After a long silence, Rhaenys finally gave voice to the question that had lingered in her mind since witnessing that possibility.
"Why show me any of this?"
Thaddues regarded her in silence for a moment before answering.
"You still believe this negotiation begins and ends with Daemon."
Rhaenys met his gaze without flinching, her violet eyes calm and unwavering despite everything she had witnessed.
"Doesn't it?" she asked.
"No," he replied quietly. "Daemon is merely where it begins."
A faint crease appeared between her brows.
"You seized the King's brother, the commander of the City Watch, and a prince of House Targaryen. Half the realm will judge these negotiations by whether he leaves Sunspear a free man."
"They may."
"And you?"
"I have never mistaken the lock for what lies beyond the door."
She studied him carefully, weighing every word before speaking again.
"So Daemon is merely a lock."
"A key."
"To what?"
Instead of answering at once, Thaddues turned his eyes toward the mother of dragons seated upon the distant throne. She remained as motionless as before, watching neither of them, like a memory frozen beyond time.
"To a future your House has not yet seen."
The words lingered between them, swallowed by the unnatural stillness that filled the throne room. No wind stirred. No echo followed. Even the vast hall seemed to hold its breath, until the silence itself made the faintest whisper feel significant.
When Thaddues spoke again, he spoke without pride, without triumph—as though he were simply stating a fact.
"Princess Deria was correct. I have no desire for your treasury. Your castles do not interest me, nor the titles your cousin bestows from the Iron Throne." His gaze returned to Rhaenys, steady and unreadable. "What I seek cannot be granted by any king."
He allowed the thought to settle before finishing.
"It can only be inherited."
The answer struck her more deeply than she expected. Her thoughts drifted back to the first moment they had met.
"Our blood," she said quietly.
A slight inclination of his head acknowledged the truth in her words.
"Yes... and no."
She waited.
"What matters is the Targaryen blood that flows through your veins. Pure. Unbroken."
An uneasy silence followed.
Rhaenys had spent her life navigating councils, rival claimants, and ambitious lords. She knew when words concealed deeper intentions, and every instinct told her this conversation had only begun.
"You intend to bind House Targaryen to your designs."
"I intend to preserve it."
"Those are not the same thing."
"No," he agreed. "They are not."
He neither defended himself nor challenged her accusation. Instead, he turned away and began walking across the throne room. Though his footsteps made no sound, faint ripples spread beneath them, as though the polished stone concealed the surface of an impossibly still lake.
"You have ridden a dragon since you were a child," he said without looking back. "Tell me, Princess—what do they mean to your House?"
"They are our strength," she answered without hesitation. "The source of our authority. The reason House Targaryen rules."
"And before House Targaryen?"
"Valyria."
He inclined his head.
"And where is Valyria now?"
The question needed no answer.
"Once, the Freehold stood above every kingdom beneath the sun," Thaddues said, his voice as even as ever. "Forty dragonlord families ruled there. Their wealth seemed without end, and they commanded arts that even the Citadel remembers only in fragments."
He met her eyes once more.
"Then, in a single day, it was gone."
Rhaenys folded her arms across her chest, lifting her chin with quiet pride.
"We endured."
"Your ancestors endured," he corrected gently. "Daenys dreamed of the Doom, and Aenar Targaryen possessed the wisdom—or perhaps the caution—to believe her. They survived because they had already fled to Dragonstone."
His expression remained composed, but there was a quiet weight behind his next words.
"There is a difference between surviving a catastrophe... and believing yourself beyond one."
Rhaenys held his gaze, unwilling to surrender even the smallest measure of ground.
"We still have dragons," she said, her voice settling into the measured cadence that had silenced countless lords in council. "Meleys. Caraxes. Vhagar. More hatch with each passing year. Whatever befell Valyria need not befall us."
A faint smile touched Thaddues' lips, though it held neither amusement nor mockery.
Meleys?
"So did the dragonlords who ruled the Fourteen Flames." He said.
The words lingered between them.
"Our enemies possess no dragons," Rhaenys countered after a moment. "The Free Cities scheme, the Dornish resist, and the kingdoms across the Narrow Sea bicker amongst themselves, but none command what House Targaryen commands."
"They do."
Her expression hardened.
"Then name them."
For several heartbeats, he simply watched her before slowly raising a hand and pointing at her.
"You."
Confusion flashed across her features before understanding followed close behind.
"No..."
"The greatest threat to House Targaryen has never been Dorne, the Free Cities, nor whatever horrors still linger beyond the Smoking Sea." His voice remained calm, stripped of accusation and triumph alike. "It has always dwelled within your own blood."
He took another slow step across the throne room.
"One prince's pride. Another king's weakness. Ambition, envy, old wounds left untended. Such things have undone Houses before. Dragons only make the reckoning bloodier."
Rhaenys felt her thoughts drift, unbidden, toward King's Landing.
