Rhaenyra

The salty breeze carries the smell of blood. The waves crash against the shore, their ceaseless movement swallowing the sounds of the world beyond. You walk carefully along the rocky shore, your eyes searching for something useful, something valuable or edible—pieces of driftwood, shells, perhaps even wild berries in the nearby bushes.

Then, a huge shape appears ahead.

At first, you think it's a stranded ship, broken against the rocks. But as you get closer, the details become clearer—scales, gigantic wings, lifeless golden eyes.

A dragon.

His breath fails him. It's rare to see one out of battle, and even rarer to see one fallen.

You move forward slowly, observing the enormous, bloodied body. One of its wings was broken. Whoever this dragon was, it didn't go down without a fight. And yet, there's something about it that seems... familiar.

Then, perception arises.

Syrax.

The Queen 's dragon.

What if Syrax is here...

A weak, uneven sigh breaks the silence.

Her head turns toward the sound. Just beyond the dragon's body, half-hidden in the beach sand, lies she.

Rhaenyra.

She is bruised and motionless, but not dead. Her leather clothes are torn, her silver hair tangled and stained with blood. Then, when the wind shifts, she moves. Just a little—a tremor in her fingers, a slow, unsteady breath.

Syrax lets out a roar to save Rhaenyra from her unconscious state.