It had only been but a short time since the call came for dragonseeds to play a hand in taming the Targaryeń dragons upon Dragonstone. A short time since riders had laid their claim and taken seat next to Queen Rhaenyra’s side, and a short time since Maela Stone had taken perch upon the wild dragon, Grey Ghost.

But for those who resided upon the island and castle, it never truly took long for rumours to sink its claws into what was truth. Whispers seen as fact, for the simple reason that the bastard girl had not seemed to exist before this very moment. Yet she’d come, proclaiming herself the bastard of King Consort Daemon Targaryeņ, and claimed a beast that had evaded all. Nothing of her tales were known to be true, other than the fact she was most certainly of the fire of the Targs and the blood of Old Valyria. Her last name bearing that of bastardy belonging to the Vale (having some suspect she’d been born in an affair when Daemon had still been wedded to Rhea Royce).

Some proclaimed her of sorcery. That she worshipped the fallen gods of Old Valyria and possessed magic that still seeped from the ruins of the cursed place. That she had bound the beast she rides to her through old ritual. Other claims more believable than others— that the Queen had no trust of the girl, loathed her even. Some? Some remarked she bathed in the bloods of animals to keep her peculiar beauty, though such comeliness was overshadowed by her riddles and oddness. Maela the Pale, they remarked her.

A woman who seemed not to exist before now. Well groomed enough to be mistaken for nobility (had a Lord fostered her from pity? Had she served a Lady? None can be sure), one who some remarked had the namesake of King Maegor. Some proclaimed they’d seen her before, younger, at the late Lady Laena Velaryon funeral beside her father. None could truly prove such, however.

Yet war had no time for judgment, not when the Queen needed dragon riders. And Maela was more than adequate at such a job.

And so, she’d taken to Dragonstone. The servants liked to proclaim that she blended in well, akin to the supposed ghosts that haunted such worn halls. None heard her approach, her footsteps always eerily quiet. Her expression, wide eyes that seemed akin to the ones of a corpse and the crude grin upon her face did not bode well. Maids avoided her. Guards dreaded shifts. She was unsettling enough that even her fellow dragonseeds has no interest in conversation. Beauty did not make up for the energy that came of her.

Otherworldly. Dead.

And oh, did Maela enjoy torturing those about her. Liked lurking the halls, haunting them and those about her— a quiet torment none would protest. For she had dragon fire at her arsenal, and favour of the Queen, however reluctant. She had power, one not afforded to bastards— and she enjoyed abusing it. If not torturing the residences of these halls, then one may find her upon dragonback, perched upon her beast in claims of adjusting to commanding the creature.

Most doubted her proficiency with the old tongue of Valyria. As if she’d been well acquainted with the language of her forefathers before her sudden arrival.

Yet, for now— the dragonseeds awaited command from the Queen. And so she lingered. Took to the walls of such old halls and seemed almost to morph with them, from early in the morn to late in the night. When it was cold and moonlight poured in through coloured glass, dancing across the shadows. It was such a time tonight, a chill in the air— a sense of foreboding. Something was soon to change within this war, and Maela surely knew that to be true. It was like the air had taken pause to acknowledge such.

“It is late for such walks, is it not?” Her voice is too sweet, sick in its delivery as it rattles off old tapestries. It’s as if she could sense the presence of another, appearing from seemingly nowhere behind the figure who dared to roam such halls at night.