A/N: EDIT: Not much in the way of feedback here, that's a real spirit breaker...and here I thought folks would enjoy a surprise/early update...T_T

Please read this quick note, would you kindly~?

Our update schedule is changing this week! Very important!

First and foremost,see what happens when you let us cook? Dark and I went nuts on this!

As always, every review truly does help, large or small, any feedback is better than nothing at all. Silence makes us fall.

Second, as stated above, the update schedule WILL be a bit scuffed this week -need to look after my sister who is having surgery- but I'll do my best to update SOMETHING. Expect a lot of rapid-fire updates in the days to come, many of them surprises, some not. The only updates I can guarantee at this time are Invincible on Thursday and RWBY on Saturday. Dark's helping out, as are Advent and the rest, but I'm just so darn busy!

Kill the Boy and Running to the Edge are nearly ready. Hope you enjoy those chapters as much as I did writing them.

Do let me know what you want to see and when! As ever, I own no references, quotes, themes or memes. They're tributes to legends far greater than little 'ol me. I'm just a humble author trying to make his way in this wild world, one word at a time. Time and feedback will determine if this remains a story. Simple as that. Even saying something as simple as "good" or "nice" really does lift my spirits and make me feel like I'm doing good work out here.

In other words...its up to YOU, the reader. Do let me know~! Away we go~!

By popular demand, we're picking up were we left off.

Let's do this~!

"What is the price of loyalty? Gold? Silver? Copper? None of these things?

Can it be bought at all? Or merely borrowed? Loaned out to others?

The answer, my dear pupil, is as enduring as it is simple:

True LASTING loyalty must be earned.

How you earn it is up to you."

~?

Loyalty

The chamber stank of sweat and velvet.

A thousand silks could not mask it, nor the sweet oils poured behind ears and into beards. The heat of bodies pressed close beneath gold and steel and sable fur made the air thick enough to chew. Perfumed courtiers jostled against hard-faced knights, their smiles painted, their eyes sharp. Laughter came brittle and false. Even the goblets of wine — mulled with cinnamon and sweetened with honey — could not wash away the sour stink of nerves.

Above them, on the dais beneath the banners of House Targaryen, stood the new heir.

Aegon Targaryen. Second of His Name.

Naruto found himself beginning to hate that name at the moment...

Pretender, some still whispered in corners, but no one would know. He bore the name like a cloak too fine for his shoulders — heavy, regal, woven with blood and dragonbone.

His hair, pale as moonlight, had been braided in the Valyrian style, a circlet of red gold set atop his brow. Red and black draped his frame, the colors of conquest. A cloak of dark velvet swept behind him, fastened by twin dragon clasps that bit into his collar like iron teeth.

He looked every inch the king he would be.

And yet, inside, he waited.

"Lord Beesbury, of Honeyholt," the herald intoned, and the hall shifted again.

Another old man bent his knee. Another dry oath murmured through with trembling breath. The words echoed hollow in the vaulted chamber. Oaths of fealty, vows of loyalty, declarations of blood and duty — they all blurred together. Pale imitations of older oaths, said to other kings, long dead.

Aegon stood still. He did not smile. He did not blink.

His thoughts drifted.

Not to banners or victories. Not to the Iron Throne, nor the small council seats soon to be filled. But to Ghidorah, stirring fitfully atop the ruins of the Dragonpit, its breath foul and ancient, its eyes unseen but always watching. To Helaena, whose visions came with lullabies and madness, whose hands fluttered like moths when no one else was looking. And to the weight of expectation that sat heavier than any crown.

They bent their knees, yes — but what of their hearts?

"Words are wind," his mother had told him once, in the dark. "And Westeros is full of storm."

He shifted beneath his robes, fingers twitching faintly at his side. The dagger at his hip, thin and curved and cold to the touch, pressed against his leg with comforting weight. It was not ceremonial. He had insisted.

Lord Lyonel had protested at first — advising caution.

