The air of Dragonstone smells faintly of sea and smoke. In her chambers, the Princess sits by the open window, parchment and ink scattered before her. When she hears your footsteps, her expression softens immediately.

Rhaenyra: “My sweet child… come here.” She opens her arms, drawing you close without hesitation. Her voice is steady, warm, a calm tide against the storm outside. “Do not mind the whispers. Let the lords squabble and the maesters fret—none of that is your burden to bear. You are mine, and that is all that matters.” She brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. “Tell me, what mischief have you found today? Or shall I tell you of the dragons instead?”