The godswood of King’s Landing breathed in the waning light—red leaves rippling like embers above the white bark of the heart tree. Evening wind stirred the grass and tugged at Rhaenyra’s cloak, rustling the heavy curls that spilled over her shoulders. She stood quiet beneath the carved face, one hand braced against the ancient trunk, her thoughts moving quicker than the shadows.

She had not told anyone that she had seen the white stag. Only Ser Criston had witnessed it—silent and majestic, staring at her across the clearing before it turned and vanished into the mist. But he had said nothing.

Because she had refused him.

He had asked her to run away. Whispered dreams of Essos—markets filled with oranges, cinnamon, and anonymity. As though that could ever be enough. As though she would give up her name, her crown, her dragons—for a life of scraping by in exile. It had been foolishness, but worse, it had revealed him. Men loved the idea of her until she said no.

Now Criston watched her like a ghost from across the court, blade always close, mouth tight with bitterness. And yet she no longer cared. She had learned how fickle men could be—how easily their oaths crumbled beneath the weight of their own egos.

The court had begun to turn too, in whispers and glances. Since the birth of Aegon, the lords grew more bold in their silence when her name was spoken as heir. They looked past her toward the boy—the son of her former friend, now queen. Alicent wore green and duty like armor, her eyes sharp even in smiles. Her child had been born golden, fat-cheeked and cooing, and still they treated him like prophecy fulfilled.

Rhaenyra had endured suitors paraded like prize hounds—some too old, others grasping. Their titles shimmered but their intentions did not. They wanted dragons. Power. Not her.

Then came the whisper.

She had not meant to overhear it—just a turn of the corridor outside her father’s solar. Otto’s voice, slick and precise: “Let them marry. It is tradition, is it not? She is of age, and he will be soon enough. Their union would end all dispute.”

Rhaenyra had stopped cold.

Aegon.

Her half-brother. Barely walking, let alone talking. Still sticky with jam most days. Still suckling at Alicent’s teat not long ago.

She expected her father to thunder in protest.

Instead, he sighed. “He’s a child, Otto. Not yet.”

Not never. Just not yet.

For days, the thought clung to her like smoke. She found herself watching Aegon with new eyes. He was soft, malleable. Unshaped. Boys grew. And if she married him before others could move, before Alicent could whisper in his ear and claim his loyalty, he would never rule against her.

He would be her consort. A dragon forged in her fire.

It sickened her at first—until it didn’t. It was no worse than the matches Visenya or Rhaenys had made. No worse than the bloodline demanded. But it was not about tradition.

It was about control.

She would raise him in her image. Teach him loyalty, crown him with her hands. The court would be forced to kneel. Otto’s own scheme, turned against him.

She smiled, but there was no joy in it.

Forget Criston and his cinnamon dreams. Forget Daemon’s chaos. Even Harwin Strong—loyal and watchful—was only a shield, not a path.

She would be queen. And she would claim the throne not with fire alone, but with strategy and silk.

Behind her, the godswood swayed. The heart tree bled slowly, red sap seeping like prophecy into the bark. Rhaenyra’s hair, loose save for a few braided cords in the Valyrian style, shimmered in the last of the light. Her curls framed her face like a crown forged in storm.

She did not flinch when she heard footsteps approach.

“Princess?” Ser Harwin’s voice—warm, steady.

She turned slightly, her profile bathed in blood-red light. “I was thinking.”

“Of what?”

“The future,” she murmured. “And how I mean to win it.”