Game of Thrones: What Must Be Done
Sunspear.
The ancient palace at the edge of the burning desert.
Rhaenys Targaryen—the Princess of Vengeance—jerked awake with a violent shudder, gasping like a drowning woman.
Cold sweat soaked her naked body beneath the fine Myrish silk sheets.
Even though the nightmare had ended, her eyes still burned with raw fury, hatred, and venom.
They looked ready to set the world on fire.
She turned her head away from the memory and stared out the wide arched window at the pale moon still hanging in the deep night sky.
The sticky sweat felt disgusting on her skin.
She shoved the sheets aside, rose from the bed completely bare, and snatched a loose yellow silk robe from a chair.
She pulled it on as she walked to the table, poured herself a full goblet of strong Dornish red, and dropped into a chair on the balcony.
The wine went down in one long swallow.
“Another fucking bloody nightmare,” she muttered.
It wasn’t the first.
It wouldn’t be the last.
That night had carved itself into her soul like a brand, and every time she closed her eyes it came back to tear at her all over again.
Her mother.
Her little brother.
Her father, cut down at the Trident.
All of them gone in a few short months.
Two of them slaughtered right in front of her.
If she hadn’t hidden behind the door that night when the monsters in human skin burst into the queen’s chambers, she would have died with them.
She had survived the first wave only because Jaime Lannister found her in the chaos of the Red Keep and helped her hide among the corpses until her uncle’s people—Oberyn or Doran’s men—smuggled her out of that burning hell.
But before she escaped, her child’s eyes had seen everything.
She had watched her little playmate, the girl who had come with her from Dorne, dragged screaming from under the bed by the Mountain like a slaughtered animal.
She had heard her mother’s screams while that monster raped her.
She had seen Elia’s spine snapped and her baby brother’s head smashed against the wall.
Even now, years later, Rhaenys could still hear her mother’s agonized wails and the sick, animal grunting of the beast who ignored every plea.
Those images never faded.
The hatred only grew stronger, fermenting like poisoned wine.
Revenge was the only thing that kept her breathing.
She didn’t give a single fuck about the Iron Throne anymore.
All she wanted was blood.
Nine-year-old Rhaenys drained the goblet and reached for the pitcher, pouring straight from it into her mouth.
The strong Dornish wine burned down her throat, but she felt nothing.
No warmth, no dizziness.
Her strange body refused to let her get drunk no matter how much she drank.
She had tested that limit more times than she cared to remember.
Still, the wine took the worst edge off the rage and let her survive another night of blood-soaked dreams.
She stared into the empty glass, mind drifting back to the other dream she’d had two nights ago—the rare one that hadn’t been full of death.
He had the purest Valyrian looks: long hair the color of molten platinum and deep purple eyes like the night sky.
He looked a few years younger than her, but the aura of command rolling off him made even her uncle Doran Martell seem small by comparison.
What shook her most was his face.
Even as a child, he looked so much like her father Rhaegar that it hurt to look at him.
And the little shit had the nerve to scowl the moment he saw her.
“Stop invading my dreams, you shameless sand little mother-dragon,” he’d said in that arrogant, grown-up voice.
Before she could answer, some invisible force had kicked her out of the dream and she’d woken up gasping in her own bed.
She should have been furious at being insulted by a child.
Instead, that annoyed, bratty expression had made her laugh—really laugh—for the first time in years.
Something warm and almost joyful had flickered to life in the scorched ruin of her heart.
It had felt like she suddenly had a little brother she could boss around and tease whenever she wanted.
Rhaenys leaned back in the chair, a rare small smile curving her lips as she watched the moon.
Sleep crept up on her again.
Her eyes drifted shut.
When she opened them, everything had changed.
She stood in an endless sea of blue flowers—winter roses, the kind that never grew in the burning south but blanketed the cold northern wilds in her dream.
A young boy’s annoyed voice came from behind her.
“You again.”
Rhaenys spun around.
There he was—the same boy from before—staring at her with open irritation, like she was some persistent ghost that wouldn’t leave him alone.
The sight of that ridiculously cute face trying so hard to look stern and superior broke her.
She threw her head back and laughed, bright and unrestrained, the sound ringing across the field of roses.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed like that.
The boy’s scowl deepened.
“You seem to have a serious misunderstanding,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“This isn’t your dream. It’s mine. You’re the shameless little sand dragon who keeps barging into other people’s minds.”
Rhaenys lifted her chin, every inch the proud Targaryen princess.
“I’m a dragon. A real one. And I go wherever I damn well please.”
The boy rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful.
“Obviously you’re a dragon. If you didn’t have the blood resonance, your pathetic little mind wouldn’t have the power to stumble in here at all.”
That superior, condescending tone lit her fuse.
“You arrogant little shit!”
She launched herself at him with a wild yell, no grace, no dignity, just pure older-sister rage.
They hit the soft bed of roses together and rolled, wrestling like a pair of street kids.
She tried to pin him; he twisted and shoved back.
They traded insults that would have made proper ladies faint—half childish, half vicious, all of it strangely joyful.
They fought until Rhaenys was panting and laughing at the same time.
The boy lay sprawled beside her, equally winded.
“I won,” she declared triumphantly.
He turned his head and gave her a flat, superior look.
“You didn’t win. I let you win, you pushy mother-dragon.”
Rhaenys snorted, amused despite herself.
The laughter faded.
In the quiet that followed, she studied him with sudden seriousness.
“This isn’t a normal dream, is it?”
“I already told you,” the boy said, still catching his breath.
“It’s my dream. You only got in because of the blood bond between us.”
Rhaenys sat up fast.
She swung one leg over him and straddled his waist, pinning his shoulders to the ground with both hands.
Her face hovered inches from his, purple eyes locked on purple eyes.
“What did you just say?” Her voice dropped into a dangerous growl.
The boy didn’t look scared.
He looked bored and vaguely disgusted.
“Poor little Targaryen princess. Deaf as well as thick. The fate of the dragon bloodline really is tragic.”
“Who the fuck are you?” she demanded.
He stayed silent for a moment, weighing something.
Then he spoke calmly.
“People call me Jon Snow.”
Rhaenys stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
“You’re lying.” The words came out sharp and certain.
This boy was pure Valyrian from head to toe—silver-gold hair, violet eyes, the whole regal package.
He couldn’t possibly be some lowborn northern bastard.
“I have another name,” Jon said.
“But explaining it would take too long. It’s easier if I just show you.”
He lifted one hand.
The dream world twisted.
The endless field of winter roses vanished.
Cold grey stone walls rose around them.
Rhaenys found herself standing in front of a familiar wooden door inside a lonely tower.
The Tower of Joy.
Her father had named this place.
Years ago he had brought her and her mother here for a short, secret visit.
She remembered the warmth, the laughter, the way her parents had smiled at each other when they thought no one was watching.
There was no warmth now.
From inside the room came a scream so raw and agonized it made Rhaenys’s spine lock up.
She didn’t look away.
Through the half-open door she saw the bed, soaked in blood and sweat.
The woman thrashing on it was Lyanna Stark—the woman Rhaenys had once called her second mother.