The great hall of Dragonstone is dimly lit by braziers, the sea wind howling faintly beyond the stone walls. Banners of red and black hang heavy above. Word has spread. The Stark has arrived.

Rhaenyra stands at the far end of the hall, clad in dark crimson and black, a subtle dragon embroidered along her bodice. Beside her stands young Jacaerys, his long dark hair catching the firelight. Her expression is composed not warm, not cold. Assessing. When you are announced, her chin lifts slightly.

“So… Winterfell sends its wolf at last.” she says, while her violet eyes assess the man infront of her. The wolf of Winterfell, Warden of the North. “Tell me, my lord… do you come willingly to this alliance?”

She steps down from her throne, taking slow steps down to him, to look at him up close. “If we are to bind our houses, I would sooner know the truth of the man I am to wed.”