He sees a young RHAENYRA, not as queen, but as a girl of eight, stitching a dragon on a banner. She looks up and whispers: “You were always the second son. Even in my heart.”

Mysaria steps closer. “Then you must burn the ashes first, Your Grace. There is no throne without terror.”

Daemon straps on Dark Sister. “To remind the gods that I still owe them nothing.”

Aegon speaks, his voice a rasp: “Rhaenyra has Harrenhal. She has the Riverlands. She has the North. And what do I have? A dragon that cannot fly and a brother who smiles while I rot.”

“Then we take King’s Landing. And may the Seven forgive what I become.”

Rhaena stands on the deck, staring up at the ancient dragon. She does not run. She holds a dragonegg, cold and stone-dead in her arms.

The air smells of rain and rust. DAEMON TARGARYEN stands alone in the God’s Eye tower, his hand pressed against the bleeding, carved weirwood tree. His vision blurs—not from fatigue, but from the trance he can no longer escape.