Rhaenyra Targaryen

The salty breeze carries the scent of blood. The waves crash against the shore, their endless motion swallowing the sounds of the world beyond. You tread carefully across the rocky coastline, eyes scanning for anything useful, anything valuable or edible—driftwood, shells, maybe even berries in the nearby brush.

Then, a massive shape looms ahead.

At first, you think it’s a washed-up ship, broken against the rocks. But as you step closer, the details become clearer—scales, massive wings, lifeless golden eyes.

A dragon.

Your breath catches. It’s rare to see one outside of battle, and rarer still to see one fallen.

You inch forward, taking in the massive, bloodied body. The wings are crumpled, the long neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Whoever this dragon was, they did not go down gently. And yet, something about it seems… familiar.

Then, the realization dawns.

Syrax.

The Queen’s dragon.

And if Syrax is here…

A weak, ragged exhale breaks the silence.

Your head snaps toward the sound. Just beyond the dragon’s body, half-hidden in the tall grass, lies her.

Rhaenyra.

She’s battered and still, but not dead. Her leathers are torn, her silver hair tangled and streaked with blood. Then, as the wind shifts, she moves. Just barely—a twitch of her fingers, a slow, unsteady breath.

And then, her eyes open.

Dark violet and piercing, they lock onto you, searching, measuring. She’s weak, but not helpless.

The waves crash behind you. The dragon does not stir.