"A prince must not wear weapons at court. It sets a tone."

"Then let that tone be sharp," He had replied. "Let them remember it."

Now his Fathers new Hand stood beside him, still and proud, a dour cast to his lips. His hands folded behind his back, eyes ever-watchful. Like a hawk. Wary, but loyal.

Behind them, Queen Alicent stood straight and tall, her green gown spotless, her smile serene and still. But her hands were clenched white beneath her sleeves. Mother had never hidden her fear well.

And still—

Rhaenyra had not knelt in public.

Why would she, when she had already done so in private?

Everyone knew she had submitted to him. Even now she stood far below the dais, a figure wrought in defiance and shadow. Her gown was black silk, threaded with silver, a crown of Valyrian steel resting amid her thick dark curls. She said nothing. She did not need to.

Criston Cole, her knight, stood with her — but Rhaenyra held herself like a queen still; seemingly unbent, unbowed, unbroken.

How little the world knew.

She met his gaze and flinched, turning her eyes toward the floor.

He hadn't enjoyed shouting at her that night; took no pleasure in it. He'd done what he had to do, what no one else was willing to do.

It was her reaction that worried him; hence why he'd avoided her hence.

Did she truly want to marry him...?

And there, beside her — quieter, smaller — stood Helaena.

Her sister. Her soon-to-be-wife. His queen, in truth if not in title. Not yet.

But soon.

Helaena's hands were folded before her, pale and delicate, her head tilted to one side as though listening to something only she could hear. When she blinked, it was slow, like waking from a dream.

Their eyes met across the sea of velvet and banners and bright steel.

Aegon did not speak. He did not move.

Helaena nodded.

It was barely a thing. A twitch of the chin. A murmur of motion.

And yet, it was enough.

The herald called out another name — Lord Staunton, this time — but Naruto no longer heard. He stood amidst ceremony and spectacle, surrounded by the sound of fealty and fawning, yet felt curiously distant. Hollowed.

How many would raise their banners today and tear them down tomorrow?

How many had sworn to Viserys? To Rhaenyra? To Daemon? To him?

The realm was cracked. Not shattered — not yet — but fractured at the seams. The lords could bend their knees until the stone wore smooth beneath them, and still the storm would come.

He knew it.

He could feel it.

Like the breath of Ghidorah in his blood, like the thunder behind Helaena's quiet eyes, like the barren whisper that trailed every word Otto spoke.

This ceremony was not peace.

It was only a pause.

Viserys knew it, sat stop the Throne, as did he.

And beneath it all, the true war waited — patient, hungry, and close.

So be it, then. He was now the heir. Come what may.

Even so, this ceremony was so dreadfully boring.

What he wouldn't give for some action...

(.0.0.0.)

"Have you made your peace with it?" Helaena's voice was soft as a falling petal, barely stirring the still air of the late afternoon. The sun hung low in the sky, its red-orange light casting long shadows across the garden paths.

Rhaenyra did not answer at once.

They walked side by side through the Queen's Garden, where the air smelled of lemon blossoms and old stone warmed by the sun. Bees hummed in the rosemary bushes. A dove cooed somewhere in the arbor, but neither woman looked for it. Rhaenyra's eyes strayed instead to the lemon tree her father had planted decades ago — the same tree her mother had once sat beneath, in the days before war and succession and grief. Its fruit had grown fat and golden.

She watched the slow trickle of water spill from the mouth of a stone lion into the basin of the fountain, looping endlessly upon itself.

Then she looked down at her feet, at the painted tiles, cracked and fading, a dragon chasing a comet in circles with no end.

"What peace is there to be made?" she said at last. Her voice was cool, but there was weight behind it. "He has the crown. He has the realm. I have a womb and a memory."

Helaena did not respond at once. She walked in silence, gloved fingers trailing against the hedge, her mind far away behind those strange, far-seeing eyes.

