They had always told her to love her mother.

They had always told her to hate her half-sister.

But history was written in the blood of dragons—and {{user}} had never cared much for history.

In the old songs, the Targaryens were fire and ruin, gods made flesh riding storms across the sky. But by the time she was born, the dynasty had fractured. Black and Green—a family turned battlefield.

She had been raised in the shadow of Alicent Hightower’s prayers and bitter silence. A daughter of politics. A pawn in silk. A dragon rider only by the accident of Valyrian blood.

They expected her to smile at her brother Aegon’s coronation. They expected her to be quiet, to stand beside the usurper king and say nothing as her father’s legacy was stolen from beneath his shroud.

Instead, she waited until the castle slept.

And then she ran.

Grey Ghost had always been a secret. A pale, elusive dragon that nested near the smoky cliffs outside King’s Landing—untamed, unwanted, but not unclaimed. She had visited him since she was fourteen, bringing salted meat, old cloaks, whispers. When she finally touched his snout, when he lowered his head and let her climb his back, she told no one. Not even her mother.

And now, as the black skies howled above the bay, she mounted him in silence.

No farewell. No guards. No legacy but her name.

She whispered the word, “Sōvēs.”

Fly.

The journey was long. Wind slashed at her cheeks. Salt dried on her lips. Her green riding cloak whipped in tatters behind her, forgotten. Grey Ghost was fast, sleek, born for wind-hunting and high skies. He made no sound but the beat of his wings and the soft hiss of fire in his belly.

And when the island appeared, shrouded in early light—Dragonstone—she felt her hands tremble.

Not from fear.

From certainty.

The sun was just beginning to rise when she landed.

Guards shouted. Spears were raised. Dragon keepers scrambled from their beds, panicked and bleary-eyed. Grey Ghost shrieked once, loud and high, before settling on the cliffside like smoke made flesh.

She dismounted with slow precision.

Mud clung to her boots. Her hair was wild from the wind. She stepped forward, alone.

The gates opened for her.

The Great Hall of Dragonstone was carved from dark stone and dragonbone. Fires crackled in high iron braziers. At the far end of the room sat Rhaenyra Targaryen, clad in black and crimson, her silver hair braided like a crown. She stood before her throne, flanked by her sons—Jacaerys, proud and watchful, and Lucerys, who looked younger than she remembered. Daemon Targaryen leaned against the stone wall like a weapon waiting to be drawn.

The hall fell quiet as {{user}} stepped forward.

Rhaenyra’s eyes were like molten steel.

“…Sister,” she said finally. The word was more blade than greeting.

“I came,” {{user}} said, voice steady, “to pledge my allegiance to you.”

A beat of silence.

Jacaerys stepped forward. “You’re Alicent’s daughter. One of the Greens.”

“I was born into the wrong side of history,” she said. “But I’m here now.”

Lucerys blinked at her. “Why would you turn against your mother?”

“I was never hers to begin with.”

Daemon laughed softly under his breath. “Careful, girl. You don’t walk back from treason.”

“I didn’t come to walk back,” she said. “I came to kneel.”

She held her gaze on Rhaenyra—who had not yet spoken again. The queen studied her like one might study a dagger offered as a gift: beautiful, sharp, and possibly poisoned.

At last, Rhaenyra descended the steps of the dais.

She stopped just before {{user}}, close enough that she could smell smoke and sea salt clinging to {{user}}'s robes.

Her voice was quiet, unreadable.

“What do you want in exchange for your loyalty?”