"Lannino is too young…"The thought stabbed through Rhaenys's heart like a needle of ice.On the male-dominated continent of Westeros, she had been denied the right to be her father's heir, stripped of the title that should have been hers by blood and merit. That injustice still burned deep inside her, an old wound that had never truly healed. Now, she could only stand by and watch as her son—her sweet, kind, but inexperienced Lannino—was forced into a dangerous contest for the Iron Throne against the ambitious and calculating Viserys.It was a battle fought in whispers, oaths, and the shadows of the Red Keep. And in it, Lannino's disadvantages were painfully clear. He was younger, with far less political experience, and his temperament—more gentle than ruthless—was ill-suited for the cruel games of court intrigue.Yet at this desperate moment, another image pushed its way to the forefront of her mind: Rayder.She could still see him as he had appeared before her—commanding, self-assured, a man who walked with the weight of unimaginable power at his back. And that power… three dragons.Her breath caught as a dangerous, almost blasphemous thought took shape."Perhaps… this isn't such a bad thing after all," she murmured inwardly.Rayder was no ordinary contender in the great game. His very existence was like a massive boulder cast into still waters, sending ripples across every corner of the realm. His dragons alone could redraw the balance of power in Westeros. Three dragons—living, breathing symbols of fire and blood—were enough to turn the heads of lords and sway the hearts of armies.If his presence could be skillfully leveraged, he might serve as both a shield and a weapon—absorbing the attention of rival factions, distracting them from Lannino, and perhaps even tipping the scales in her favor.Her gaze sharpened, her mind racing.Viserys's strength lay in his position as the legitimate male heir of House Targaryen. But his greatest source of prestige had been the legendary Balerion the Black Dread, the founding dragon of their dynasty. That great beast was now dead, its skull hanging in silent tribute within the Red Keep's halls.Without Balerion, Viserys's claim, while legal, lacked the fiery symbol that had once inspired awe and fear across the realm. For a Targaryen without a dragon was a king without his sword."The death of Balerion…" Rhaenys's lips curved in thought. The fact echoed in her mind like a drumbeat. A plan began to take shape—vague, yet glinting with dangerous promise. "Perhaps we can use this. If I cannot yet dethrone Viserys, I can erode his power. Rayder's dragons could be the lever. And even those who hate or fear dragons could be turned to my advantage. If handled well, their dissent could be made to chip away at his prestige…"Her thoughts churned as Meleys began to descend, the familiar crimson shape cutting through the night air. Below, the spires and walls of King's Landing emerged from the dark, bathed in the flickering light of thousands of torches. The city was restless even at this hour.Rhaenys inhaled deeply, forcing herself to push her schemes aside for now. The time for action was coming, but not yet. She needed patience, information, and the right moment to move her piece on the board.This game had only just begun. And in this game, she intended to be the most cunning player of them all.---Meleys's great wings folded as she alighted inside the Dragonpit. The air was thick with the smell of old stone and dragon musk. In the dark, her dragon's vast body looked like a hill of living flame, the red of her scales muted under shadow. At a gentle command, Meleys lowered her head, hiding her presence as much as a creature of her size could.Rhaenys dismounted lightly, her boots making almost no sound against the stone floor. She moved with the casual grace of someone returning from an ordinary flight, careful not to draw unnecessary attention.King's Landing was a city on edge—a powder keg waiting for the spark. Even the smallest ripple could trigger a wave of panic or violence. If word of Rayder's dragons reached the wrong ears prematurely, chaos could break out before she had time to act.And chaos, if uncontrolled, destroyed more than it built.She would not make that mistake.Her path was clear: the castle's inner chambers, to the bedchamber of the man who still held the realm together by the thinnest of threads—her grandfather, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen.---The guards posted at the King's quarters recognized her instantly. Even at this late hour, protocol demanded her arrival be announced. She waited with measured stillness as the attendant slipped inside.The chamber smelled faintly of medicinal herbs and warm wool. Jaehaerys, once called the "Conciliator" and the "Old King," had led House Targaryen through decades of peace and strength. Now, in his seventies, he was swathed in layers of brocade and cushions, his once-commanding frame hunched with age.Time had not been kind. Deep lines furrowed his face, and the proud silver beard was thin and unkempt. Yet in his eyes—clouded though they were—traces of the old majesty lingered, like embers refusing to go out.Even so, the years had sapped much of his power. His breathing was labored, each movement measured and cautious, as if the wrong gesture might snuff out what life remained.When the attendant murmured Rhaenys's request for an audience, a faint grimace of weariness flickered across his features.He knew her too well. Intelligent, sharp-tongued, and possessed of a pride as unyielding as dragonstone, Rhaenys had inherited not only the fire of her bloodline but also its stubborn will. And now, with the realm at a crossroads, she had come to him."Let her in," he rasped. His voice, once resonant as a bell, was now little more than a hoarse whisper. A shadow of a smile touched his lips. "I cannot refuse her, after all…"She was his granddaughter, the mother of a boy who could yet be king, and one of the pivotal players in the quiet war brewing beneath the court's surface.---Jaehaerys's thoughts turned heavy. Outwardly, the question of succession was between Crown Prince Viserys and the young Lannino. In truth, the matter had long since escalated into a bitter contest: Viserys and his brother Daemon on one side, Rhaenys and her husband, Corlys Velaryon, on the other.The streets of the capital were thick with spies and soldiers loyal to one camp or the other. Alliances shifted in the dark, daggers poised for the moment the old king's body failed. His death would be the signal—for war, for fire, for the fracturing of everything he had spent his life preserving.The thought chilled him more than any winter wind.He had poured his strength into holding this realm together, nurturing peace from the ashes of rebellion. To see it all undone in his final days would be a cruelty he could scarcely bear.Somehow, he had to delay the inevitable. Perhaps he could convince Viserys to grant a symbolic concession to Rhaenys, something to placate her pride. Anything to keep swords sheathed until after his passing.He was lost in these calculations when a voice—low, urgent, trembling with emotion—cut through his thoughts.---"Grandfather."Rhaenys was kneeling on the thick carpet before his bed, her head bowed but her eyes fierce with resolve. "I bring news. News that could change everything."Jaehaerys's brows knit in confusion. He gestured faintly for her to go on.She took a slow, steadying breath, then began to speak—clearly, concisely, yet with an undercurrent of excitement. She told him of her meeting with Rayder, of the three dragons under his command, and most of all, of the creature unlike any in the histories—a three-headed dragon.Her words fell like stones into the quiet chamber, each one striking with weight.---"Three dragons…"Jaehaerys's voice cracked. His weathered face shifted from disbelief to shock, and then to something bordering on dread."And a… three-headed dragon?" His hands clutched the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles blanched. "No… no, this is impossible. This is absolutely impossible…"His breath grew uneven, his body shuddering with the strain of the revelation. For a moment, she feared he might collapse entirely."Careful," Rhaenys murmured, moving to steady him. Her grip was firm but gentle, her gaze never leaving his face.It took long minutes for the old king to recover, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. A sheen of cold sweat glistened on his brow.At last, he raised his eyes—clouded but sharp in their scrutiny—and fixed them on her. It was the look of a man searching for any crack, any tremor that might betray a lie.But Rhaenys's expression did not waver. Her certainty burned like a flame. She gave the smallest of nods, as if to say:Yes, Grandfather. It is true. All of it.---
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