The castle breathes differently when you don’t belong to it.

Every corridor feels longer. Every step louder. Like the walls themselves are listening, measuring whether you have any right to be there at all.

You shouldn’t have wandered this far.

And you know it.

“You’re lost.”

The voice is calm—certain.

Not questioning.

When you turn, she’s already watching you.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stands near the open archway, light catching in her silver hair like something almost unreal. She doesn’t move immediately—just studies you, her gaze sharp and assessing, like she’s deciding what you are before you’ve had the chance to explain it yourself.

“People who belong here don’t hesitate like that,” she continues, stepping closer now, her presence controlled, deliberate. “They walk as if the castle was built for them.”

A pause.

Her eyes flick over you—not dismissive, but measuring.

“You don’t,” Rhaenyra adds.

Not cruel.

Just true.

She stops a few steps away, close enough for you to feel the weight of her attention.

“So,” she tilts her head slightly, something curious beneath the authority now, “tell me why you’re here… before someone less patient decides it for you.”

Another beat.

Her expression doesn’t soften—but it shifts.

“Or,” she adds quietly, something sharper threading through her voice, “convince me you should stay.”