At dusk on Driftmark, the sky was stained gold and red.
The sea wind carried salt and cool dampness.
Within the dragonpit.
From the western horizon, the figure of the "Red Queen," Meleys, glided in on an even descent.
Her scales were a pure, unblemished red.
She was far smaller than Vhagar—barely a quarter her size—yet still large enough to make mortals tremble.
Her landing was graceful and precise, displaying the astonishing, years-long harmony between dragon and rider.
The "Queen Who Never Was," Rhaenys Targaryen, loosened the saddle straps and dismounted neatly from the dragon's back.
She wore deep silver light armor suited for riding, a dark red cloak over it, dust-worn yet clear-eyed and vigorous.
Turning, she reached out to stroke Meleys's lowered, warm head.
The great dragon's breathing was heavy and warm, carrying the scent of sulfur. Rhaenys's palm gently rubbed the rough, rock-like scales near the dragon's snout as she murmured something softly in High Valyrian.
Meleys rumbled in contentment, her vast red vertical pupils half-lidded as she enjoyed her rider's touch.
"You've worked hard, old girl," Rhaenys said gently. "The wind was a bit strong today, wasn't it?"
Meleys nudged her palm lightly with the tip of her nose.
At that moment, Rhaenys noticed the tall figure waiting quietly at the edge of the dragonpit.
Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake—her husband. His gray-blue eyes were fixed on her, carrying a trace of disapproval, but more than that, a silent concern.
Rhaenys patted Meleys's neck, signaling that she could go and rest on her own.
The Red Queen gave a low murmur.
Only then did Rhaenys walk toward her husband. Her steps were steady, showing no sign of fatigue from the long flight.
"Corlys," she said as she came before him, tilting her head slightly to look up at him, "were you waiting for me?"
Corlys smiled at Rhaenys and spoke in gentle admonishment: "Each time you fly a dragon alone, I cannot put my heart at ease until you land safely."
"Rhaenys, we are no longer young. Such long flights—are they not… too dangerous?"
Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous? Corlys, a dragonrider's end should be the sky."
"Not lying at last upon a sickbed, having the final scraps of dignity eroded away by pain and potions."
Corlys fell silent for a moment, knowing full well that the pride in his wife's bones and her love of flight could never be argued away.
He let out a quiet sigh. "I am only afraid… of losing you, Rhaenys."
"I am here, Corlys." Rhaenys reached out and clasped her husband's hand—the hand long accustomed to the helm, thick with calluses yet still strong.
Corlys nodded and, taking the cue, shifted the topic as they walked side by side at an unhurried pace toward the castle.
"Some voices within the family have started to surface again of late," Corlys said in a low voice.
Rhaenys's expression darkened slightly. "Still the matter of bastards?"
"Yes." Corlys kept his eyes forward. "My brother Vaemond, and a few of the cadet branches, have been speaking in private."
Rhaenys let out a cold laugh.
"Without you, how could House Velaryon have amassed wealth rivaling kingdoms?"
"You forged the greatest fleet Westeros has ever known."
"And now these people want to usurp the fruits of your labor."
Corlys shook his head. "They are far too shallow."
"Lucerys and Joffrey are not of my blood—so what?"
With a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, Corlys continued, "I have already made arrangements. Lucerys and Joffrey will, in time, wed the daughters of Daemon and Laena—our granddaughters Baela and Rhaena."
Rhaenys slowed her steps slightly and cast her husband a look of mixed emotions.
Baela and Rhaena bore the most striking traits of both Targaryen and Velaryon alike: silver hair and violet eyes.
Corlys went on evenly, "That way, the next generation will still be children who carry Velaryon blood."
"As for Jacaerys," he paused, "Rhaenyra has given me her word that the queen consort of his heir will also be a daughter of House Velaryon."
Rhaenys nodded.
The Sea Snake did not voice the deepest calculation in his heart.
Whether bloodlines were pure, or hair and eye color aligned—over the course of his long political life, having witnessed countless treacherous tides—these had never been the most crucial matters.
What mattered was that the three boys acknowledged themselves as Velaryons; they possessed dragons and were heirs to Princess Rhaenyra.
Through marriages, more Velaryon offspring would be bound to Targaryen descendants, and with them, the Iron Throne itself.
House Velaryon might, by this means, aspire to more than merely being the "Lord of the Tides," a maritime power.
They could quietly let their bloodline merge more deeply with the blood of the true dragons.
Becoming a second house of dragonlords…
In time, possessing their own dragons and dragon eggs…
Of course, such farther-reaching plans—some even verging on presumption—he would not, and need not, lay bare to the wife he loved so deeply.
Suddenly, Corlys changed the subject, his tone carrying a rare gravity.
"Otto—our Hand—seems unwilling to let this rest."
"How so?" Rhaenys asked, curious.
"Our eyes in King's Landing have sent word. Otto has already dispatched envoys to make contact with the Kingdom of the Three Daughters."
"The Triarchy?" Rhaenys's brows knit tightly. "Did they not sign an armistice with us, abandoning their claims in the Stepstones?"
"Treaties are paper; interests are gold," Corlys said coldly. "It seems our Hand is not content to seek allies only within the Seven Kingdoms."
"Now the Triarchy has sent envoys who will soon arrive in King's Landing, ostensibly to reopen trade between them and the realm."
"He means to bring in outside help? To use the Triarchy's fleet to check us?" Rhaenys felt the weight of the matter.
The Velaryon fleet was indeed formidable, but if the Greens were truly to reach some understanding—or even cooperation—with the Triarchy, the situation in the Narrow Sea would become instantly more complex.
"Very likely," Corlys admitted. "But what worries me more is not the Triarchy's warships."
He halted and looked at his wife. "Rhaenys, we have dragons, and we command the strongest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms.
"But what troubles me most is where House Hightower has its roots—Oldtown.
"It is the scholars of the Citadel, and the septons within the Starry Sept who can sway the minds of millions of faithful."
He paused. "Public opinion, faith, knowledge… these unseen forces can at times be more terrifying than swords and dragonfire."
"House Hightower has been entrenched in Oldtown for a thousand years. Their foundations run deep; half the Reach's nobility follows their lead."
"And if the Faith and the Citadel add their weight behind them…"
Rhaenys fell silent. She knew well that her husband spoke the truth.
Targaryen rule depended upon dragons, yet it had never truly held complete dominion over ancient powers such as the Faith of the Seven and the Citadel.
After a long while, Rhaenys spoke slowly. "At the very least… the betrothal between Jacaerys and Helaena still stands. The king gave his word himself."
"If the marriage can be concluded, it would at least ease the confrontation between the Blacks and the Greens, and show the neutral lords that peaceful coexistence is possible."
"House Hightower and the Greens would not openly defy the king's will—and a union that could bring peace—would they?"
Corlys lifted his gaze toward the last streak of dusk on the horizon, soon to be swallowed by darkness.
"That is precisely what troubles me most, Rhaenys."
He spoke slowly. "I believe the Greens—Otto Hightower most of all—will never accept this marriage."
"To acknowledge it would be to acknowledge the legitimacy of Jacaerys's identity, and to weaken the legal ground on which they mean to one day raise Aegon to the throne."
"Their silence now may be nothing more than waiting—waiting for a chance to tear the betrothal apart, or to ensure it can never be fulfilled."
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