Engagement

The dusk over Tidepool Island painted the sky a blaze of gold and red.

The sea breeze carried a salty dampness and a chill.

Inside the Dragonpit.

The figure of the Red Queen, Meleys, glided steadily in from the western horizon.

Her scales were that pure crimson.

Her size was far smaller than Vhagar's—barely a quarter—yet still enough to make mortals tremble.

She landed with an elegance and precision that spoke of years of astonishing harmony between rider and mount.

The Uncrowned Queen, Rhaenys Targaryen, unbuckled the saddle straps and dismounted the dragon's back with a clean, practiced motion.

She wore a dark silver light armor suited for riding, draped in a deep red cloak—travel-worn but sharp-eyed and spirited.

She turned, reaching out to stroke Meleys' lowered, warm head.

The dragon's breath was heavy and hot, carrying the scent of sulfur. Rhaenys' palm gently rubbed the rough, rock-like scales near the dragon's snout, murmuring something in Valyrian.

Meleys let out a satisfied rumble from her throat, her massive red vertical pupils half-closed, basking in her master's touch.

"Hard work today, old girl," Rhaenys said softly. "The wind was a bit strong, wasn't it?"

Meleys nudged her palm lightly with the tip of her snout.

Just then, Rhaenys noticed the tall figure waiting quietly at the edge of the Dragonpit.

Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, her husband. His grey-blue eyes were fixed on her, carrying a hint of disapproval, but more than that—a silent concern.

Rhaenys patted Meleys' neck, signaling she could go rest on her own.

The Red Queen let out a low croon.

Only then did Rhaenys walk toward her husband. Her steps were steady, showing no trace of fatigue from the long ride.

"Corlys," she said, stopping before him and tilting her head up slightly to meet his gaze. "Were you waiting for me?"

Corlys smiled as he looked at Rhaenys, then urged gently:

"Every time you ride out alone, I can't rest easy until I see you land safely."

"Rhaenys, we're no longer young. Isn't this kind of long flight... a bit too risky?"

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. "Risky? Corlys, a dragonrider's true home is the sky."

"Not lying on a sickbed in the end, letting pain and potions eat away the last shred of dignity."

Corlys was silent for a moment, knowing well that his wife's innate pride and love for flight could not be talked out of. He sighed.

"I'm just afraid... of losing you, Rhaenys."

"I'm here, Corlys." Rhaenys reached out and clasped her husband's hand—a hand calloused from steering, yet still strong.

Corlys nodded, smoothly shifting the topic as he fell into step beside her, walking slowly toward the castle.

"Some voices within the family have been stirring again lately," Corlys said in a low voice.

Rhaenys' expression darkened slightly. "Still on about the bastards?"

"Mm." Corlys stared ahead. "My brother Vaemond, and some of the cadet branches, have been whispering among themselves."

Rhaenys let out a cold laugh.

"Without you, how could House Velaryon have amassed wealth enough to rival kingdoms?"

"You built the strongest navy Westeros has ever seen."

"And now these people want to steal your legacy."

Corlys shook his head. "They're too shallow."

"What does it matter if Lucerys and Joffrey aren't of my blood?"

A smile tugged at the corner of Corlys' mouth as he continued: "I've already arranged it. Lucerys and Joffrey will one day marry Daemon and Laena's daughters—our granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena."

Rhaenys' steps faltered slightly, and she gave her husband a complicated look.

Baela and Rhaena bore the most striking Targaryen and Velaryon traits—silver hair and purple eyes.

Corlys went on, his tone steady: "That way, our next generation will also have heirs of the Velaryon bloodline."

"As for Jacaerys," he paused, "Princess Rhaenyra has given me her word that the queen who will bear his heirs will also be a daughter of House Velaryon."

Rhaenys nodded.

The Sea Snake did not voice the deepest calculations in his heart.

Whether the blood was pure or the hair and eye color matched—in his long career, having weathered countless political storms—was not the most important thing.

What mattered was that these three boys acknowledged themselves as Velaryons, that they had dragons, and that they were Princess Rhaenyra's heirs.

Through marriage, binding more Velaryon offspring to Targaryen bloodlines, while firmly tying them to the Iron Throne.

House Velaryon might thus rise beyond merely being "Lords of the Tides" and masters of the sea.

Instead, he quietly let his own bloodline sink deeper into the true dragon lineage.

It was entirely possible to borrow a nest and hatch an egg.

To become a second Dragonlord family...

In the future, to possess their own dragons and dragon eggs...

Of course, these deeper, even somewhat presumptuous schemes, he would not—and need not—lay bare to his beloved wife.

Suddenly, Corlys shifted his tone, carrying a rare gravity.

"Otto, our Hand, it seems, still hasn't given up."

"How so?" Rhaenys asked, curious.

"Our eyes in King's Landing report that Otto has sent men to make contact with the Three Daughters."

"The Triarchy?" Rhaenys frowned deeply. "Didn't they sign a truce with us and renounce their claims on the Stepstones?"

"A treaty is paper; interests are gold." Corlys said coldly. "It seems our Lord Hand isn't content to seek allies only within the Seven Kingdoms."

"Now, the Triarchy has already dispatched envoys, set to arrive in King's Landing any day now, ostensibly to resume trade with the realm."

"He wants to bring in outside help? Use the Triarchy's fleet to counterbalance us?" Rhaenys sensed the gravity of the matter.

The Velaryon fleet was formidable, but if the Greens truly reached some tacit understanding—or even cooperation—with the Triarchy, the situation in the Narrow Sea would instantly grow complex.

"Very likely," Corlys admitted. "But what worries me more isn't the Triarchy's warships."

He stopped and looked at his wife. "Rhaenys, we have dragons, we have the strongest navy in the Seven Kingdoms."

"But what I fear most is where House Hightower is rooted: Oldtown."

"It's the maesters of the Citadel, the septons of the Starry Sept who can sway the thoughts of millions of believers."

He paused. "Public opinion, faith, knowledge... these intangible forces are sometimes more terrifying than swords and dragonflame."

"House Hightower has ruled Oldtown for a thousand years, their foundations deep. Half the nobles of the Riverlands follow their lead."

"If the Faith and the Citadel fan the flames from behind..."

Rhaenys fell silent. She knew her husband spoke the truth.

Targaryen rule relied on dragons, but they had never truly fully controlled the ancient powers like the Faith of the Seven or the Citadel.

After a long moment, Rhaenys finally spoke slowly: "At least... the betrothal between Jacaerys and Helaena still stands. The King himself gave his word."

"If the marriage goes through, it could at least ease the hostility between the Blacks and Greens, showing the neutral lords that peaceful coexistence is possible."

"Surely the Hightowers and the Greens wouldn't openly defy the King's will and a marriage that could bring peace?"

Corlys looked up at the last wisp of twilight on the horizon, about to be swallowed by darkness.

"That's exactly what worries me most, Rhaenys."

He said slowly: "I believe the Greens—especially Otto Hightower—will never accept this marriage."

"Accepting this marriage means accepting the legitimacy of Jacaerys's claim, weakening the legal grounds for them to later back Aegon's usurpation."

"Their silence now may just be a wait—a wait for an opportunity to tear up the betrothal, or to make it impossible to fulfill."