Rayder walked alongside Rhaenys as the cool breeze of Westeros brushed past them. His mind, however, was elsewhere. While outwardly calm, his thoughts churned with curiosity and calculation. He continued to ask Rhaenys about the customs, traditions, and political intricacies of Westeros. Each answer she provided helped him better understand this world—its strengths, weaknesses, and the simmering conflicts beneath the surface. He was so immersed in his exploration that he failed to notice the danger his words were about to stir.
Behind them trailed Lanaer, her small steps quickening occasionally to keep up. She looked up at the pair with wide, curious eyes, her gaze flickering between Rayder and Rhaenys. The glint of wonder in her young face made her seem innocent, unaware of the subtle undercurrents shaping the adults' conversation.
Rayder believed he had developed a decent grasp of the Targaryen family's inner workings, especially the quiet but undeniable tensions surrounding the succession of the Iron Throne. His questions, though phrased casually, were anything but idle chatter. They were calculated, deliberate, like pebbles dropped into a placid lake—not enough to stir a storm, but enough to create ripples that spread outward, revealing unseen depths.
Rhaenys, for her part, behaved impeccably. Her poise was that of a true princess of the royal bloodline—elegant, reserved, and unfailingly proper. She gave no visible sign of irritation or dissatisfaction with her family's political decisions. But Rayder's eyes were sharp. He noticed things others might miss. Beneath her composed exterior, her emotions were more turbulent than she let on.
He knew, for instance, that Rhaenys had been passed over twice by King Jaehaerys in the matter of succession—once for her uncle Baelon and then again for Viserys. And each time, it had been for one reason: her gender. The sting of being denied what should rightfully have been hers, not because of incompetence but because of tradition, had surely left scars. Scars, Rayder suspected, that had never fully healed.
More telling still was her insistence that her son Laenor should become the crown prince. She actively supported him in the fierce competition for succession. This was not the behavior of a woman resigned to her fate. It revealed something deeper—a refusal to surrender, a will that smoldered quietly even if hidden behind the mask of propriety.
Rayder decided it was time to prod that hidden ember, to see if it could be coaxed into flame.
He came to a sudden stop, his boots crunching lightly against the gravel path. Turning sharply, he fixed Rhaenys with a steady gaze. His tone shifted; the casual curiosity in his voice vanished, replaced by something sharper, probing, almost challenging.
"Princess Rhaenys," he said softly, yet the weight of his words made her straighten unconsciously. "I have only one question. Tell me—have you truly never thought about sitting on the Iron Throne yourself?"
The question fell between them like a blade of ice. Rhaenys froze, her pupils narrowing ever so slightly. Her expression did not change much, but the flicker of alarm in her eyes was unmistakable. She recognized at once that this was no idle musing. Rayder's words carried intent—dangerous intent.
She wanted to dismiss it, to rebuke him, but his question lodged deep within her heart like a barbed arrow. It refused to be ignored. Against her better judgment, her mind wandered down that forbidden path: What if? What if I sat upon the Iron Throne? What if all that had been denied to me was finally mine?
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Her reason screamed at her to stop, to bury that thought before it consumed her. This was the ultimate taboo of her family. To entertain such ambition openly could ignite devastating strife within House Targaryen. She was the Queen Who Never Was; she had worn that title for years with pride and resignation in equal measure. To betray that composure now was unthinkable.
Yet, the temptation coiled around her heart like a venomous serpent. The Iron Throne was more than a chair of swords. It was power—undeniable, absolute power. It was the birthright that had slipped through her fingers twice. Everything she had lost due to her gender surged within her now, pulled to the surface by Rayder's audacious question.
Rayder watched her keenly. He could see the internal battle written across her face. Her usually serene expression shifted subtly; her brows furrowed, her lips quivered, and her eyes betrayed a storm of conflicting emotions—fear, desire, pride, and anger.
He decided to press just a little more.
Stepping closer, his voice softened, yet his words carried a magnetic allure. "House Targaryen is not bound by the rules of ordinary mortals," he murmured. "We are the blood of the dragon. Old traditions, outdated customs—they exist to be broken by those bold enough to challenge them. Think about it, Princess. Even gods have fallen before the fury of dragons. What are thrones and laws compared to that?"
His words struck her heart with uncanny precision. Pride—deep, ancestral pride—swelled within her. The Targaryens were not like other families. They had dragons, and with dragons came the power to shape kingdoms and topple dynasties. For a brief, perilous moment, Rhaenys allowed herself to imagine it: the throne beneath her, the crown upon her head, the realm bowing before her as the true ruler she had always believed herself to be.
Her breathing grew unsteady, her eyes reflecting a maelstrom of emotions. Excitement warred with reason; ambition clashed with duty. Rayder, seasoned by a lifetime of observing others, knew his words had taken root. The ambition long buried deep within her soul had been ignited, and it crackled like a hidden fire, waiting for the right moment to blaze.
But Rhaenys was not reckless. The chains of reason still held fast. The bonds of family, the teachings of honor and restraint—these shackled her to caution. To seize the throne with an outsider's help, to spill the blood of her kin, was treason of the highest order. And she was not yet cruel enough to take that path.
Rayder knew he had pushed her as far as she could go for now. Any further and she might retreat entirely or grow hostile. Like someone standing at the edge of a cliff, she teetered between the temptation to leap and the instinct to step back. He would not push her over; that was not his goal. Not yet.
He allowed the tension to ebb. Turning his gaze away from Rhaenys, he looked toward Lanaer, who followed quietly a short distance behind. The sight of the young girl shifted his mood.
Lanaer was less than ten years old, a child in every sense. Yet she had accomplished something extraordinary—she had tamed Vhagar, the great ancient dragon. Her small frame and delicate features made her seem fragile, but her courage and innate dragon-rider talent were anything but ordinary.
Rayder observed her with quiet admiration. Her eyes were clear and bright, unclouded by the burdens of ambition or politics. When she looked at Vhagar, there was no fear, only trust and affection, as though the great beast were her dearest companion rather than a creature that could incinerate her with a single breath.
Rayder himself appeared as a teenager, but his soul carried the weight of two lifetimes. He remembered vividly the first time he had stood before a dragon, trying to establish a bond. His palms had been slick with sweat, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Facing such a majestic creature stirred a primal fear, an instinct older than reason itself.
Unlike Lanaer, Rayder had the advantage of the mysterious "system" embedded within him. It had revealed his bloodline affinity for dragon-riding in clear, almost scientific terms, allowing him to approach the task analytically. Lanaer had no such aid. She had achieved her bond with Vhagar through nothing but courage, instinct, and the natural affinity of her bloodline.
Watching her now, Rayder sighed inwardly. She probably had no idea how rare and precious her gift truly was.
This world—this continent of Westeros—was full of wonders and mysteries. Dragons soaring across the skies, ancient houses clinging to power, and destinies forged in fire and blood. The path ahead was uncertain, and the game of thrones was only beginning. But one thing was clear: both Rhaenys and Lanaer had roles to play in what was coming, whether they realized it or not.
Mounting his dragon once more, Rayder followed alongside Rhaenys and Lanaer as they continued their journey toward King's Landing. The city awaited, and with it, the next chapter of ambition, conflict, and destiny.
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