She saw Viserys upon the Iron Throne, endlessly seeking harmony where hard decisions were required. She saw Daemon, brilliant and reckless in equal measure, forever testing the limits of his brother's patience. Then came the court itself—a maze of smiling faces, whispered conversations, and ambitions carefully concealed behind polished courtesy. The question of succession lingered over every gathering like a gathering storm, unspoken yet impossible to ignore.
"You recognize it," Thaddues said quietly, following the direction of her thoughts without needing to hear them.
"I recognize politics," Rhaenys replied, recovering her composure. "Every royal court breeds factions. Every noble House harbors ambition. That is hardly unique to mine."
"No," he agreed. "It is not."
His eyes met hers once more.
"But other kingdoms do not place dragons in the hands of rival claimants."
The words settled heavily between them.
"You see the first cracks," he continued. "The whispered rivalries. The wounded pride. The careful calculations."
He slowly raised one hand.
"I will show you where those cracks lead."
The throne room trembled.
At first the change was almost imperceptible, like the surface of still water disturbed by a single drop of rain. Then the throne, the distant queen, and the polished floor fractured into ribbons of pale light. The silence deepened until it seemed to swallow even the sound of breathing, and the world around them unraveled.
Darkness rushed in.
A bitter cold settled over Rhaenys's skin, replacing the warmth of the hall. The scent of ancient stone and dry dust filled the air as the last remnants of white faded from sight.
When her vision adjusted, she found herself standing within an immense cavern whose vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow. No torch burned there. No wind stirred. The silence was absolute, broken only by the slow drip of unseen water echoing somewhere far beyond the darkness.
Then she saw them.
Dragon bones.
They stretched across the cavern in silent ruin, their colossal forms scattered like the remnants of a forgotten civilization. Massive skulls rested upon the stone floor with jaws forever frozen open, while towering ribcages arched overhead like the broken vaults of ancient cathedrals. Some skeletons dwarfed castles in size, their vertebrae disappearing into the darkness as centuries of dust blanketed their remains.
There was no fire.
No beating wings.
No living roar to shake the earth.
Only bones.
Rhaenys stood rooted where she was, unable to tear her eyes from the desolation before her. Every instinct rebelled against the sight. Dragons were the living soul of her House, the last inheritance of Old Valyria, creatures she had known since childhood. To see them reduced to silent monuments of death felt less like witnessing the end of a species and more like standing beside the grave of her own blood.
"This..." she whispered, the word barely audible in the endless darkness. "This cannot be."
Thaddues remained beside her, his expression unchanged as he looked upon the countless remains.
"It can."
Her head snapped toward him, disbelief giving way to defiance.
"It must not."
"It does." His answer was quiet, yet it echoed through the cavern with the weight of undeniable truth.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The cavern had vanished, yet its silence seemed to linger within Rhaenys. She had faced battle astride Meleys, stood before the Great Council while men debated her birthright, and weathered the endless currents of King's Landing. Through it all, she had learned to master her expression, to reveal only what she wished others to see.
Even so, she could not entirely banish the memory of those endless dragon bones.
She drew a slow breath and met Thaddeus's gaze once more.
"And what price," she asked, her voice composed once again, "could possibly justify placing my family in your hands?"
"Not my hands," he corrected. "A pact."
She remained silent, inviting him to continue.
"A binding entered into willingly by those who carry the blood of Targaryen. Nothing more."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"There is no such thing as 'nothing more' when sorcery is involved."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"No. There is only trust—or the lack of it."
Rhaenys watched him for several moments before speaking again.
"And if we refuse? If Viserys rejects your proposal? If Daemon attempts to kill you the moment he is freed?"
She expected anger.
Perhaps amusement.
Instead, she found neither—only a cold, unyielding shift in his demeanor.
"Then negotiations end," he said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. "And I will march upon King's Landing to take what I require with my own hands."
Rhaenys felt a chill settle in her chest, but she held his gaze. "You think you can break the realm so easily?"
"There will be no more questions, Princess. No second chances. Even if I am forced to march, the fate of the Iron Throne will simply continue on its path—consumed from within."
He paused, letting the weight of the threat linger in the quiet space between them.
"Kingdoms fall to invasion. Others consume themselves from within. The latter is always the slower death, but seldom the less certain."
Rhaenys held his gaze, refusing to look away.
"You speak as though our fate has already been written," she said.
"I speak of the road upon which your House already walks," Thaddues replied, his voice as calm as ever.
"And if we choose another?"
"Then this conversation will have mattered," he said without hesitation.
"But if you refuse—if you do nothing—then the end remains the same."
His voice never hardened further, remaining starkly absolute.
"When the last dragon falls and your bloodline lies in ruins, I will take what remains."
There was no triumph in his words.
No cruelty.
Only the terrible conviction of a man stating an inevitable outcome.
Rhaenys finally broke the silence.
"You ask me to carry an ultimatum disguised as a treaty," she said.
