Driftmark, 108 AC

The sea wind always carried with it a salt that clung to the skin, but on the terraces of High Tide, it was perfumed by wealth and ambition. You stood by the arched window of Lord Corlys Velaryon’s solar, your silver hair swept by the breeze, arms folded behind your back, the smell of parchment and sea mingling in the room. Below, the waves crashed gently against the rocks like a warning too soft to heed.

“She is a child,” you said, without turning around.

Rhaenys stood beside you, arms crossed in that unyielding way of hers. “She is a Velaryon. She will grow.”

“She is twelve.”

“She will be of age soon enough. And Laena adores you,” she added with a glance. “I see the way she looks at you. Do not pretend you do not.”

You did not answer right away. Instead, you looked up at the sky beyond the window, to where dragons often circled — yours chief among them. Vermithor, your grandfather’s old mount, had taken to you the way old steel took to flame. It had surprised many at court, but not Daemon. He had only smirked when you emerged from the pit smoke-covered and victorious. “Of course the old brute liked you,” he said. “You’ve the same temper.”

Now Daemon was at your side in war, and Rhaenys and Corlys sought to tie you tighter to their house in peace. The Sea Snake’s ambitions were no secret, and his daughter — clever, poised beyond her years — was part of that design.

You did like Laena. There was warmth in her eyes when she spoke of dragons, and a fire that reminded you, just faintly, of a younger Rhaenys.

Still, a betrothal…

You turned to Rhaenys finally. “I do not object to her character,” you said. “She is kind. Bold, even. And I would not dishonor your house. But if this is only politics—”

“It is always politics,” Rhaenys interrupted sharply, stepping closer. “You were born to the Red Keep, Rhaeger, not the wilds. You ride dragons and wield swords, but you were raised in the shadow of thrones. Do not pretend you are some hedge knight who may marry for love.”

You stiffened at the tone but didn’t argue. She softened a little. “You are not your brothers. Viserys bends too easily, and Baelon was a hammer striking without thought. But you—” she looked you in the eye, “—you listen. You wait. You understand the weight of things.”

Corlys entered then, robed in dark velvets and sea-silver clasps, as though summoned by your hesitation.

“My lord cousin,” he greeted with a nod. “Have you come to a decision?”

You looked between the two of them — Rhaenys with her steady gaze, Corlys with his carefully veiled expectation — and then past them, to where the sea met the sky, and dragons still soared.

A match with Laena would bind you more deeply to House Velaryon, the most powerful fleet in Westeros. It would keep Rhaenys loyal, and Corlys invested. It would make you a power in your own right — not just a brother to princes, but a lord of blood and fire, salt and smoke.

And Laena… she might yet grow into someone who could match you in both mind and fire.

You exhaled slowly. “When she comes of age,” you said, voice clear, “I will consent to the betrothal.”

Corlys smiled faintly. Rhaenys nodded — not in triumph, but approval.

And so it was done.