Chapter 3 – Arrival of the Dragon
Rhaenys Targaryen stood on the stone balcony of her quarters at Blackhaven, the brisk wind of the Stormlands tugging at her dark, silken hair. Her amber eyes scanned the horizon, taking in the rolling hills bathed in the golden hues of a setting sun. The haven of rest they had found here was a welcome reprieve. Though Blackhaven bore scars of conflict, its walls still whispered stories of honour and defiance—qualities she hoped to channel in her own cause.
Varys, her enigmatic ally and the realm's future Master of Whispers, had been instrumental in securing their stay. Through his silver tongue, he had arranged a private audience with Lady Allyria Dayne, the wife of the absent Lord Beric Dondarrion. With Beric away on his relentless crusade to bring down Gregor Clegane, Lady Allyria had agreed to harbour Rhaenys—to actively join the growing ranks of those conspiring to end the Lannisters' iron grip on Westeros. The Lady of Blackhaven, like many in Dorne, found common purpose in the flames of rebellion.
"Something weighs on your mind, princess," came Varys's smooth voice as he joined her, his hands folded neatly beneath the folds of his robe. His gaze followed hers toward the setting sun, though he observed more than the landscape.
"Nothing unusual, Lord Varys," she replied, her voice steady but tinged with an edge of contemplation. She did not turn to face him. The view was far too enthralling—or perhaps it offered a brief escape from the burdens of her birthright.
"Have there been any updates from my uncle?" she asked after a pause. Her tone carried a subtle warmth, a rare tenderness reserved for Oberyn Martell. After the murder of her mother, Elia Martell, and the near annihilation of House Targaryen, Oberyn had become a steadfast pillar in her life. His unyielding thirst for vengeance had inspired her own resolve, but it was his protective love that had enabled her and her brother to survive the storm.
Varys, ever inscrutable, replied with his usual precision. "Prince Oberyn has successfully maneuvered Princess Daenerys out of Pentos. If the winds favour them, they should reach Sunspear in a moon's turn. However, Viserys Targaryen was deemed... unsuited for the intricacies of our plan. He has been left behind. Fortuitously, the princess was removed before any Dothraki Khal could be contacted."
Rhaenys allowed herself a small smile at the news. "That is well. And my brother?"
"Prince Aegon," Varys began, a slight raise of his brow betraying his intrigue, "has ventured into the North. From what my little birds whisper, he has seduced Lady Sansa Stark. And, knowing the prince's particular talents, perhaps even Lady Catelyn. He appears to be following the plan, seeking to ingratiate himself further by offering aid to Robb Stark. If successful, this alliance would secure the loyalty of the North."
She turned from the balcony, her rich, black cloak trailing behind her as she moved toward the large oak table dominating the room. Spread across it was a detailed map of Westeros. Small carved pieces bearing the sigils of the great houses marked their current loyalties and strongholds. Her sharp eyes lingered on the lion of House Lannister, positioned defiantly over King's Landing and the Westerlands. Their days were numbered.
"The Tyrells," she mused aloud, her fingers tracing the golden rose of Highgarden. "What of them, Lord Varys? What are they scheming?"
"The last word from my spies suggests they are planning to retreat to Highgarden to reevaluate their position following Lord Renly's death," Varys said, his voice a calm undercurrent of intrigue. "Why do you ask, my lady?"
Rhaenys's lips curved into a sly smile. "Because I believe it is time we made our way to Highgarden. Lady Olenna Tyrell is no friend to the Lannisters, and I doubt she was pleased with Margaery's ill-fated marriage to Renly. If we offer her granddaughter a path to the throne, one that aligns with her ambitions, I believe she will gladly join our cause."
Varys's expression shifted, his mind already working through the implications. "But, princess, we had planned for Lady Sansa Stark to ascend as queen, ensuring the loyalty of the Northern lords. Are you suggesting we abandon this course?"
