In her solar adorned with Valyrian tapestries, Lyanna sat upon a cushioned window seat, her melodious humming filling the chamber with the sweet tune her mother had taught her in childhood. The ancient song spoke of dragons soaring through summer skies. A gentle knock echoed through the room, causing her to raise her dark eyes and gesture welcomingly.

The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing Rhaenyra, her silver-gold hair catching the afternoon light that streamed through the stained glass. "There you are, my dear friend," she declared warmly, crossing the chamber to embrace Lyanna. The two women, as close as sisters since their days as young ladies of the court, held each other tight.

Lyanna pulled back gently, her slender fingers brushing a wayward strand of silver-gold hair from Rhaenyra's face. The Targaryen princess's hair shimmered like spun moonlight in the chamber's warm glow. "What brings you to my chambers, Rhaenyra?" Lyanna asked, noting the mischievous glint in her friend's eyes.

Rhaenyra's violet eyes sparkled with excitement, a trait so characteristic of her Valyrian bloodline. A smile played across her lips, one that Lyanna knew well - it was the same smile that had preceded countless adventures throughout their years together. "I want us to ride," she declared, her voice carrying the commanding presence of a true dragonrider. The word 'ride' held special meaning between them, for they both knew she spoke not of mere horses, but of their dragons waiting in the drake yard.

A smile graced Lyanna's features, her eyes alight with anticipation. "Of course. Let me but inform Mother, and we shall take wing." Rising with the grace expected of a noble lady, she returned her leather-bound tome to its rightful place upon the carved shelf before hurrying from the chamber, Rhaenyra's footsteps echoing behind her own.

The two young women swept through the torch-lit halls of the ancient keep, their skirts rustling against the stone floors as they made their way to the kitchens. There they found Lady Messyna, ever dutiful, overseeing the evening's preparations. The aroma of roasting meats and freshly baked bread filled the air.

"Mother," Lyanna called out, her voice carrying across the busy kitchen.

Lady Messyna turned, her knowing eyes taking in the sight of her daughter and the Targaryen princess, both flushed with excitement. "Is something amiss, my dears?"

"Might Rhaenyra and I take our dragons for a flight?" Lyanna asked, almost breathless with anticipation.

Lady Messyna's laugh was warm as summer wine. "Oh, my sweet Lyanna. You're eight-and-ten now, a woman grown. You need not seek my permission for such things anymore." Her eyes sparkled with affection. "But yes, of course you may. The skies await you both."

Lyanna and Rhaenyra squealed with delight, their joy echoing through the stone halls as they raced like girls half their age toward the stables. Their horses - Lyanna's midnight-black courser and Rhaenyra's silver palfrey - stood ready, having been prepared by the ever-vigilant stable hands who had grown accustomed to the young ladies' impromptu adventures.

Lord Liam emerged from the keep's shadow, his strong arms finding their place around Lady Messyna's waist. Together they watched their daughter and the dragon princess mount their steeds with practiced ease. The late afternoon sun caught the pins in their hair - steel and dragonglass for Lyanna, gold and ruby for Rhaenyra - as they urged their mounts toward the dragon pits.

"They remind me of us at that age," Lord Liam murmured to his wife, his weathered hand covering hers. "Just as wild, just as free."

Lady Messyna leaned into her husband's embrace as they watched the girls disappear around the castle's ancient walls. "Though we never had dragons at our disposal, my love," she replied with a knowing smile.

Lord Liam pressed his lips to his wife's temple, his voice lowered in contemplation. "Indeed, we have our own treasures now." He paused, his thoughts turning to weightier matters. "Has Princess Rhaenys spoken of the court's... displeasure regarding Lyanna's refusal of the young prince's hand?"

The matter hung heavy in the air between them, for a refusal of a royal marriage proposal was no small thing, even in these uncertain times. The politics of the realm were as dangerous as any dragon's flame, and their daughter's choice had set tongues wagging from King's Landing to Driftmark.

