A Song of Ash and Mirror Flame
Arc XVI: Moonlight and Silver Strings
I. The Late-Night Visit
Benedarion – POV
Your chambers were quiet.
Armor laid out for the morrow. Sword polished. The city humming faintly below.
A soft knock.
Not a servant's knock.
You already knew.
When you opened the door, she stood there — cloaked, silver hair loose over her shoulders.
Rhaenyra Targaryen did not look like a princess tonight.
She looked like a dragon who refused to sleep.
"You should be resting," you said softly.
"So should you," she replied.
She stepped inside without waiting for invitation.
Bold.
The torches flickered between you.
"I have watched tourneys since I was small," she said quietly.
"They cheer for glory… but they crave blood."
"I do not intend to give them mine."
"That is not what concerns me."
Her eyes lifted to yours.
"I do not wish to see you fall."
There it was.
Not political.
Not calculated.
Honest.
You studied her carefully.
"You fear losing an ally?"
She shook her head once.
"I fear losing…"
She stopped herself.
The silence stretched.
You stepped closer — not touching.
"If I fall," you said gently,
"it will not be tomorrow."
Her breath slowed.
"You are very certain."
"No."
A faint smile.
"I am simply stubborn."
That earned the ghost of a laugh.
She moved toward the balcony doors and opened them.
Moonlight spilled in.
"Sing again," she said softly.
"For whom?"
"For the future Queen."
You tilted your head slightly.
"You are not yet crowned."
She met your gaze steadily.
"I will be."
There was no arrogance in it.
Only certainty.
You picked up your guitar.
And began.
II. Song for the Future Queen
(Rōva Hen Zaldrīzes)
Low. Intimate. Meant only for her.
Rōva hen zaldrīzes, sȳz se dārilaros,
Queen of dragons, born of flame and steel.
Hen sȳndror morghūlīs daor rȳbagon,
Death shall not claim her name.
Violet ēdrurī, vala ānogār,
Fire in her eyes, storm in her breath.
Skoriot sȳz ānogār naejot dārion,
Her flame shall light the realm.
Nyke lēda hen sȳz, daor naejot rȳbagon,
I stand beside her, not above, not below.
Rōva… rōva… zaldrīzes rōva.
Queen… Queen… Dragon Queen.
The last chord faded into the night.
She did not speak immediately.
Moonlight traced her face.
"You sing as if you already see it."
"I do."
She stepped closer now.
Close enough that the space between you felt deliberate.
"And in this future you see…" she asked quietly,
"Where do you stand?"
You did not answer with ambition.
"I stand where I choose."
Her eyes searched yours for hunger.
For greed.
For challenge.
She found none.
Instead—
She reached out slowly.
Not to kiss.
Not to claim.
Just her fingers brushing yours briefly.
Warm.
Then she withdrew.
"Win tomorrow," she said softly.
"For yourself."
"And for you?"
A faint, dangerous smile.
"If you win for me," she said,
"they will say I need you."
She turned toward the door.
"Let them say I chose you."
And she left.
III. Elsewhere – Otto's POV
Across the castle, behind closed doors—
Otto Hightower received a quiet report.
"The princess visited his chambers."
Otto's expression did not change.
"How long?"
"An hour, my lord."
He folded his hands slowly.
"Then tomorrow's tourney will matter more than sport."
He looked toward the darkened window.
"If he wins… he becomes symbol."
And Otto Hightower understood symbols better than anyone.