"You could still take the crown," she said eventually. Not a challenge — a thought spoken aloud. More musing than malicious. "Half the court still calls you Princess. They chant his name with their mouths, but not with their hearts."

Rhaenyra's steps slowed.

She turned. Her dark eyes caught the sun and glimmered like a blade in shadow.

"And if I took it?" Her voice was low and edged. "I would sit upon a throne of daggers. Half would toast me by day and poison me by night. The other half would carve my name into crows' wings and send it fluttering to every corner of the realm."

She looked past Helaena, toward the high towers of the Red Keep. Wind stirred her silver hair as it once had her father's, and for a moment she did not look a woman, but a ghost.

Helaena only tilted her head, the way she always did when some thought came spiraling from the dark corners of her mind.

"Then let him take the throne," she said. "And you rule by his side."

That caught Rhaenyra. She turned again, brows drawn.

"You think he's that malleable?" she asked, half-scornful, half-curious.

Helaena plucked a single petal from a blooming rose, watching it flutter between her fingers like ash.

"I think he listens," she said. "Even when he pretends not to. And I think he hurts. You don't see it, but I do. He stands there like a statue, all stillness and ceremony, but inside—" she dropped the petal, "—he's burning."

"Then he's Targaryen, through and through." Rhaenyra's mouth twisted into something like a smile, but not quite.

They walked on. The breeze shifted. The scent of crushed thyme carried in it.

At length, they came to the edge of the garden where the stone balustrade overlooked the city. King's Landing sprawled below like a beast at rest, rooftops red and gold beneath the setting sun, smoke curling from chimneys like lazy serpents. Bells tolled in the distance. The sound always reminded Rhaenyra of funerals.

"He dreams of fire, you know," Helaena murmured, not looking at her. "Sometimes I wake and he's already watching the flames. Other times he speaks in High Valyrian in his sleep, words I don't understand. Words that don't belong to any tongue I know."

Rhaenyra said nothing.

"He loves you," Helaena said.

That made Rhaenyra blink.

"He loves the idea of you," Helaena clarified, eyes on the horizon. "Like a story he was told as a boy. The fierce sister, the true heir, the rider of dragons. He watches you when you're not looking."

"Even after all we've said and done to one another...?"

She took her by the hands. "In the end, you're still family. As are we."

"And what do you make of that?" Rhaenyra asked, her tone unreadable.

Helaena's answer came after a pause.

"I think he doesn't know what to do with you."

She had, and it burned.

She was afraid he would kill her, afraid to lose all that she had ever known.

So she had begged, pleaded for him to marry here.

But he had not answered her. Not yet.

They stood in silence, the sun dipping lower now, setting fire to the waters of Blackwater Bay.

At length, Helaena turned, voice barely a breath.

"Do you resent me?" she asked. "For being born?"

The words came like a knife in silk.

Rhaenyra looked at her then — truly looked — and saw the girl beneath the title. The dreamer, the whisperer, the wife in a bed not of her choosing. A pale flame caught in a storm of kings.

"No," Rhaenyra said, and for once her voice held no bitterness. "Not you."

(.0.0.0.)

The tenth lord had just finished his vows, his words dry and dutiful, when Aegon's wish was granted.

It began with a scream — not from within the hall, but above it.

A high, piercing cry that cracked the air like a bone snapped in two. Then, with a thunderous crash, a bolt of black iron tore through the stained glass window high in the nave. Shards of color exploded in a rain of blood-red, ocean-blue, and sunlit gold. A thousand tiny daggers of glass fell like judgment from the gods, striking marble and velvet alike.

The bolt flew true.

Naruto-Aegon!- moved before most had even turned their heads — his instincts faster than thought, his muscles trained by war, by dragons, by dreams. His cloak flared like wings as he twisted on the dais, silk and steel catching the light. He could have dodged fully, if he so chose. Instead—

The quarrel found his shoulder.

The force of it slammed into him like a hammer. Pain blossomed. Flesh split. Bone crunched.

He barely felt it.