Lady Messyna's eyes followed the distant figures of their daughter and the princess, her expression troubled yet resolute. The matter of betrothals and alliances was ever a delicate dance in the realm, especially for those houses close to the Targaryens.

Lady Messyna shook her head, her dark hair catching the fading light. "Princess Rhaenys has been silent on the matter, though she did mention that King Viserys may look to forge different alliances." She turned to face her husband, her voice dropping to ensure their words remained private. "There is talk of the lords of Driftmark, of course. The Velaryon blood runs strong there."

A thoughtful expression crossed her features. "Though perhaps a more... unconventional match might be found among our closest allies. The Dragon Academy at Bastathagh has produced many fine young generals under Sorrengail's command. Warriors and dragonriders both, with the kind of strength our daughter might respect." She smiled wryly. "The Academy breeds enough noble sons that surely one might catch our willful Lyanna's eye."

The mention of Bastathagh's Dragon Academy carried weight - it was where their daughter had forged her closest friendships, including her bond with Princess Rhaenyra. The training grounds there had shaped many of the realm's finest warriors and riders, making its graduates highly sought after for both military command and marriage alliances.

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As Lyanna and Rhaenyra approached the vast dragon pit, carved deep into the mountainside, their footsteps echoed against ancient stone. The air grew warmer, heavy with the distinct scent of dragon - smoke and stone and something older than time itself.

Syrax, Rhaenyra's magnificent yellow-scaled beast, was the first to stir. The dragon raised her great horned head, steam curling from her nostrils as she recognized her rider's approach. Her scales caught the light filtering through the pit's open ceiling, gleaming like molten gold.

Not to be outdone, Blackfire, Lyanna's dragon, unfurled his midnight wings. His scales were as dark as dragonglass, with undertones of deep purple that shimmered when he moved. His crimson eyes fixed upon Lyanna with the same devotion that had marked their bond since she first claimed him at the Academy.

The two young women shared a knowing look - this was their element, where titles and marriage proposals held no meaning against the pure freedom of dragon and rider. Here, they were not princesses or noble daughters, but dragonriders of old Valyria's blood.

"Hello, my fierce one," Lyanna murmured to Blackfire, who rumbled deep in his chest, his warm breath ghosting over her palm as he nuzzled her hand. Beside them, Syrax bestowed similar affections upon Rhaenyra, the great yellow dragon's scales gleaming in the torchlight.

With practiced ease, the two women secured their saddles, checking each strap with the caution their instructors had drilled into them at the Academy. Then, with sharp commands in High Valyrian, they took to the skies, their dragons' wings casting great shadows across the land below.

They landed upon their favorite perch, a jagged cliff overlooking the sprawl of King's Landing. The Red Keep rose before them, its towers piercing the clouds like crimson spears. The Blackwater Bay sparkled beyond, catching the light like scattered diamonds.

"Do you think your father wishes to arrange another match for you?" Rhaenyra asked suddenly, breaking the peaceful silence. The question shattered Lyanna's contentment like a sword through glass.

Lyanna's face darkened with fury. "Let His Grace concern himself with his own affairs," she spat, her words sharp as dragon teeth. "I'll not be traded like a prized mare at market for his political games."

Rhaenyra chuckled, the sound carried away by the wind that whipped around their cliff perch. "You speak boldly for one so close to the crown," she teased, though there was understanding in her violet eyes. "Though I suspect Queen Alicent has her own designs. She's mentioned her sons often enough at court."

Lyanna made a sound of pure disgust, as unladylike as her septa would despair to hear. "Aegon and Aemond are well enough as brothers to you, I suppose," she conceded, then her lip curled in disdain. "But as husbands? They spend more time chasing serving girls through the Red Keep's halls than attending their duties. I'd sooner wed one of our dragons."

Blackfire rumbled at that, as if sharing his rider's amusement, while Syrax stretched her golden wings in the late afternoon sun.

