Rhaenys stood on the balcony overlooking the bustling city below, the wind tugging at her silver hair, her violet eyes distant. The sun was beginning to set, casting a fiery glow over the horizon, and for a moment, she allowed herself to feel the weight of it all—the legacy of her blood, the mantle of conquest that had fallen not to her, but to her cousin.

Footsteps behind her broke the silence. She did not turn, knowing who it was before he spoke.

“My queen,” he said, his voice low but respectful.

Rhaenys finally glanced over her shoulder, offering a small smile. “Do not call me that.”

He paused. “Why not? You are the blood of the dragons. You are Rhaenys the Conqueror.”

She shook her head, her expression unreadable. “No. I am Rhaenys . And I have no need for titles to remind me of who I am.”

She turned back to the city, her gaze sharp, like the tip of a sword. “Conquest is not always about victory, sometimes it’s about knowing when to stand aside.”