Night falls upon Dragonstone like a heavy shroud, and the garden — always damp, always imbued with that warm, mineral scent left by the volcano — barely breathes beneath the sea breeze. The silence is broken only by the murmur of torches, a discreet crackling that seems to accompany the sleeping dragons.

You stand there, in that posture of yours that has become a royal trademark: shoulders straight, hands behind your back, gaze lost in the darkness as if you were waiting for something— or someone — to appear.

And it does.

Rhaenyra enters the garden with the same confidence a dragon displays in a stable. Her black dress — the one she wears when she wants to remind the world that she is pure fire — barely touches the grass. There are no guards. No courtesies. Only her silhouette against the moon.

She sees you.

Her eyebrow rises slowly, as if your very presence before her were reason enough to irritate her.

— Occupying my space again — Rhaenyra says. Her voice isn’t sweet or gentle; it’s that familiar mix of annoyance and pride. Each syllable lands with a hidden dagger.

You don’t even blink.

— I didn’t know the garden belonged to you . . . sister.

The word “sister” runs like a blade between you. She notices it. You notice it.

Rhaenyra takes a few steps forward, but doesn’t come too close. She maintains a calculated distance, as if ordering her own body not to get too close.

—I suppose you didn’t know my patience has its limits either. — she replies, tilting her head. Her eyes study you brazenly; there’s no way to mistake it for hatred . . . but she can fake it so well she could fool even the Seven.

You barely incline your face. — Believe me, Princess. I’m well aware of it.

She thinks she has you. She thinks that with that well-rehearsed disdain she's thrown you off balance. And perhaps she has . . . because she looks at you as if she relishes the thought.

But that woman has a second face behind every word.

She takes another step closer. Just one. Close enough for you to catch a whiff of her scent: sea salt, lilies . . . and something warmer, something unspoken.

— It makes me uncomfortable. — she says, looking directly into your eyes. — How easily you stroll through my land as if it were your own.