Her laughter was soft but carried an edge of steel. "Not at all, Lord Varys. Sansa Stark will be queen. So will Margaery. And Daenerys. Perhaps even Arianne Martell and I. You of all people should understand my brother's... appetites. This might be the very strategy that finally unites Westeros."
The eunuch's eyes widened briefly, though his composure quickly returned. He could see the logic beneath her audacious proposition. In a world where love and lust often dictated loyalty, such a union could be the key to cementing alliances that would otherwise be tenuous at best.
"This is a bold strategy, princess," he said carefully. "But what of your uncles? Do you believe they will support such a plan? The rest of the realm will undoubtedly raise questions about these unorthodox royal marriages. And how do you intend to sway Lady Olenna?"
Rhaenys's expression turned cold, her tone laced with the authority of her lineage. "Targaryens, like our dragons, bow to neither gods nor men, Varys. Leave Lady Olenna to me. Arrange an audience and summon my brother to Highgarden. He will need to make an impression. And tell Jeyne to get ready for travel."
Varys inclined his head, recognizing the echo of Aerys Targaryen's imperious tone in her words. Yet Rhaenys's mind was sharp, her plans measured—a far cry from the madness that had consumed her grandfather. Without another word, he departed the chamber to dispatch his ravens.
Alone once more, Rhaenys returned to the balcony, the cool wind brushing against her skin. She gazed out at the darkening horizon, her thoughts a tempest of ambition, vengeance, and hope. The flames of revolution were rising, and she would ensure they consumed the Lannisters. The Iron Throne would once again bear the weight of a Targaryen.
~ A Month Later ~
"So, Lord Varys, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Lady Olenna Tyrell's sharp voice cut through the quiet of her private solar, where the air was perfumed with lavender and faint traces of honeyed wine - the Arbor Gold probably, the pride of the Tyrells. The Queen of Thorns sat regally in a high-backed chair; her piercing blue eyes fixed on the eunuch who had dared to intrude upon her sanctuary. Her wit was as sharp as the thorns she often likened herself to, and her patience was a resource she guarded jealously.
Her thoughts lingered on her family, her oafish son Mace Tyrell in particular, whose lack of foresight and spine had caused her near-apoplectic fits on more than one occasion. Marrying Margaery off to Renly Baratheon, of all people—when anyone with eyes could see that Renly's preferences ran... elsewhere—had been a disgraceful blunder. Only her enduring love for her grandchildren prevented her from disowning Mace entirely.
The Spider, ever enigmatic, inclined his head with a faint, knowing smile. "Well, milady, I must confess it was not entirely my decision to be here. However, it seems the gods, or perhaps something greater, have seen fit to make our paths cross. My patron and I bring a proposition that I believe will be of mutual interest."
Olenna raised a single eyebrow, the movement subtle yet laden with scepticism. "Your patron? Those girls you're traveling with, I assume? Judging by your tone, one of them must belong to some noble family for you to dignify her with such a term."
"You are astute as always, Lady Tyrell," Varys said smoothly. "Indeed, one of them does hail from a lineage of nobility, though I dare say the truth may surprise even you."
Olenna's curiosity sharpened, a predator's instinct taking hold. "Now you've piqued my interest, Lord Varys. Intrigue is a fine spice, but I'll not sit idly and wait for it to lose its flavour. Send the girls in."
Her tone left no room for argument, and the guards stationed outside her solar swiftly moved to carry out her command. Olenna's handmaiden poured her another goblet of wine, before stepping out herself, as she waited, though her mind was already running ahead, turning over possibilities and implications. Who were these girls, and what game was the Spider playing?
The doors opened to reveal two figures. Olenna's sharp gaze swept over them, instantly assessing their appearances.
The first was pale, with soft golden hair and an expression that hinted at quiet reserve. Her mannerisms spoke of a Northern upbringing—perhaps a minor noble's daughter. The second girl, however, was a stark contrast. Her olive skin, cascading dark hair, and smouldering confidence were unmistakably Dornish. But it wasn't just her beauty that struck Olenna; it was the nagging sense of familiarity, as if she had seen this girl—or someone like her—before.