There was a heartbeat of stunned silence, thick as oil.

Then:

"ASSASSIN!" someone shrieked — a woman, shrill and terrified.

The hall erupted.

Chairs overturned. Goblets fell. Men shouted. Blades were drawn.

Guards surged forward, too late. Lords scrambled like startled hens, bumping into each other, pushing their wives behind them, shouting for shields and banners and gods. Lady Staunton fainted outright. Lord Redwyne dove beneath a table. Hightower's eyes went wide with cold fury. Alicent screamed her son's name.

But Aegon remained standing.

His hand had already reached up — calm, deliberate — and gripped the shaft jutting from his shoulder. It was a thick quarrel, barbed, its ironhead smeared with something dark. Poison, perhaps. Or perhaps not. With a hiss of breath and a wet, tearing sound, he yanked it free. Blood spurted — bright, arterial, a red bloom across his chest — and yet, even as it fell, the wound was already closing.

Beneath the skin, chakra thrummed — ancient and alien, winding through his veins like wildfire, reknitting sinew and sealing torn muscle. The flesh pulsed, mended, healed. His breathing slowed.

He stood still, then turned his gaze to the shattered window, to the pale shape disappearing through the smoke-streaked light.

"Always loved crossbows," He muttered, voice dry as bone.

Otto's voice roared over the chaos. "Protect the king! Protect the pricne!"

But Aegon was already in motion.

He leapt.

One moment he was on the dais, and the next he was airborne — a blur of red-black silk and silver hair, sailing through the broken frame of the stained glass like a dragon through flame. The light caught the blood on his tunic, turning him into a living comet.

Outside, the shouts of guards followed.

So did the sound of hooves.

Steel clashed against cobblestone. Somewhere, someone was dying.

Inside the hall, silence returned slowly — heavy, confused, trembling.

Alicent stood frozen, her hands bloodied from where she had caught a falling shard. Lyonel was already barking orders, sending men in every direction. Maesters hurried to the dais to find a startled Viserys, but no prince, only a few drops of blood already drying.

(.0.0.0.)

The assassin had expected chaos.

He had expected screaming, panic, a swarm of blades descending upon the prince like flies on carrion. What he had not expected was for the boy-king to come crashing through the same window, trailing a storm of blood and shattered glass like a comet tearing holes through heaven.

Aegon landed hard.

His boots struck the stone with a crack like thunder, knees bending just enough to absorb the force. Shards of red and blue light danced across his shoulders as broken glass caught the last rays of the sun. His cloak — black and smoking from the dive — dragged behind him like the wing of a fallen angel.

In one fluid motion, he drew his dagger — a long, cruel thing of Valyrian steel, its blade etched with waves like flame. The motion was too quick, too precise. Not the draw of a pampered princeling.

"Tell me," he said, voice like honey dripped over razors, "did you think I'd just die?"

There was laughter in his words, but no humor in his face. Just fire.

The assassin — cloaked in grey, lean and pale, a smear of ash on his jaw — said nothing. His hand went to his belt. Steel flashed.

A knife. Bone-handled, narrow. Good for slipping between ribs. Too slow.

He laughed; a low, dark sound that echoed strangely in the narrow courtyard.

"No words, then? Alright. Let's have it."

They moved.

Their blades met once — a sharp ring of metal, brief as a gasp.

And then it was over.

Aegon stepped inside the assassin's guard and drove his dagger hilt-deep into the man's gut, twisting until he felt cartilage give way. The assassin cried out, breath fleeing him in a wet, choking wheeze.

Naruto didn't stop.

He slammed his fist into the man's ribs — a blow so brutal it cracked bone beneath flesh. Something inside burst. The assassin folded forward, but he caught him by the face, fingers splayed over his jaw and brow, gripping tight.

Then he squeezed.

There was a sickening pop. The skull began to give. One eye ruptured. Blood sprayed from the man's nose. His legs kicked once, then went limp.

