill ran through Viserys. Despite everything, he still bore the gravest responsibility.

The realm needed strength, unity — for the day when the icy storm swept south.

It needed Rhaenar.

Viserys searched for the right words.

What he said instead was, without question, the worst thing he could have chosen.

"Stop!" Viserys called. "In the name of your King!"

Rhaenar froze.

No. Not Rhaenar.

A stranger~

"Keep the crown, Father," Rhaenar said, "Such jewels befit you. But make no mistake:

"The House of the Dragon is mine."

It hit Viserys all at once. Failure. How had it gone so wrong, so quickly?

This wasn't unity. Far from it.

Sundance landed nearby, and Rhaenar mounted without hesitation. 

The King dropped to his knees, defeated.

Rhaenar would have left without a second glance if not for Rhaenyra.

"Rhaenar!" she called.

He paused. 

"Yes?"

"Where are you going?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he said. "I'm going home."

Then he was gone.

The funeral goers watched as he flew past King's Landing. Was it the sky he now called home?

Rhaenyra considered mounting Syrax and chasing after him. 

But when her eyes fell on her father, kneeling and muttering to himself, broken, she realized someone in this family had to hold it together.

Prince Daemon gave her a nod, impressed by the resolve.

.

..

…

..

.

Some time later, on the Gold Road, Grandmaester Mellos sat in his carriage, reading to calm his nerves.

His anxiety spiked when a loud thud sounded outside, and the carriage lurched to a stop.

"Mellos!"

The grandmaester froze. 

Death had come calling.

Scrambling out of the carriage, Mellos found himself face-to-face with Rhaenar, perched atop his golden dragon, snarling with murder.

Rhaenar raised a thumb.

 "What are you waiting for?" he said. "Get on."

Mellos obeyed, too terrified to speak during the flight. 

To his surprise, they landed far from King's Landing, on a lone hill crowned by a single tree. Is this where Mellos would be hanged?

Rhaenar finally broke it.

"I was surprised by your sudden departure."

His tone suggested otherwise.

"Urgent business," Mellos managed weakly.

"I'm sure. So urgent you chose the Gold Road. A wise decision, at least."

Mellos raised a brow but held his tongue.

Rhaenar sighed. "If I dragged you to court with the information I possess, you'd have been executed. Guilty or no, you'd have been made a martyr to my folly.

"Still, it stings. You helped raise me, Mellos. Tell me, do you truly believe I harmed those servants? That I would ever harm you?"

Mellos's guilt swelled. 

"I… dare not presume to understand the mind of a dragon. Especially in grief."

Rhaenar chuckled softly. 

"As good an answer as any, I suppose. Listen, Mellos. I'm leaving. I won't pretend to ignore your ambition. You sought the rank of Grandmaester from the moment you arrived.

"That said, you're suited to the role. My father will need your wisdom in my absence."

Relief washed over Mellos. Life?

"Don't mistake me, old friend," Rhaenar said, cold, "It is our history alone that spares your life. Be grateful I see past your negligence. Lesser minds might have suspected conspiracy. Surely, you didn't wish for my mother's death?"

"Of course not!" Mellos protested.

Rhaenar raised a hand to silence him. 

"As you say. This is your last chance. Go. Claim your dream as Grandmaester. Serve well and with integrity.

"But hear me, Mellos, if I so much as suspect you to jeopardize my blood again, I won't be so gracious. Farewell."

With that, Rhaenar mounted his dragon and flew away, leaving Mellos stunned beneath that tree.

Dread crept into Mellos's chest, the kind born of sheer uncertainty.

Any fool could see it now. No scholarly wisdom was needed to understand.

Anything could happen. Times had changed in a blink.

Summer had been cast to ash.

Whether it would fertilize the land, or leave it a wasteland, was anyone's guess.