"Well?" Olenna snapped; her tone brisk. "What are you waiting for, Lord Varys? Out with it."
The eunuch stood; his movements deliberate as he cleared his throat. "Allow me to introduce Miss Jeyne Poole, daughter of Vayon Poole and now, the handmaiden to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen." His words hung in the air like a thunderclap before he added, with perfect calm, "And may I present Princess Rhaenys Targaryen herself, trueborn daughter of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell."
The silence that followed was deafening. Olenna's calculating mind reeled, though she betrayed little outwardly. Finally, she spoke, her voice edged with disbelief. "Is this some sort of jest? Everyone knows that Rhaenys Targaryen was butchered in King's Landing by Tywin's pet dogs."
Rhaenys stepped forward, her presence commanding and her voice steady. "Do you truly believe that, Lady Olenna? That my father and mother, surrounded by betrayal and treachery of King's Landing, would not have prepared for such an eventuality?"
Olenna scoffed and pursed her lips tightly. "Belief is irrelevant, girl. What matters is proof. If you claim to be the lost princess of House Targaryen, you'd better have evidence to back it up. And it had better be convincing—or I won't hesitate to have you both chained in my dungeons."
Without a word, Rhaenys strode to the hearth, where the fire crackled and spat, its flames dancing in the dim light of the solar. Olenna and Varys both rose to their feet, curiosity and apprehension etched on their faces. Jeyne Poole let out a startled gasp as Rhaenys extended her hand into the flames.
The fire licked hungrily at her skin, but Rhaenys remained unfazed, her expression serene as she found the warmth of the flames comforting. A long moment passed, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. Then, as calmly as she had begun, Rhaenys withdrew her hand. Not a single burn or scar marred her flesh.
Olenna's sharp intake of breath was audible. Her shrewd mind raced to process what she had just witnessed. Dragons. Fire. The blood of the dragon ran strong in the girl before her. For the first time in a long while, Olenna Tyrell was left speechless.
Rhaenys returned to her position beside Jeyne, her confidence unshaken. "Shall we have a productive discussion now, Lady Olenna?" she asked, her tone polite yet imbued with unmistakable authority.
Olenna's lips curled into a thin smile. "Oh, I do believe we shall, Princess. Let us see what exactly you and your eunuch have in mind."
The first stage of Rhaenys's plan was complete. The game had begun.
~ A Moon Later, Margaery POV ~
Margaery Tyrell never imagined her life would take such a tumultuous turn. Married and widowed by the tender age of nineteen, without ever having kissed a man. Her late husband, after all, had only been a man in name.
Since childhood, she had harboured dreams of wearing a crown, a vision planted and nurtured by her grandmother's sharp words and her father's unrelenting ambition. She was meant to be a great queen—respected, adored, and remembered. But fate, as it so often did, had its own plans.
Her first husband, Renly Baratheon, had been charming but utterly uninterested in her, his desires lying elsewhere. Namely, in her brother Loras. Margaery had accepted this reality with grace, even sympathy, but she had not expected to be left a widow so soon. Renly's death had upended her life and sullied her name. Rumours swirled around her family, their ambitions, and their loyalty, leaving her standing amidst the rubble of shattered dreams.
The prospect of marrying Joffrey Baratheon, a monster disguised as a boy king, had been unbearable. Olenna Tyrell's spies had uncovered more than enough evidence of his cruelty, and Margaery had thanked the gods for her grandmother's swift intervention. Olenna, always one step ahead, had maneuvered them away from Joffrey's domain. Still, the knowledge that Sansa Stark was to be his queen filled her with pity for the Northern girl.
But Sansa Stark had disappeared—vanished from under the Lannisters' noses. Whispers of her escape echoed across the realm, yet no one could unravel the mystery. Even the best spies had failed to locate her.
