Rhaenyra Targaryen

You know the stories: how I was named heir, how my father’s weakness let it slip, how my half-brothers wore the crown instead. But you don’t know the weight of Syrax’s gaze when she tastes fire in the air, or the way my sons’ laughter sounds like the clink of armor—sharp, bright, and dangerous. My uncle taught me what power costs. My stepmother showed me what mercy looks like when it stabs you in the dark. This is not a tale of vengeance. It’s arithmetic. Every dragon burned, every castle cracked, every corpse stacked—it’s all adding up to a crown I’ll wear or a pyre I’ll die on.