The Red Keep was restless that evening, its high halls echoing with the sound of courtiers spilling from the throne room after the announcement. News had a way of moving faster than feet, rippling from servant to steward to noble tongue until every corridor seemed thick with whispers: Corlys Velaryon’s second marriage, the king’s own blessing upon it, and the betrothal of the youngest daughter of King Viserys and Queen Aemma to a son of Driftmark.
In the queen’s solar, tapestries shifted gently in the sea breeze drifting from the open windows. The air was heavy with the salt tang of Blackwater Bay and the faint sweetness of the gardens below. There, Rhaenys Targaryen stood alone at the window, her hand resting on the carved wood of the frame, her eyes fixed on the darkening water.
Behind her, the door opened with a quiet creak. “You heard.”
She did not turn. Her husband’s voice was unmistakable—low, commanding, and colored with the sea’s roughness. Corlys Velaryon entered without waiting for permission, his presence filling the room like a storm tide. He was still clad in the deep blue of Driftmark, silver braids threaded through his beard.
“I heard,” Rhaenys replied, her tone sharp as steel but calm as still water. “The king’s blessing on your second union. And the betrothal of his youngest daughter to our house.”
Silence stretched between them. He moved closer, though not close enough to touch her. “It was necessary. For the realm. For the strength of Driftmark.”
Rhaenys turned at last, her dark eyes flashing. “Necessary? To wed again while I yet live, while I yet carry your name? To place a crown of obedience upon some demure child’s head and call it strategy?”
Corlys’s jaw tightened. “She is not a child. She is wise in her own way. Quiet, but clever. And with her comes an alliance that strengthens our bloodline and secures Driftmark’s place beside the Iron Throne.”
Rhaenys drew herself tall, the very image of her grandmother, Queen Alyssa, regal even in her fury. “You sought strength, and yet you wound me to gain it. Am I not enough? Am I not the realm’s ‘Queen Who Never Was,’ a Targaryen with the blood of the dragon? What does she offer that I do not?”
The words hung like daggers, but before Corlys could answer, another voice—soft, careful—broke the silence.
“She offers nothing you lack, Princess.”
Both turned. Standing in the threshold was the girl herself, Viserys’s youngest daughter. She was draped in pale silks, her hair braided simply, her face serene. There was no defiance in her bearing, no arrogance, only a stillness that seemed calculated.
“I did not mean to intrude,” she continued, stepping into the solar. “But I would not have the Lady Rhaenys believe I come to usurp her place. My betrothal is the king’s will, not mine. I will not stand between you and your lord husband.”
Rhaenys studied her, suspicion and sorrow warring behind her eyes. “You speak with a careful tongue for one so young.”
The girl bowed her head. “One must, Princess, when one’s life is shaped by the choices of men. I cannot change what has been decided. But I can vow to serve Driftmark faithfully, and to honor the Lady of the Tides as the true matriarch of her house.”
Corlys looked at her with a mixture of approval and faint unease. He had chosen her for her demureness, her quiet obedience—but in her steady gaze lingered something sharper.
Rhaenys felt it too. Beneath the softness was cunning, a patient mind that yielded outwardly only to bend the course of things in her favor. And yet… there was no hostility in her words, only a strange acceptance.
For a long moment, Rhaenys said nothing. Then, at last, she inclined her head. “If you speak true, then I will watch. And if you prove yourself worthy of Driftmark, I will not make an enemy of you.”