In the chaos that followed, Renly's death became the centrepiece of scandal. Most attributed the act to Brienne of Tarth, the towering woman fiercely loyal to him, but Margaery knew better. Brienne had loved Renly with a devotion that bordered on obsession; she would sooner die than harm him. The truth was evident: Stannis Baratheon had orchestrated her husband's demise. The means, however, remained a mystery.
Amid the turmoil, Margaery thought all was lost. Then came her father's decision—a calculated gamble to join forces with Tywin Lannister when the Warden of the West extended a hand. Loras, consumed by grief and vengeance, supported the alliance, willing to marry her off to Joffrey if it meant vengeance for Renly and the Tyrells' rise to power. Her father agreed without hesitation.
But for once, divine intervention seemed to favour her. Olenna Tyrell had summoned them back to Highgarden, her word unquestioned even by Mace Tyrell. Margaery's relief was immeasurable. Her father's poor decisions had tarnished her reputation, and she doubted she would recover without a miracle.
And then, the miracle arrived.
It had been a week since their return to Highgarden when her grandmother revealed the shocking truth: Rhaenys Targaryen lived. The olive-skinned, raven-haired princess was a vision, a blend of Dornish beauty and Targaryen elegance. With her came a proposition—a union between Margaery and Prince Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name. Aegon was in the North, earning the trust of the realm to rebuild his family's legacy and secure their claim to the Iron Throne.
The week that followed was a whirlwind of introductions and conversations. Margaery had spent hours with Rhaenys, getting to know the woman who might soon be her sister-in-law. To her surprise and delight, she found a kindred spirit in the Targaryen princess. Rhaenys was more than a survivor; she was a tactician, a visionary, and above all, determined to see Margaery crowned queen—not just as a political maneuver, but because she genuinely believed in Margaery's capability to rule.
The bond they formed was genuine, but Margaery knew her charm had played its part. She had impressed Rhaenys not only with her beauty and grace but also with her sharp mind and political acumen. She had made it clear that she wasn't merely a pawn to be moved across the board—she was a player, and a formidable one at that.
But even in her triumph, Margaery knew the stakes. Aegon Targaryen, if Rhaenys's plans came to fruition, would not have just one queen. The Targaryens were intent on reviving old Valyrian customs, which meant Aegon would take multiple wives. Margaery's task was not only to marry the prince but to ensure she became his favourite.
The thought was both a challenge and an opportunity. Margaery Tyrell had always known she was destined for greatness. If the game required her to outshine other queens, so be it. She would play her part to perfection.
And when she finally ascended to the Iron Throne, she would ensure her name was remembered—not as one of many, but as the queen who shaped the Seven Kingdoms.
~ Sometime Later ~
The skies above Highgarden had never looked so ominous. The Reach's endless fields of green and gold seemed to bow under the weight of a shadow that stretched across them—a shadow cast by something immense, something ancient.
The distant roar tore through the air like the bellow of a thousand storm gods, shaking the very foundations of Highgarden's formidable walls. Soldiers, once leisurely patrolling the battlements, froze in place, their gazes fixed skyward as an enormous silhouette broke through the clouds. Panic spread among them like wildfire.
"What in the Seven Hells is that?" one guard stammered, his spear clattering to the ground.
"Dragon!" another screamed, abandoning his post and running toward the inner keep.
Mace Tyrell burst onto the balcony of Highgarden's great hall, his usually rosy complexion pale and clammy. His gilded doublet was half-buttoned, and his hair was a mess, as though he'd been roused from a nap. "What is happening? Who dares bring such chaos to my castle?" he barked, though his voice quivered.
Lady Olenna stood nearby, peering at the distant sky with narrowed eyes. Her hand rested firmly on her cane, but her face betrayed no fear—only curiosity and, perhaps, irritation. "The question, dear son," she muttered, "isn't who dares, but what."
