Rhaenyra III

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Rhaenyra


The great hall of Dragonstone was dimly lit, its high, vaulted ceilings casting long shadows over the chamber. Flickering torchlight threw irregular shapes against the stone walls, but it did little to banish the darkness that had settled among those seated at the table. The air was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the skin and made every breath feel heavy. Daemon's footsteps echoed loudly in the silence as he paced back and forth, the hem of his black cloak swirling in rhythm with his agitation.

Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. To an outsider, she appeared composed, regal even, but beneath her calm facade, her mind raced. The Selaerions. That name still rang in her ears, a name that hadn't been uttered in Westeros for centuries. Yet Vaelora had swaggered into Dragonstone with all the confidence of someone who had never truly left.

Rhaenyra's jaw clenched involuntarily. She had thought the Targaryens were the last of the dragonlords, the last vestiges of Valyria's mighty legacy. But now there was another—another family as proud, as dangerous, and as bonded with dragons as her own. It unsettled her in a way few things ever had.


"You don't trust her," Daemon's voice cut through her thoughts. His tone was sharp, deliberate, and a bit amused. He stopped pacing long enough to fix his intense, violet gaze on her.

Rhaenyra glanced up at him, her face impassive. "No," she answered simply, her voice cool and controlled. She turned her gaze to the rest of her council—Jacaerys, Baela, Maester Gerardys, and Lord Corlys. Their faces reflected the same unease that roiled within her. Vaelora's boldness was only part of what troubled them. It was the unspoken threat that came with her presence. "How can I? They arrive with dragons we have never seen, dragons whose ferocity rivals our own. They speak of alliances but offer no clarity on what they seek in return. This is no simple offer."

Daemon tilted his head, a half-smile playing at the corner of his lips, though it lacked warmth. "You expected her to bend the knee, did you?" His voice dripped with irony. "The Selaerions do not strike me as a family who kneel easily."

Jacaerys, who had been brooding quietly, leaned forward, his fists clenched on the table. "How can we even entertain this?" he growled, his voice taut with frustration. "They've been hiding in the shadows for centuries—centuries, Mother! Now, they emerge, just as war is upon us, and we're to believe they come with open hands? What if this is a trick?"

Rhaenyra's lips pressed into a thin line. She understood her son's anger, but there was more to consider. "They could be useful," she said, though the words felt heavy in her mouth. "We cannot afford to make enemies of them—not when Aegon and the Greens press on us from every side."

Baela, ever the pragmatist, spoke up, her sharp gaze flicking between her cousin and her queen. "Your Grace," she began, her tone measured but firm, "the Selaerions have dragons. Powerful ones. We've seen their might. Whatever their intentions, their strength is undeniable. If they ally with us, it could shift the balance of power."

"And what if they turn on us?" Jacaerys countered, his voice rising. "What if they use their dragons to betray us, to claim their own seat of power once the war is over?"

A heavy silence followed his words, thick with uncertainty. Rhaenyra let out a slow breath, her fingers drumming lightly on the arm of her chair. "We need to understand what they truly want," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "Vaelora claimed they have no designs on the Iron Throne, but I cannot shake the feeling that she has her own ambitions."

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