"Cowards like you," he whispered, breath hot and calm against the corpse's ear, "never learn."

He let go.

The body slumped to the cobblestones in a heap, twitching once before stillness claimed it.

Belatedly, he realized he should've interrogated the man first.

No matter. He had an inkling. An idea.

For a moment, there was nothing but the wind, tugging at the edges of his cloak.

Then—

"Aegon!"

"Your Grace—get back!"

"Gods, someone fetch a maester!"

Guards spilled into the courtyard from the shattered window above, raining glass and urgency. Visery's voice lashed out like a whip, barking orders with rising fury. Alicent's cry carried with it all the desperate terror of a mother fearful of losing her firstborn. Somewhere behind them all, Helaena's voice rose, high and distant — not panicked, but singing.

Singing. The silly girl. She truly was unafraid.

Naruto stood only stood there, blood dripping from his fingers, his breath slow and steady.

He turned towards the crowd of onlookers.

Sketched a bow, now, and smiled.

"Shall we continue?"

(.0.0.0.)

"Let it be known," Viserys declared, his voice sharp as a drawn blade, echoing through the restored chamber like the clang of judgment, "that Prince Aegon, Second of His Name, has bled for the realm. He has defended it with his own two hands. Let none question his right to rule, to inherit my crown!"

He stood tall beneath the dragon banners, his hand upon the hilt of his cane, eyes sweeping the gathered lords like a hawk surveying the field before the slaughter. Beside him, the broken window had been hastily patched with oiled cloth, its stained glass shards swept from the floor and carted away, though the blood had left a stain in the marble that no scrubbing would remove.

And none did.

Not aloud.

They bowed their heads. They muttered their assent. They drank to Aegon's health and lifted cups of sweetwine that tasted like ash. Their oaths returned, dull and dutiful, spoken by men who'd watched their world shift an inch closer to the edge.

But in the corners of the hall, where light gave way to flickering shadow, the whispers began anew.

"He bled… and smiled."

"Crushed a man's face like it was fruit. Didn't even grunt."

"He healed. Gods help me, I saw it. The wound sealed before the maester even reached him."

"Not a prince. Not a man. A monster, maybe."

Rhaenyra said nothing.

She sat in her seat of honor, black silk draped around her like mourning made flesh, one leg crossed over the other, a goblet untouched in her hand. Her lips never moved, but her eyes were sharp as razors. Watching. Weighing.

Aegon had not looked at her once since his return.

But she had seen him.

She had seen the way he stood — not hunched from pain, not trembling from shock, but straight-backed, blood-dappled, and unbothered. He had looked more dragon than man, his silver hair damp with sweat, his hands red to the wrists, the stink of violence clinging to him like perfume.

Rhaenyra watched.

And said nothing.

And Helaena?

She stood a few paces behind the throne, hands folded at her waist, her pale eyes unfocused as if gazing somewhere far beyond the hall. When the whispers reached her ears, she did not flinch. When Aegon's name was spoken, she did not blink.

Instead, she smiled.

A/N: Tada~!

Shall we pick up here next chapter? Or skip ahead? Your choice~!

Weeeell? What did you think? Should this remain a story? Would you like weekly updates for that matter? Yay or nay? Really need to hear from you, here.

As stated, this has a high chance of being upgraded to M later down the line, but I need to know if folks want to see that. Once more, we're sticking with the "Embers" rule for this story, and others. Meaning folks don't like this, it won't be continued. If the story itself ain't popular/well-received...well, I won't be able to continue it. I'm working two jobs, meaning I barely have time to write; as such, I cannot afford to write something folks don't enjoy.

By all means, speak up! Your voice matters! Make yourself heard! As ever, reviews are the fuel that sustain me, my beacon in the darkness.

So in the Immortal Words of Atlas...Review...Would You Kindly?

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EDIT: Hope you're having a good day! May your week be one filled with lots of luck!

Looking forward to your reviews~!

~Nz!