Game of Thrones:Dawn of Ice and Fire.

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Chapter Four: Whispers of Vengeance

The small Braavosi house was quiet, its stone walls sheltering secrets that could unravel kingdoms. A faint breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying the salt-tang of the distant Narrow Sea. Moonlight pooled on the floor, casting silver shadows across the simple furnishings.

Rhaella Targaryen sat by the crib where her daughter, Daenerys, slept soundly. The babe's silver-gold hair glinted in the soft light, her tiny chest rising and falling with peaceful breaths.

Rhaella reached out, brushing her fingers gently across her daughter's soft cheek. Daenerys stirred but did not wake. The sight filled Rhaella with a strange ache—a fierce love tempered by sorrow.

She thought back to the night of Daenerys's birth, a storm raging over Dragonstone as waves battered the ancient fortress. The maester's hands had been rough, his face grim as he worked desperately to save both mother and child. Rhaella had felt death's cold fingers brushing against her that night, but against all odds, she had survived.

Sometimes she questioned why.

What purpose did her life serve now, torn from the throne that had been her family's birthright for centuries? She had lost everything—her husband, her eldest son Rhaegar, her grandchildren Aegon and Rhaenys, even sweet Elia, who had never deserved the fate that befell her.

Her hands clenched into fists as she remembered the reports of how Robert Baratheon had laughed when presented with the mutilated bodies of her grandchildren. Wretched dragonspawn, he had called them, as though they were less than human.

Her blood boiled at the thought.

They had dyed their hair dark to hide their Targaryen coloring, she and Viserys, forced into disguises to avoid the eyes of those who hunted the last remnants of House Targaryen. Every day was a delicate game of survival, even here in Braavos under the protection of a few loyal retainers.

But Daenerys needed her. So did Viserys, though his anger and arrogance made him harder to love. They were all that remained of her once-mighty house.

Rhaella's throat tightened, but she refused to cry. She had shed too many tears over the years, and they had done nothing to bring her family back. She would not weep again—not until she had seen vengeance claimed and justice restored.

A sudden knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts. She straightened, her hand instinctively moving to shield Daenerys as the door creaked open. A servant stepped in, bowing nervously.

"My queen," the woman said softly, glancing over her shoulder as though afraid of being overheard. "There is a guest… unexpected."

Rhaella's brow furrowed. Few knew of their hiding place, and fewer still dared approach uninvited.

"Who?"

"Ser Arthur Dayne."

Rhaella's breath caught in her throat. That was impossible.

"Ser Arthur is dead," she said sharply, her voice barely above a whisper. "He fell with the rest of the Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy."

The servant shook her head. "He lives, my queen. He insists upon seeing you."

Rhaella hesitated, her mind racing. If this was a trap, she had to protect her children. But something inside her—a flicker of hope long buried—urged her to see him.

"Bring him to me," she commanded, her voice steady.

Moments later, the servant returned, followed by a tall figure cloaked in grey. The man moved with a warrior's grace despite the faint limp in his stride. His face was leaner than she remembered, marked by faint scars, but there was no mistaking the piercing gaze of Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning.

"Ser Arthur," she breathed, disbelief mingling with astonishment. "How…?"

He bowed low. "My queen. I was injured, not slain. I have spent these long months in hiding, waiting for the right moment to return."

Rhaella's voice was cold, suspicion threading through her words. "Why come now?"

He straightened, his expression solemn. "Because I bring news that you must hear."

Her heart clenched, torn between hope and fear. "What news?"

Arthur's voice softened. "Rhaegar's son lives."

Rhaella froze, her mind struggling to grasp the weight of his words. "Aegon is dead," she whispered, her voice cracking. "They murdered him, butchered him like an animal."

Arthur shook his head. "Not Aegon. Lyanna Stark's son—your grandson, Daeron Targaryen."

Rhaella's breath caught. "Lyanna...?"

Arthur nodded. "Rhaegar loved her. They had a son together, born during the final days of the rebellion. He lives, hidden in the North as Jon Snow, the bastard of Eddard Stark."

Rhaella's legs nearly gave out, and she gripped the edge of the crib for support. Her thoughts tumbled in chaotic fragments—Rhaegar's tragic love, Lyanna Stark, a child born in secrecy.

"Jon Snow," she murmured, the name foreign on her tongue.

"He is Daeron Targaryen by blood," Arthur said firmly, "the rightful heir to your house. The North raises him as one of their own, but his destiny is far greater."

Rhaella's eyes burned, though she refused to let the tears fall. A grandson—her family was not as broken as she had believed. The usurper had not wiped them all out.

Hope flickered in her heart, fragile but fierce.

She looked up at Ser Arthur, her voice steadier now. "We will reclaim what is ours."

Arthur inclined his head. "We will, my queen."

As he spoke, Daenerys stirred in her crib, a soft coo escaping her lips. Rhaella looked down at her daughter, then back at Arthur.

"Fire and blood," she whispered, the ancient words of House Targaryen heavy with promise. "We will rise again."

And in the shadows of Braavos, beneath the watchful gaze of the moon, a queen's resolve hardened into steel.