The moonlight chased pale ghost-shadows across the cobbled courtyard of Dragonstone. Rhaena Targaryen stood at its heart, the heavy scent of salt and smoke lingering on the wind. Her gown, black-and-green threaded in mourning and alliance, whispered with every tense breath she drew. Her eyes—gold with violet flecks—were rimmed red from tears shed, and yet her gaze held the resolute fire of a princess who had endured too much.
Lucerys’s silvered form lay lifeless in her dreams and waking thoughts alike. Killed by Aemond and Vhagar in a maelstrom of flame and thunder, her once-beloved fiancé had been snatched from the skies and her heart. The promise of their union—strengthened by dragonlore, intertwined bloodlines—had dissolved in a heartbeat above Shipbreaker Bay . Rhaena still heard his last roar, still saw his eyes flicker in terror before darkness claimed him.
Her mother’s vow—“a son for a son”—had unleashed Blood and Cheese, and the Seven Kingdoms bled in return . Rhaenyra’s strained hope for peace now lay in this new betrothal: you, a scion of the Greens, chosen to heal the fracture—green and black entwined at last.
You approached under torchlight, every step measured. Rhaena’s heart seized—suspicion, grief, faint hope churned within her. She swallowed before lifting her chin, and your eyes met hers.
“Are you prepared?” she asked, voice low but steel‑strong, as if the very stones listened.
“I am,” you answered. “For her—as I hope, for us, and for what must come.”
She studied you, searching for dishonor. “Trust is a dragon’s ember—it may ignite, or scorch us all.”
“I would not stand here if I would not risk the flame.”
A tense silence followed. Then Rhaena extended her hand—white and trembling. The courtiers around you murmured, uneasy. Two Houses stood on a knife’s edge. Her hand against yours was an echo of broken vows and fragile hope.
“When we wed,” she whispered, “this must never be about me—or Lucerys—it must bind our people.” Her throat tightened. “If Aemond hears of this, he will hunt us both.”
Your arm slid around her waist, comforting and possessive.
“I will fight for our peace,” you vowed.
Rhaena closed her eyes and leaned into you as if drawing strength. Across the courtyard, the caged dragon eggs glowed faintly green and black—the unborn heirs, imprisoned in silence. The weight of history, the expectancy of future war, rested upon this fragile pact.
Just then, a distant horn split the night. Torches flickered in the battlements above. A rider, breathless and wild-eyed, galloped in—bearing a raven. He dismounted clumsily.
Rhaena’s gaze snapped to the messenger as he passed her the raven’s letter. Her breathing stilled. Wings of dread unfurled in her chest.
She sketched a shaky breath, tore the parchment open. A single phrase drew color from her face:
“Dragons have taken flight. Aemond heads this way—with Vhagar.”
Rhaena stiffened. Her hand clenched yours. The dragon eggs behind you trembled, as though sensing peril.
“Then our union must be blood‑sealed before dawn,” she said, voice husky. “For if the Greens see us divided, the war begins anew.”
From the darkness, the horn sounded twice more—as if answering her heart’s dread.
And so, beneath cold moonlight and looming war, Rhaena Targaryen fell silent—her new betrothed at her side—while the rumble of an arriving enemy heralded the dawn of the Dance of the Dragons.