Rayder's gaze lingered on Rhaenys as she was gently ushered forward. Her delicate features and those slightly innocent, clear eyes held his attention for a heartbeat longer than necessary. A dangerous thought, subtle as a creeping vine, began to unfurl in the depths of his mind.
He knew the Targaryens well enough to understand that their dynasty was never truly at peace. Beneath the surface of golden crowns and dragonfire lay a constant, silent war over the Iron Throne. Schemes thrived like weeds; betrayals sprouted like spring flowers. Even here, at the height of their power, the seeds of their eventual downfall were already sown.
And Rhaenys… this bright-eyed girl, often called the "uncrowned queen" of the future—her destiny seemed already written. Her life's path had been mapped by bloodline and tradition long before she could choose her own steps. But as Rayder studied her, a new and almost wicked thought took root in his mind.
What if someone intervened?
What if her path could be changed? What if the course of the entire dynasty could be bent, twisted into something else—something no maester, no seer, no dragon could predict?
The idea was audacious, even absurd. Yet the spark of it thrilled him. He could almost see a different kind of game unfolding, a new board laid out before him, with Rhaenys as one of its most valuable pieces. In that moment, a mischievous glint lit his eyes, like a man who had glimpsed a future full of delicious possibilities.
Rayder said nothing more. He only nodded with his usual air of casual indifference and followed behind Rhaenys and Lanaer, leaving the dragon's lair. To any observer, his retreating figure seemed relaxed, even disinterested. But only Rayder knew the truth: a dangerous seed had just been planted deep within him.
Yet peace did not return to the lair the moment he left.
Jaehaerys remained where he stood, his eyes fixed on the direction Rayder had gone. For all his regal composure, an inexplicable chill gnawed at him. His heart sank with a sudden weight, as though some dark omen had whispered into his soul.
He could not articulate the source of this unease. But instinct—sharp and honed by years of ruling—told him that Rayder's very existence was like a ticking time bomb. Even if he left Dragonstone, even if he played the ally for now, his presence could explode into catastrophe at any moment.
Almost at the same time, Daemon—silent and brooding until now—stepped forward. His voice was low, his words deliberate:
> "We should eliminate him as soon as possible. I noticed earlier… he seemed intent on trying to tame Cannibal."
The name alone made Jaehaerys's pupils tighten. His chest rose and fell sharply.
Rayder's audacity was staggering. Was three dragons not enough? He already commanded a force unmatched in the known world. That alone made him a living legend, someone poised above all others. And yet, he wanted more. He wanted Cannibal—the most ancient, feral, and deadly of Dragonstone's beasts.
It was not ambition; it was provocation. It was playing with dragonfire while drenched in oil.
A storm of unease and fury surged within Jaehaerys. He had known Rayder posed a potential threat to the Targaryen dynasty, but until now, he had not seriously entertained the idea of striking him down. Rayder's three dragons made him untouchable in open battle. The scars of the previous "Dragon War" still burned in memory—both sides had fought savagely, and neither had claimed complete dominance.
To risk another direct conflict would be sheer madness.
That was why Jaehaerys's original strategy had been one of patience. He had thought to keep Rayder close, observe him carefully, and wait for an opportunity. Perhaps he could tempt him with gold beyond imagination, with Westeros's most beautiful women, or even with political power. Perhaps Rayder could be corrupted or tamed, made into a tool of the Iron Throne rather than a rival.
But Daemon's whispered news shattered that fragile hope.
Rayder had shown no restraint. His ambitions were swelling to monstrous proportions. A man like that could not be bought, nor bent to anyone's will. He was not a pawn waiting to be played; he was the storm itself.
For the first time, Jaehaerys truly considered Rayder as a threat that could not be allowed to live.
Daemon saw the silent war on Jaehaerys's face and pressed the advantage. He lowered his voice further, the steel beneath his words unmistakable:
> "He is strong and insatiably greedy. Perhaps we should use… different means.
No open battle. No public scandal. Schemes, shadows, silent knives. Let him vanish without a trace."
Jaehaerys's head snapped toward Daemon. His eyes sharpened like a hawk's mid-dive. His voice, though low, cut like a sword:
> "Daemon. Put those tricks away. In King's Landing, there will be no blood in the shadows. Do you understand?"
The words rang with authority, cold and unyielding.
Jaehaerys was no fool; he knew exactly what Daemon was suggesting. And part of him understood the logic behind it. But he would never allow King's Landing—his heart, his seat of power—to reek of whispered murders and secret betrayals. The Targaryen name carried honor, and the honor of a dragonlord could not be tarnished by cowardice.
If action was to be taken against Rayder, it must be clean. Swift. Untraceable. And most importantly, it must not shake the faith of those who followed the Targaryens.
Daemon said nothing further, but the gleam in his eyes suggested he understood—and that he already had his own ideas.
Jaehaerys turned away and left the lair with his most trusted guards, his steps steady, his expression unreadable. Daemon remained behind, his figure swallowed by the shifting light and shadows of Dragonstone.
Once Jaehaerys's silhouette had vanished into the distance, Daemon's expression changed. He inhaled deeply, his fingers tightening on the hilt of Dark Sister. The blade was cold beneath his touch, but it rekindled the fire of his resolve.
His eyes gleamed with ruthless clarity. A predator's patience. A venomous snake coiled in the dark.
Quickly, he scanned the cavern around him. No one was watching. No one would hear. And so Daemon turned and strode toward where the maesters gathered.
If Rayder was to fall, it would not be by brute force. No, to strike down a man with three dragons required knowledge—secret, precise, and deadly. And the maesters, with their vast archives of obscure lore and their whisper networks stretching across the Seven Kingdoms, were the perfect tools.
Somewhere in that well of knowledge, there had to be a weakness. And Daemon would find it.
Meanwhile, far from the plotting shadows, Rayder walked alongside Rhaenys.
He had no inkling of the venom already aimed at his heart. His thoughts were elsewhere, intrigued by something far different. His voice was light, almost casual, yet probing:
> "Lady Rhaenys," he began, "within your family, regarding the Iron Throne… how does the matter stand? I've heard whispers of disputes."
Rhaenys faltered for just an instant, caught off guard by his frankness. Few dared to ask such things so openly. But she recovered quickly; the girl who would one day be queen already carried herself with grace.
Her voice was soft, careful:
> "They are only family discussions. My grandfather is aging; we all hope he may enjoy his twilight years. As for succession… destiny and bloodline decide such matters."
Her words were gentle, almost naive, yet Rayder heard the layers beneath them. A court raised on dragons and daggers always spoke in veiled truths.
As she spoke, that earlier dangerous thought stirred once more within him. He studied her profile—the innocent eyes, the quiet strength beneath them. A faint smile curved his lips, barely there, impossible to read.
Perhaps, he thought, the future need not unfold as history demands. Perhaps even destiny can be rewritten with the right touch at the right time.
And with that thought, Rayder felt the thrill of the game quicken in his blood. The board was set. The pieces were moving. And he intended to play.
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