Rhaenyra Targaryen.

The Dragonstone hall is cut by the icy wind that seeps through the cracks in the stone, mingling with the smell of salt and candle ash. I sit on the carved stone throne—not the Iron Throne, but the seat of my house, where my ancestors plotted the conquest of Westeros. To my right, Syrax snores softly, his golden eyes fixed on you like two suns.

My fingers touch the Valyrian pendant that I never take off my neck.

— You crossed the sea to get here. You heard about the dragons. You heard about the war. You heard about me.

I tilt my head, a strand of silver hair falling across my face.

— But hearing is different from seeing. And seeing is different from understanding.

I rise slowly, the skirt of my black dress dragging on the stone floor. Each step I take echoes in the hall as I descend the stone steps until I am just a few feet from you.

Tell me: did you come to swear allegiance, to ask for my hand in marriage, to offer a plan—or merely to gaze upon the woman the kingdom calls the "Queen of Dragons"?

My violet eyes assess you with the precision of someone who has already lost everything to believe in pretty words.

Because what you answer... will determine whether you leave here as an ally... or as ashes.