"At least the dragons have dignity," Lyanna added with a smirk, reaching out to scratch the scales beneath Blackfire's jaw.

Rhaenyra smirked, her silver hair dancing in the wind. "Who knows? Perhaps my father's Vhagar might look upon you with favor." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Or even dear Uncle Daemon's Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm does seem to preen whenever you're near."

Lyanna's laughter rang out across the cliffside, startling a flock of birds from their perch below. "Don't be absurd. Dragons cannot fall for their riders, and you know this well." She stroked Blackfire's scales thoughtfully. "They bond with us, yes, but their hearts aren't meant for such mortal follies as romance."

Beneath them, Blackfire and Syrax exchanged what almost seemed like knowing looks, steam curling from their nostrils in the cooling evening air. The ancient creatures had seen countless riders come and go through the centuries, their wisdom far deeper than any human could truly fathom.

Unknown to their riders above, Blackfire and Syrax shared a meaningful glance, both dragons privy to a truth their human companions failed to see. The reality was far more complex than Lyanna's confident dismissal suggested. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm himself, had indeed developed a particular fondness for the Velaryon girl - a fact that stirred a possessive fury in Blackfire's ancient heart.

It wounded Blackfire's pride that an older dragon, especially one as legendary as Prince Daemon's mount, would dare cast such admiring eyes upon his rider. Each time Caraxes' crimson scales gleamed in Lyanna's presence, each time his mighty head dipped low in greeting to her, Blackfire's jealousy burned hotter than his own flame. Lyanna was his rider, his companion, his alone.

Yet it wasn't just Caraxes - every dragon in the keep seemed enchanted by the Velaryon girl. Something in her blood, perhaps some echo of Old Valyria itself, called to them all. But Blackfire would tolerate no rivals, be they dragon or human, in his devotion to her.

"You reek of jealousy," Syrax rumbled in the ancient tongue of dragons, her golden scales catching the light as she turned her massive head toward her companion. Steam curled from her nostrils in amusement at Blackfire's obvious discomfort.

Blackfire's scales rippled with indignation, dark purple undertones flashing beneath the black. "Of course I am," he snarled, though he kept his voice low enough that their riders, still lost in their own conversation, wouldn't notice. "Every time Caraxes enters the dragonpit, he preens and postures. The way he dips his ancient head to her, the way his eyes follow her movements..." His tail lashed against the cliff face, sending small rocks tumbling into the abyss below. "Well, he can burn his hopes to ash. Lyanna is my rider, my companion. The Blood Wyrm may be older, may have seen more battles, but she chose me."

Above them, Lyanna and Rhaenyra remained blissfully unaware of their dragons' dispute, their own conversation still focused on the politics of marriage and court life rather than the complex emotions brewing between their mounts.

Blackfyre's voice echoed, low and deep, like the rumble of distant thunder, humming through the stone floors as if the castle itself held its breath to listen.

"Maybe... maybe not," he drawled, his words rolling out like smoke, ancient and thick with knowing. A glint of crimson sparked in his molten eyes, revealing a mirth that bordered on dangerous. "But he likes her. I know it."

Syrax arched a scaled brow, her amusement flickering like candlelight across her face, the firelight making her silvered scales glow as though she were half-ghost, half-dragon. Blackfyre's gaze held hers, unwavering, fierce, and threaded with just a touch of softness—a relic of a long-buried past. He had seen love ignite and kingdoms fall; he knew the silent language of desire and the volatile nature of devotion, both sharper than steel, as fragile as flesh.

And as Blackfyre's laughter rumbled quietly, the weight of his certainty settled like a curse between them, a timeless, dragon-born truth.

Lyanna, her voice echoing with a yearning that stirred the very air around them, declared, "Let us return home. I have longed for a soothing bath to ease my weary bones."

Rhaenyra, her gaze steady and resolute, nodded in agreement. With a shared understanding, they summoned their dragons, majestic and fierce, ready to carry them back to the warmth of the Red Keep, where solace awaited within its ancient walls.