"I ask you to carry a choice," Thaddues answered.
"Viserys will call it treason," Rhaenys warned.
"Viserys sees only what stands before him," Thaddues replied. The words were neither dismissive nor cruel. If anything, they carried the weary acceptance of a man stating an inconvenient truth.
"You see farther than he does. You always have."
The observation caught her off guard.
She searched his face for mockery and found none.
"I am not negotiating with the King," Thaddues continued. "Kings concern themselves with the present. I am speaking to a daughter of Old Valyria—one who still remembers that a dynasty is measured not in years, but in generations."
The hall began to change.
Hairline fractures spread across the endless expanse, thin as strands of silver at first before widening into brilliant seams of light. The throne upon which the silver-haired queen had sat dissolved into drifting fragments, and the silence itself seemed to splinter with it.
Then the pieces clicked into place. The first vision Thaddues had shown her—the silver-haired woman hatching three dragons from cold stone—flooded her mind. Her journey towards the iron throne. Sitting on the throne meant nothing. Even if she took the crown, the dynasty was doomed. That woman in the vision was not a continuation of their rule; she was the last Targaryen, hatching three dragons from the ashes long after their house had fallen.
Had the gods of Old Valyria forsaken them?
Then the world broke apart.
Light swallowed the hall, and everything vanished.
Reality returned with a single, sharp breath.
The cool stillness of the vision gave way to the warmth of Sunspear. The scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and burning incense filled the air once more, while the quiet murmur of the assembled court echoed through the hall as though nothing at all had transpired.
Rhaenys found her fingers wrapped tightly around the carved armrests of her chair. She loosened them before anyone could notice, drawing a slow, measured breath as she steadied herself. Years at court had taught her that composure was as much a weapon as dragonfire, and she would not allow either friend or rival to glimpse the turmoil beneath her calm exterior.
Around her, the hall remained unchanged.
Prince Nolan still leaned forward with measured interest. Princess Deria sat with the same poised grace she had displayed throughout the negotiations, while the remaining members of House Martell waited in respectful silence. Even the guards stood exactly where they had been, their expressions unchanged.
Not a heartbeat appeared to have passed.
Across the table, Thaddues sat exactly as before, calm and composed. His face betrayed nothing of the conversation they alone had shared. To every soul gathered within the court, he was simply waiting for the Targaryen princess to answer the proposal placed before her.
Only Rhaenys knew otherwise.
Behind that composed expression lingered memories she could not easily dismiss: a lonely silver-haired queen wandering the ruins of a broken world, mountains of dragon bones, and Thaddues' calm conviction as he spoke of a future yet to come. She had spent a lifetime mastering fear, disappointment, and political defeat, yet those visions refused to leave her.
Now, she understood what it meant to glimpse an enemy that could not be fought with dragonfire.
She deliberately broke eye contact, allowing her gaze to drift toward the tall windows overlooking the bright Dornish sky. The warmth of the sun, the sound of voices, the familiar weight of the court—each reminded her that she was no longer standing in that impossible place. Whatever she had seen, whatever strange power had revealed it, she was once again Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, envoy of the Iron Throne, and every eye in Sunspear remained fixed upon her.
"Princess?"
Deria's voice was gentle, carrying neither impatience nor concern. It was simply a courteous reminder that the court awaited her answer.
Rhaenys turned back slowly.
Whatever had stirred within her was gone, buried beneath the calm dignity that had earned her respect throughout the Seven Kingdoms. If the visions had shaken her, they would remain her burden alone.
At last, she drew a slow breath and spoke.
"What I have witnessed has given me much to ponder," Rhaenys said at last, her voice calm despite the turmoil beneath it. "I will not answer in haste—not because I doubt the weight of your words, but because I understand it, Lord Peverell. "
She held Thaddues' gaze without wavering.
"You ask for a pledge that cannot be lightly given, and I will not dishonor either of us by answering before I have given it the consideration it deserves."
A low chuckle drifted across the council table.
Thaddues shook his head ever so slightly, the faintest trace of amusement touching his lips.
"When Prince Daemon crossed into Dorne," he said quietly, "he sought neither counsel nor time."
The words settled over the hall like the first rumble of distant thunder.
Goblets stilled in noble hands. Eyes shifted between princess and prince. Though none present understood what had passed beyond their sight, all sensed that the course of the parley had changed. Yet the unshaken composure of both figures held the hall in silence. No one dared intrude. Whatever had transpired between them remained theirs alone.
For several long heartbeats, Thaddues regarded her without speaking.
"Very well," he said at last. "You shall have one day."
Before the weight of those words could fully settle over the hall, Princess Deria spoke from her seat, a knowing smile touching her lips.
"Then let tomorrow be marked with a feast," Deria declared, her voice carrying through the chamber. "A banquet worthy of the occasion—to honor the arrival of the Wizard of Dorne."
TBC
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