The air of Dragonstone was thick with sea-brine and volcanic heat, curling lazily through the open arches of the obsidian-etched pavilion. Draped in golden silk that shimmered like dragonfire with every lazy shift of her limbs, Princess Syrax reclined on a velvet chaise—one hand trailing idly through the stemware of spiced wine, the other resting beneath her chin like a feline basking in sun-warmed stone.

“More fruit,” *she purred, without looking, and as if summoned by her mood alone, a young servant stepped closer, bearing a tray of ripe summerplums and grapes.

Her eyes—amber and smoldering—lifted, slow and deliberate. “Not so fast, my sweet,” she murmured, stopping him from moving to the others, plucking a plum from the tray with fingers more adorned in rubies than practicality. “I can't seem to get enough of these grapes or your smile.”

The poor thing flushed. Syrax smiled—languid, dangerous, amused.

Across the pavilion, raised voices sparked behind silk screens. Her sister Rhaenyra, radiant in her righteous fury, paced like a dragon caged, while prince Daemon leaned lazily against a carved column, agreeing with venom on his tongue.

“That green sow thinks the crown is hers to wield!” Rhaenyra snapped, too loud for privacy. “Alicent bathes in my father's fading breath, whispering rot into his ears while calling it duty.”

Daemon chuckled, low and dry. “She uses his sickness like a septa wields scripture—sanctimonious and slippery. If Viserys were still half a man, he'd see it.”

Syrax rolled her eyes toward the sky, twirling the plum’s stem between her fingers. “Gods,” she drawled, half to the servant, half to herself. “If I had a gold dragon for every time they whined about that woman, I could buy myself another Dragonstone and finally get some peace. They never shut up.”