Chapter Text
The air of Dragonstone always smelled of salt and sulfur, but on that seventh day, on the seventh moon of 74 AC, the wind seemed to hold its breath. High atop Dragon Tower, Princess Jocelyn Baratheon's cries mingled with the distant roar of the volcanoes, until a sharp, vibrant cry broke the tension of the sky.
A prince was not born, as many in the more conservative corners of the kingdom had hoped. A child of singular beauty was born, with a spark of ancient fire in her eyes.
When her grandmother, Queen Alysanne Targaryen, took her granddaughter in her arms, she did not simply see an heir to the blood of Valyria. Little Rhaenys was not a consolation, but a promise. As the sun streamed through the obsidian windows, Alysanne stroked the newborn's cheek and, with a certainty that silenced the assembled maesters, proclaimed what destiny seemed to have written in the stars:
"Here is our future queen. Be she a man or a woman, the Iron Throne belongs to her by right and grace."
Rhaenys's birth was hailed as a balm of good fortune for the Targaryen dynasty. It was said that her arrival would usher in an era of stability, uniting the indomitable strength of the Baratheons with the majesty of the dragons.
And so it was. The princess grew into the ideal Targaryen, the rider of the swiftest dragon the world had ever known, brimming with beauty, intelligence, bravery, and courage. The favorite granddaughter of Alysanne and the old king Jaehaerys. The pride of Prince Aemon and the very life of Lady Jocelyn. The princess who held the power of the Seven Kingdoms at her feet now had to seek the perfect union between herself and some scion of the finest houses.
YEAR 89 AC
The Great Hall of Dragonstone reeked of sweet wine, roast meat, and despair. To Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the laughter of the lords of the Seven Kingdoms was nothing more than empty noise. From her seat, she watched with barely contained annoyance as Sir Otto Hightower took every opportunity to push his son, Gwayne, into her line of sight.
Gwayne Hightower wore a practiced smile that Rhaenys found unbearable. To her, the Hightowers were a house of books and prayers, too neat, too... boring.
"If I have to listen to Gwayne's masterful rhetoric one more time, I'll throw myself out of the Drum Tower window," she whispered to herself. Taking advantage of the moment when her father, Prince Aemon, was distracted by a hearty laugh with Lord Stark, Rhaenys slipped through the shadows of the stone columns. She dodged the servants with the agility of someone who knows every corner of her home and stepped out into the outer corridors, seeking the salty air that promised freedom.
She was moving so quickly, glancing back to make sure no one was following her, that she didn't see the figure rounding the corner. The impact was sharp. Firm, calloused hands caught her by the shoulders, preventing her from falling.
"Careful, my Lady. You could hurt yourself," said a man, supporting her firmly, but with chivalry, after their collision. His hands were strong, unlike those of the soft courtiers she had avoided.
Rhaenys pulled away immediately, adjusting her dress and examining the crest on her garment. Her gaze was steely, not apologetic. “Forgive me, my Lord. I didn’t see you. And I don’t recognize you among tonight’s suitors.”
The man smiled slightly, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, which scanned Rhaenys with calculated interest. “No, I’m not a suitor. But I’m intrigued to know something. Why are you fleeing your own celebration, Princess?” he asked in a deep voice, with the cadence of someone accustomed to shouting over the roar of the waves. “The entire kingdom is in there, toasting in your honor.”
Rhaenys looked up and stared at him. Before her stood an imposing man, his skin tanned by the sun, his eyes seeming to hold the depths of the ocean.
“I’m fleeing because all the men in that hall seem insignificant and boastful to me,” she confessed, making no attempt to conceal her disdain. “They think I’m a trophy or a walking crown.” So, I prefer the company of my dragon to that of those lords and their children who know nothing but talk of their houses and their bravery—a bravery that leaves much to be desired.
The man let out a short, husky laugh, letting it out slowly.
"I must confess, Princess, I feel exactly the same way. None of those lords have ever felt true battle or danger. They revel in sending their best knights to war, while they wait comfortably in their chairs, counting their gold."
Rhaenys gave a sly smile and took a step toward him, scrutinizing him with her eyes.
“None… except you, Lord Corlys Velaryon. The man who has trod the places no one else dared to tread. The man who, instead of counting gold, forges it into greatness.”
The surprised man bowed slightly, a gesture of genuine respect, not flattery. “I am flattered, Princess, but how can you be sure of who I claim to be? Many men wear crests like mine on their robes. And I don’t recall being formally presented to you this evening?”
Rhaenys stepped forward, fearless. “The sigil of House Velaryon, my Lord,” she replied, gesturing elegantly to the seahorse. “But beyond that… the salt scars on your hands and the way your gaze challenges mine—it is not the gaze of a courtier, but of one who has stared death in the jaws and remained unmoved.”
Corlys Velaryon was silent for a moment, impressed. “Besides, I’ve heard enough about your voyages and adventures across the farthest seas to recognize the Sea Serpent when it’s right in front of me,” he confessed, raising an eyebrow.
Corlys’s smile became more genuine. “I hope my tales don’t bore you. I’ve been told I’m a bit too… ‘salty’ for the court.”
Rhaenys smiled for the first time that night, a smile that lit up her face. “Quite the contrary. If there’s anyone I’d be happy to talk to and hear about your discoveries and victories, it’s you, my Lord. The court suffocates me with its empty ‘sweetness.’”
“In that case, since we both detest the company of braggarts… would you do me the honor of walking these halls, Princess? I promise my stories of Essos are far more entertaining than the poems of Gwayne Hightower.”
“It would be my pleasure, Lord Corlys.” But only if you promise not to tell me of court intrigues, but of storms on the Shivering Sea. —I wish to hear of the adventures of a true warrior, Milord.
A spark of ambition flashed in Corlys's eyes. This was not just a beautiful princess; she was the heir.