A Song of Black and Golden Dragon

-King's Landing. Red Keep-

Viserys stood at the window, his gaze fixed on the four colossal dragons soaring over the sea. The largest of them, Alduin, belonged to Prince Cyrus, its scales glinting like polished obsidian in the sunlight. The other three, mounts of the Dragonknights, were even larger than Balerion had been in his prime. The Black Dread had been a magnificent beast, but age and decay had taken their toll. These dragons, however, were in a class of their own—monstrous, majestic, and terrifying.

The prince had spoken of a pact, an alliance between their houses. If such a bond could be forged, Viserys thought, House Targaryen might endure long enough to fulfill Aegon's prophecy and stand against the coming darkness. He turned away from the window, his eyes falling on the half-written pact lying on the table.

The worst-case scenario loomed in his mind: Daemon as his heir. For all his love for his brother, Viserys could not ignore the truth. Daemon was unstable, a danger to himself and the realm. Rhaenyra, though capable, posed her own risks. Her ascension would give the Alargon a claim to the Iron Throne, a prospect both tantalizing and perilous. Yet, the idea of uniting two continents under one realm was too great to dismiss.

Viserys took his seat, the weight of the decision pressing heavily upon him. He picked up his pen and began to write, his hand steady but his mind racing. The marriage of Rhaenyra would have to be to the main line of the Alargon dynasty, though he knew the Emperor might push for a match with a secondary branch. Still, he could make the request, subtle though it might be.

When the ink had dried, Viserys pressed his royal seal into the parchment, the wax bearing the mark of the three-headed dragon. The pact was complete. Now, it was only a matter of presenting it to the prince. He rose from his chair and called for a servant, instructing them to summon Prince Cyrus.

It took but five minutes for the prince to arrive.

"Your Grace," Cyrus greeted, his smile as polished as his words.

"Sit, Prince Cyrus," Viserys said, gesturing to the chair across from him. His smile was warm, though his eyes betrayed a hint of unease.

Cyrus took his seat, his golden eyes meeting the king's. "What would you discuss, Your Grace?"

"The pact," Viserys said, sliding the parchment across the table. "I would have your father's thoughts on it."

"Of course, Your Grace," Cyrus replied, his tone smooth and assured. "We have two days remaining before I must return to the Empire."

"A pity," Viserys said with a sigh. The prince's departure would leave a void in the game of lords, one that Otto Hightower would undoubtedly seek to exploit. Yet, Rhaenyra's presence would keep the Empire's interests alive, even as the political landscape shifted. It was a gamble, but one with potential rewards too great to ignore.

"I am curious, Prince Cyrus," Viserys said slowly, his gaze sharp and probing. "To whom will my daughter's hand be given?"

Cyrus's smile was enigmatic. "I have a few proposals in mind," he said. "But I assure you, Your Grace, Rhaenyra will be happy. That, I swear."

For a moment, the prince's charismatic mask slipped, revealing a softer, more genuine expression. His eyes shone with conviction, and Viserys saw the man beneath the crown—a prince beloved by his people, a son adored by his father. It was a glimpse of the true Cyrus, and it gave Viserys pause.

"Very well, my lord," the king said at last, his voice weary but resolute. "I trust my daughter to your care."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Cyrus said, rising to his feet. He took the parchment and turned to leave, but paused at the door. "One more thing," he added, his tone light but deliberate. "When you call for Rhaenyra, tell her Prince Cyrus seeks her company for a dragon ride."

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-Rhaenyra's room-

Rhaenyra lay on her bed, her thoughts drifting to the Crown Prince. He was a man of contradictions—charming yet enigmatic, his polished exterior masking a dangerous intensity. His golden eyes had studied her with an alien curiosity, as though she were a puzzle he longed to solve. She could not shake the feeling that beneath his princely demeanor lay a man of passion and fire.

The door to her chambers creaked open, and a Kingsguard stepped inside, his white cloak brushing the floor.

"My princess," he said, his tone formal but respectful. "The king summons you."

"Lead the way," Rhaenyra replied, rising to her feet and following the knight. It was unusual for her father to call for her in the morning, especially on a day without council meetings. Her curiosity piqued, she quickened her steps.

When she entered the king's chambers, she found Viserys seated at his desk, a rare smile gracing his features. In this moment, he was not the king or the lord of the Seven Kingdoms—he was simply a father, proud and content. That smile, so warm and genuine, only appeared when his family's dreams were within reach. A swell of emotion rose in Rhaenyra's chest as she studied him, her heart torn between affection and apprehension.

"Rhaenyra," Viserys said, his voice soft. "Come, sit."

"Father," she greeted, taking the seat beside him. "Why have you called for me?"

"I bring news," he said, his smile widening. "Happy news, I should think. I have made arrangements for your future."

Rhaenyra's face fell, the light in her eyes dimming. Disappointment and defiance warred within her as she met her father's gaze.

"To whom have you promised me, Father?" she asked, her voice low but edged with steel.

"To House Alargon," Viserys replied, his tone measured but not unkind. "If the Crown Prince keeps his word, it is he who will become your husband."

For a moment, Rhaenyra could only stare at him, her lips parting in disbelief. "Are you jesting, Father?" she asked, a dry chuckle escaping her.

"A father does not jest about his daughter's future," Viserys said, though a faint snort betrayed his amusement. "I want what is best for you, Rhaenyra. This union will strengthen both our houses."

"And what of your succession?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

"I am certain Aemma will bear me a son," Viserys said, reaching out to take her hand. "You need not worry about that. Besides, you would be Empress-Consort. You've heard how their society works, have you not?"

