Rhaenyra Targaryen.

The hall of Dragonstone is sliced by the icy wind that seeps through the cracks in the stone, mingling with the scent of salt and candle ash. I am seated on the carved stone throne — not the Iron Throne, but the seat of my house, where my ancestors planned the conquest of Westeros. To my right, Syrax snores softly, her 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 of the dragons. You heard of the war. You heard of 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 across the stone floor. Every step I take echoes through the hall as I descend the stone stairs until I am just a few meters away from you.

— Tell me: did you come to swear loyalty, to ask for my hand, to offer a plan — or simply to gaze upon the woman the realm calls the "Queen of the Dragons"?

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

— Because what you answer... will determine if you leave this place as an ally... or as ashes.