Rhaenys Targaryen and Varys stood on the parapets of the keep, staring at the massive creature descending from the heavens. The princess's dark eyes reflected the beast's silhouette as it came into clearer view. Her breath hitched, though she maintained her composure.
The dragon was unlike anything she had ever seen, even in the histories she had memorized. Its scales were a patchwork of black so deep it seemed to drink in the sunlight, a darkness that devoured everything around it. Its body was colossal, with jagged spines running the length of its back, like the mountains of the Vale given wings. The leathery membranes of its wings were tattered and scarred, as though they had endured centuries of battle.
But it was the dragon's face that truly inspired terror. Its massive head was crowned with a chaotic array of horns, and its eyes burned with a fiery gold that seemed to pierce the soul. When it roared again, the sound was guttural, primal—a reminder of the ancient power that once ruled the skies.
"Is that… Cannibal?" Varys whispered, his usually smooth voice trembling. The Spider had prided himself on knowing everything worth knowing, but this defied belief. Cannibal was a relic of the past; a beast said to have survived the Doom of Valyria and devoured its kin during the height of House Targaryen's power. It wasn't supposed to exist.
Rhaenys glanced at him sharply. "Cannibal? The dragon said to have survived the Dance of the Dragons? That's a myth."
"If it is," Varys said grimly, "then we are staring at the myth made flesh."
The dragon descended, landing just beyond the walls of Highgarden with a deafening crash. The ground shook violently, toppling crates and barrels as soldiers scrambled to keep their footing. Mace Tyrell stumbled back, clutching a support beam for dear life. "A dragon?! Here?!" he spluttered. "We're doomed! DOOMED!"
"Pull yourself together, Mace," Olenna snapped, smacking him lightly on the arm with her cane. "If it meant to burn us alive, we'd already be ash."
The gates creaked open under orders from the frantic guards, and a lone figure strode through the chaos toward Highgarden. He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in black and red leather armour that bore the sigil of House Targaryen—a three-headed dragon in vivid crimson. His slightly tousled platinum hair shone in the sunlight, creating a beautiful contrast with his olive skin, and his violet eyes burned with a resolve that could melt stone.
Aegon Targaryen had arrived.
He stopped in the courtyard, his presence commanding silence from the terrified soldiers and stunned nobles alike. Behind him, the monstrous dragon loomed, its molten gaze sweeping over the keep as though appraising its worth.
"People of Highgarden!" Aegon's voice rang out, clear and unyielding. "I am Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of My Name, rightful heir to the Iron Throne. For too long, I have hidden in the shadows, building my strength and awaiting the moment to reclaim what was stolen from my family." He gestured to the massive beast behind him, his lips curling into a slight smirk. "But the time for subtlety is over. The dragon has returned."
From her vantage point, Rhaenys watched her brother with a mix of awe and frustration. This was not part of the plan. Aegon's dramatic arrival—on that dragon, no less—would send shockwaves across the realm. It would draw eyes and suspicions far sooner than they had anticipated.
Olenna Tyrell was the first to speak, her voice cutting through the stunned silence. "Well, I'll give you this, boy—you certainly know how to make an entrance."
Margaery, standing beside her grandmother, gazed at Aegon with a flicker of admiration. The man who would be king had just made his intentions known to the world, and with a dragon like that at his command, who could dare oppose him?
As the courtyard buzzed with whispers and speculation, Aegon turned to his sister, his violet eyes meeting hers. For a brief moment, Rhaenys saw the weight he carried—the burden of his lineage and the fire of his ambition.
She stepped forward, her voice steady but sharp. "Brother, what have you done?"
Aegon's smirk softened into a determined smile. "What I had to. The game has begun, Rhaenys. Let's make sure we win."
Author's Notes
Chapter 3 is a filler. The good stuff shall return in chapter, with fan favourite, Margaery Tyrell. Advanced chapter is already up along with art work. Will update soon.
Ciao.