From Storms to Thrones (Part 1)

The walk back to the castle was steeped in a thick, almost tangible silence. The only sounds were the soft crunch of our boots against the gravel path and the distant, steady rhythm of the ocean waves crashing against the cliffs below.

Rhaenyra moved with a nervous energy that I could feel in the air around her, like an electric charge ready to ignite at any moment.  It was clear that my words—my revelation about the Cannibal—had thrown her for a complete loop.

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. Her normally composed and regal demeanor was shaken, her brows furrowed in thought, her lips pressed into a thin line. Whatever she was contemplating, it was enough to keep her from speaking.

But I wasn't exactly eager to break the silence either. My own thoughts were spinning wildly, each one more frantic than the last as I tried to make sense of everything that had happened.

The bond with the Cannibal... what did it mean? Why had he brought me here, and what was his endgame?

And Rhaenyra... the way she had held me, the way she had spoken to me. Was I truly just a pawn in her war, or was there something more beneath the surface?

The questions swirled in my mind, unanswered and unsettling.

We entered the castle, the stone walls of Dragonstone looming around us as we wound through the dimly lit passages. The torches flickered, casting eerie shadows on the ancient walls, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of history and secrets.

Rhaenyra remained lost in thought, her steps sure but distracted, and I followed her lead, equally consumed by my own inner turmoil.

It wasn't until we were halfway down a particularly dark hallway that Rhaenyra suddenly halted, her hand shooting out to stop me. The abruptness of her movement pulled me out of my thoughts, and I blinked, realizing with a start that we were no longer alone.

A shadowed figure stood at the far end of the corridor, their form almost blending into the darkness. The flickering torchlight did little to reveal their identity, casting just enough illumination to outline the shape of a person but not enough to make out any distinguishing features.

Rhaenyra's posture stiffened, her body going rigid as she assessed the figure. I felt the tension radiate off her, and a chill crept down my spine. The hallway seemed to grow colder, the shadows deeper, as we stared at the figure in silence. The air was thick with unspoken tension, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I tried to discern who—or what—was standing in the darkness.

"Who's there?" Rhaenyra's voice was sharp, commanding, cutting through the silence like a knife. Her tone left no room for disobedience, no room for games.

The figure shifted slightly, the movement barely perceptible in the dim light. For a moment, there was no response, just the oppressive quiet of the castle walls pressing in on us.  Finally, the figure stepped forward, moving out of the shadow and into the weak light.

The torchlight fell across their face, revealing familiar features that caused Rhaenyra to relax.

"Ser Erryk," Rhaenyra breathed, her voice filled with relief as she recognized the figure standing before us. Her hand dropped from my arm, her posture relaxing slightly at the sight of her most trusted white cloak.

The knight stepped forward, closing the distance between us with a deliberate stride. "Your Grace," he greeted her, his tone respectful but firm. "I have been looking for you."

Rhaenyra nodded, a weary sigh escaping her lips. "I went for a ride on Syrax," she answered cryptically.

As Ser Erryk approached, I couldn't help but notice the way his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. It was a common stance among the white cloaks, always ready to defend their queen at a moment's notice. But as he drew nearer, a strange tingle ran down my spine, a sense of unease that I couldn't quite place. Something about him felt... off.