Imagine Book 2 (Requests Welcome)

The Return of the Dornish Prince- Rhaenyra Targaryen (Game of Thrones)

As requested by Dragonsw! Male Y/N.

The candlelight flickered across Rhaenyra Targaryen's face as she paced the length of the war room in Dragonstone, her silver-gold hair catching the light with each turn. The stone walls seemed to close in around her as the weight of uncertainty pressed upon her shoulders. It had been weeks since she'd received word from Y/N, her Dornish husband, who had ventured back to his homeland to secure more troops for their cause against the Greens.

The last report spoke of combat in the Red Mountains, a treacherous region where even dragons struggled to maintain advantage. Her court had already begun to whisper of contingency plans, speaking in hushed tones of what they would do when—not if—news of Y/N's death reached them. But Rhaenyra refused to entertain such thoughts, even as anxiety gnawed at her insides.

She thought back to their first meeting, how Y/N had strode into court with the confident grace of one born to royalty, yet none of the pretence. Like her uncle Daemon, he spoke plainly and without fear, but where Daemon's words often cut like a blade, Y/N's honesty was refreshing—a cool breeze in the stifling air of courtly politics.

Their marriage had been arranged after Y/N thwarted an assassination attempt on her life, but the arrangement was merely a formality. The feelings between them had been clear from the start, growing with each shared moment, each conversation where he treated her not as the heir to the Iron Throne, but as Rhaenyra—simply Rhaenyra.

Now, as she stood before the painted table, her fingers traced the carved mountains where her husband fought. The Dornish spears were legendary, and Y/N wielded his with unmatched skill, but against the forces of the Greens, against her half-brother's armies...

A commotion in the hallway drew her from her thoughts. The heavy doors burst open, and a messenger stumbled in, face flushed with exertion and excitement.

"Your Grace!" he gasped, dropping to one knee. "Lord Y/N lives! He returns victorious—and he brings the head of Ser Criston Cole!"

The room erupted in shocked murmurs and exclamations. Rhaenyra felt her knees weaken, gripping the edge of the painted table for support. "When?" she managed to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.

"His forces approach the gates now, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra swept from the room, her black and red gown billowing behind her as she hurried to the courtyard. As she emerged into the cool air, she could hear the sound of horses and men, the great gates of Dragonstone grinding open to admit the returning army.

What she saw made her breath catch in her throat. The army that rode in was battered and weary, their numbers notably diminished, yet they sat tall in their saddles with the pride of victory. At their head rode Y/N, his armour dusty and dented, dried blood spattering his face and chest. But his eyes—those eyes that had captured her heart—sparkled with that familiar mischief, and that damned smirk played at his lips as he dismounted before her.

In his hand, he carried a cloth bag that dripped ominously onto the courtyard stones.

"My queen," he said, dropping to one knee and presenting the bag. "I bring you a gift."

With trembling hands, Rhaenyra took the bag, though she had no need to open it to know its contents. "Rise," she commanded, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions within her. "Come with me."

They retreated to her private solar, and as soon as the door closed behind them, Rhaenyra rounded on him. "You fool!" she exclaimed, her voice breaking. "Do you know how worried I've been? Weeks without word! The entire court was preparing for news of your death!"

Y/N's smirk softened into a gentle smile as he stepped closer to her. "I couldn't risk sending ravens that might be intercepted. And I couldn't request reinforcements—it would have been a bloodbath. I couldn't risk you coming yourself."

"Tell me everything," she demanded, though her tone had lost its edge.

Y/N moved to the window, gazing out over the dark waters surrounding Dragonstone. "Aemond thought he had us cornered in the Red Mountains. But he failed to realize that the Dornish have been fighting in those peaks for centuries. We know every cave, every hidden path." He turned back to her, his eyes gleaming. "It's hard to burn what you can't see, even with a dragon."

Rhaenyra nodded, beginning to understand. "You used the terrain against them."

"Exactly. We stayed hidden, let Aemond waste his time searching. He assumed we'd retreated back to Dorne and flew off. That's when we struck." Y/N's voice took on a harder edge. "Ser Criston and his forces were caught completely by surprise. They never stood a chance against Dornish spears in an ambush."

"And now?" Rhaenyra asked, moving to stand beside him at the window.

Y/N turned to her, his expression serious. "Now, we plan our next move. The Greens will be reeling from this loss, but they'll recover quickly. We need to strike while they're still off balance."

Rhaenyra nodded, her mind already racing with possibilities. But for now, she allowed herself to lean into Y/N's embrace, breathing in the scent of battle and dust and him. "Don't ever make me worry like that again," she murmured against his chest.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through her. "As my queen commands."

They stood there in comfortable silence, watching as the sun set over the Narrow Sea. The war was far from over, but for this moment, they had each other, and they had hope. Tomorrow would bring new battles, new strategies, new challenges. But tonight, they would celebrate a victory, and the return of the Dornish Prince who had changed the tide of war.

As darkness fell, Rhaenyra thought of the painted table waiting in the war room, and the moves yet to be made. With Y/N by her side, she felt ready to face whatever came next. The Dance of Dragons was far from over, but tonight, they had danced to their own tune and emerged victorious.

And somewhere in the depths of Dragonstone, in a bag stained with blood, the unseeing eyes of Ser Criston Cole bore witness to the price of standing against the true heir to the Iron Throne and her Dornish Prince.