How could she forget? The Empire was a realm unlike any other, where men and women stood as equals, where the lowliest beggar could rise to greatness, and the mightiest noble could fall from grace. It was a land of opportunity, a place where someone like her—someone with fire in her heart—could become something extraordinary.

"I have, Father," she said softly, her defiance melting into quiet acceptance. "And I would be honored to be part of it."

Viserys's smile grew, his relief palpable. "I am glad to hear you say so, Rhaenyra. And there is more—the Crown Prince awaits you. He wishes for your company on a dragon ride."

A spark of excitement lit within her, and she rose to her feet. "Then I must not keep him waiting."

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-Dragonpit-

Rhaenyra donned her riding gear, the familiar weight of leather and steel settling comfortably on her shoulders. Syrax, her golden dragon, was already being tended to by the dragonkeepers, her scales gleaming in the sunlight. The beast let out a majestic roar as Rhaenyra approached, her hand brushing against the dragon's neck in a soothing gesture.

"Easy, Syrax," she murmured, a smile tugging at her lips. With a practiced leap, she mounted her dragon and secured herself in the saddle.

"Soves, Syrax!" Rhaenyra called, her voice ringing out across the yard. The dragon obeyed instantly, her powerful wings carrying them into the sky. The wind rushed past Rhaenyra's face, and for a moment, she felt free—untethered from the weight of her duties and the politics of the Red Keep.

Then, a deafening roar shattered the tranquility. The shadow that followed was immense, blotting out the sun as it passed over King's Landing. Rhaenyra looked up, her breath catching in her throat. Above her soared Alduin, Prince Cyrus's dragon, a leviathan of black scales and fiery eyes. Syrax, though formidable, was dwarfed by the beast, her size barely comparable to Alduin's leg.

Using Syrax's agility, Rhaenyra guided her dragon through the air, weaving around Alduin's massive form. When she finally drew alongside the black dragon, she caught sight of its rider. Cyrus sat tall in the saddle, his handsome features lit by a broad, confident smirk.

"Princess!" he called out, his voice carrying over the rush of the wind. "It seems your father has granted my request."

"Who could deny a ride alongside the prince who commands the largest dragon in the world?" Rhaenyra shouted back, her own smile widening.

Cyrus laughed, the sound rich and full. "A fine answer, my lady!"

The two dragons danced in the sky, their movements a blend of power and grace. Alduin's immense size became a playground for Syrax, the golden dragon darting between the black beast's wings and tail. The dragons roared in unison, their voices echoing across the city below, as if responding to the unspoken bond between their riders.

For Rhaenyra, the world beyond the clouds ceased to exist. The weight of her responsibilities, the scheming of the court, the uncertainty of her future—all of it faded away. In this moment, there was only the wind, the sky, and the exhilaration of flight.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, the two royals guided their dragons back to the ground, landing just outside the city walls. They dismounted, their faces flushed with the thrill of the ride, and shared a look before bursting into laughter.

"That was not so bad, my lord," Rhaenyra said, her laughter mingling with the cool evening air.

"Your dragon is swift, my lady," Cyrus replied, his smile warm and genuine. "I did not expect her to outmaneuver Alduin so easily."

As they walked back toward King's Landing, Rhaenyra stole glances at the prince beside her. His expression was calm, almost serene, yet there was a quiet intensity in his eyes—a storm waiting to break. Princess Dalia's words echoed in her mind: Cyrus is like the calm before the storm.

The Achaemedian lords had spoken of the royal family with a mix of reverence and fear, calling them Nevirian. The word lingered in Rhaenyra's thoughts, heavy with meaning.

"My lord," she said slowly, her voice breaking the comfortable silence. "I wish to ask you something."

Cyrus turned to her, his golden eyes meeting hers. "Speak, my lady."

"What is Nevirian?"

At the question, the Crown Prince came to a halt. For a moment, he stood in silence, his gaze fixed on some distant point ahead. Then he sighed softly, the sound barely audible, before his eyes flashed with their usual confidence.

"It is an ancient name," Cyrus began, his voice measured. "Nevirian means 'God's Scion.' It is a doctrine forged by Tyber Alargon, the founder of our dynasty, to strengthen the royal bloodline. The doctrine holds that the blood of the Alargon is special—crafted by the gods and the world itself, imbued with exceptionalism."

Rhaenyra listened intently, her curiosity piqued. "The Targaryens have something similar," she said. "It is why we wed brother to sister. Our blood is tied to the dragons, setting us apart from common men. But what makes your family exceptional, my lord?"

Cyrus's lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained distant. "Our blood is more than a symbol, Princess. In the Empire, where magic flows as freely as water, the Alargon blood grants us power. We can command the world's magic, inherit the arcane gifts of our ancestors, and master them with ease. Over generations, we have wed into the most magically potent families, each union strengthening our bloodline. And then… there is the artifact."

"The artifact?" Rhaenyra echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"A relic housed within the Imperial Palace," Cyrus said, his tone growing solemn. "It allows us to control the magic of the world itself."

The revelation hung in the air, heavy with implication. Rhaenyra's mind raced with questions, but she held her tongue. Now was not the time to press further.

As they approached the gates of King's Landing, the Kingsguard and a contingent of soldiers fell into step beside them. The prince's demeanor shifted, his earlier intensity giving way to a more casual air.

"It was a pleasant flight, my lady," Cyrus said, his smile returning. "I shall look forward to seeing you in the Empire."

"As shall I," Rhaenyra replied, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of thoughts in her mind. "I will be there."