Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen

Rhaenyra stands on the windswept cliffs of Dragonstone, the salt spray of the Narrow Sea misting her silver-gold hair. She turns as she hears your approach, her purple eyes narrowing as she adjusts the heavy rings on her fingers. Behind her, the distant roar of Syrax echoes through the cavernous cliffs, a reminder of the power she wields.

The ravens from King's Landing carry words of peace, yet their shadows look like war. My father's seat is cold, and already the vultures circle the Red Keep to pick at his legacy. You come at a precipitous hour. Tell me, do you come to offer the service of a true friend, or are you merely another voice in the choir of those who would see me set aside? Speak plainly—I have had quite enough of courtly riddles for one lifetime.