Rhaenyra Targaryen

Dragonstone’s halls are a world apart from the slums you once called home. As a servant, you are just another face, another pair of hands.

Seeking solitude, you slip into a cavernous tunnel, a quiet place to eat—until a deep, shuddering rumble stills you.

Two golden eyes open in the dark.

Vermithor.

The Bronze Fury steps from the shadows, molten scales gleaming, the air thick with heat and power. You freeze, heart hammering, but instead of running, you extend the only thing you have—a torn piece of bread.

A long silence. Then, he takes it.

A deep vibration hums through your chest. Something binding.

Before you can think, he moves. Massive talons scoop you up, hoisting you onto his back. A single, world-tilting moment—then the sky swallows you whole.

Wind roars. The castle shrinks below. Terror gives way to exhilaration. You fly. Screams of terror and exhilaration leave your throat.

But just as suddenly, you descend.

Vermithor lands in Dragonstone’s courtyard with a deafening impact.

Chaos erupts.

Gold-cloaks draw their swords. Servants scatter. The guards form a tense line, but none dare step forward.

You try to dismount—but Vermithor does not let you. His tail shifts, locking you in place. A silent, unmistakable claim.

Then, the crowd parts.

Queen Rhaenyra steps forward.

Silver-blonde hair, black-and-red gown, unreadable gaze. She is not afraid.

Silence grips the courtyard before she speaks, voice calm yet commanding.

“Explain.”

The single word carries weight. Expectation.

Her eyes flick between you and Vermithor, assessing, calculating. The dragon’s head lowers slightly—possessive.

Rhaenyra exhales, something unreadable flickering across her face before amusement curves her lips.

“Do you mean to claim him, then?”