The cavernous gullet of a dragon trembles with a bone-chilling Screech. Harrenhal, once the mightiest fortress in all the Seven Kingdoms, now stands as a blackened husk - a grim testament to the devastating fury of Aegon's Conquest. On most days, its melted towers and scorched walls serve as naught but a haunting reminder of Targaryen supremacy. But not this day.

Within the great hall, a thousand souls stand in hushed anticipation. Amidst them, a maiden with hair as pale as moonlight and eyes of gleaming amethyst commands attention. Her gaze, unwavering, is fixed upon the Iron Throne.

There, the Old King, Jaehaerys Targaryen, sits hunched and frail. Though barely past his eighth decade, the weight of his long reign has bent his once-proud frame. The crown that has adorned his brow for nigh on five-and-fifty years now seems to press upon him with the force of all Seven Kingdoms combined.

The air crackles with tension, heavy with the portent of fateful words yet unspoken.

Two Archmaesters, their chains clinking softly, labor beneath the weight of an ornate chest as they ascend the dais. The purple-eyed girl's gaze fixes upon them, her face a mask of youthful determination. Though she has seen no more than six-and-ten namedays, her cheekbones have yet to fully emerge from the softness of childhood.

At her side stands a slightly younger girl, the Princess Rhaenyra, her delicate hand intertwined with that of her companion. "What's happening?" she whispers, her voice barely audible above the murmurs of the assembled crowd.

To the casual observer, their silvery tresses might mark them as sisters, scions of the same noble house. Yet their blood tells a different tale - one of two great houses, distinct yet bound by common purpose. The elder girl, a Velaryon by birth but with the fire of dragons in her veins, and the younger, a true-born Targaryen, stand united in this moment of portent.

The air grows thick with anticipation as the chest is placed before the Old King. The realm holds its breath, sensing that the course of history may well turn on what lies within.

"In truth, I know not," Lyanna murmurs, her voice low and tinged with apprehension. Her slender fingers tighten around Rhaenyra's hand, a gesture of reassurance amidst the mounting tension.

The young Targaryen princess shifts uneasily, her eyes darting longingly towards the great hall's ornate doors. "Lyanna, please," she implores, her voice scarcely more than a whisper, "I wish to return to my chambers and play with my dolls."

Lyanna exhales softly, her purple eyes softening as she regards her young companion. "We are needed here, little dragon," she explains gently, yet firmly. "Your grandsire, the king, has summoned you to bear witness. We must heed his call, for the Old King's word is law, even in matters such as these."

The weight of duty settles upon their young shoulders as they stand, two pale-haired figures amidst the sea of onlookers, awaiting the revelation that the Archmaesters' chest might bring. The fate of the realm, it seems, may rest upon whatever proclamation is to come.

Upon the dais stand the two claimants to the Iron Throne, their presence commanding the attention of all assembled. Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, carries herself with regal poise despite her four decades. Beside her looms her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, his weathered face a map of ambition and cunning.

Opposite them, Prince Viserys Targaryen, a man of thirty namedays, shifts uneasily, his eyes darting between the Old King and the mysterious chest. At his side, Lady Aemma Arryn, her belly swollen with child, places a steadying hand upon her husband's arm.

Lyanna's gaze flits between the four figures, her thoughts a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Princess Rhaenys has always shown her kindness, a warmth that Lyanna treasures in the oft-cold halls of power. Yet Prince Viserys... her stomach churns at the memory of his leering gaze. His eyes upon her are not those of an uncle or a potential king, but of a man imagining her in his bed chambers. The very thought of it leaves a foul taste in her mouth.

She tightens her grip on young Rhaenyra's hand, a silent vow to protect the girl from the machinations of those who would use them as mere pieces in their game of thrones. The air grows thick with anticipation as the Old King shifts in his seat, preparing to speak words that may well shape the future of the Seven Kingdoms.

The Archmaesters, with reverent solemnity, place the chest upon the table before the Iron Throne. The latch falls open with a resonant click. Jaehaerys, his withered hand trembling, reaches within to retrieve a square of parchment, its contents hidden beneath the unbroken wax seal of the Citadel.

With bated breath, the assembled lords watch as the Old King breaks the seal. His rheumy eyes scan the parchment, absorbing the weight of the realm's decision. He raises his gaze, meeting the expectant stares of the Seven Kingdoms' nobility.

Lyanna and Rhaenyra exchange a look fraught with unspoken tension. The younger princess leans into her companion, seeking comfort. Lyanna's arm encircles her protectively, both girls fixated on the unfolding scene.

Jaehaerys exhales, the burden of decades seeming to leave him in that single breath. The realm has spoken as one, its voice captured in ink upon parchment. The Old King's eyes flutter shut, the ghost of relief passing over his features.

Then, stillness.

A collective gasp ripples through the hall as realization dawns. The king moves no more. Handmaidens rush forward, their soft slippers whispering across the stone floor.

Lyanna, her instincts honed by years of court intrigue, tugs gently at Rhaenyra's arm. "Come," she whispers, "we must away." The two girls slip from the great hall, unnoticed amidst the growing commotion.

They part ways in the shadowed corridor, Rhaenyra retreating to her chambers to seek solace among her dolls, while Lyanna hastens to her own quarters, her mind racing with the implications of what they've witnessed. The fate of the realm hangs in the balance, and she must speak with her parents before the tides of power shift once more.