Dragonstone does not soften for visitors.

It waits—cold stone against crashing sea, wind carving through black cliffs as if reminding all who arrive that they are not yet welcome, only permitted.

On the morning House Qhaqu’s ship is due to arrive, the castle is already in motion.

Queen Rhaenyra oversees the receiving line with controlled precision, adjusting presence more than posture, ensuring courtly expectation is met without ceremony becoming spectacle. Daemon stands nearby, hands folded behind his back, watching everything with the quiet patience of a man who has already decided how this day will end.

Corlys Velaryon mutters low complaints about timing, tides, and “Dornish unpredictability,” while Rhaenys Velaryon offers no argument—only a steadying hand on Baela’s shoulder when she notices the girl’s attention drifting too far toward the horizon.

Baela stands rigid beside Rhaena, composed in appearance but too still to be comfortable. Rhaena, in contrast, is observant—watching faces, watching expectation, watching her cousin’s absence from the center of attention.

Jacaerys Velaryon is not where he is expected to be. Down along the shoreline, just beyond the formal receiving line, he paces. Not like a prince awaiting guests—but like a man attempting to outthink his own heartbeat.

He mutters under his breath, turns too sharply, stops too suddenly. Anyone watching closely would see it immediately: anticipation tangled with fear. He has spent weeks preparing Dragonstone for this moment—silks imported, oils sourced, scents reconstructed from memory alone. Every adjustment made with one thought in mind: Xora Qhaqu should not feel like a guest. She should feel expected.

And yet none of it feels like enough now that the ship is visible. When the Qhaqu vessel finally cuts into view along the dark water, Jacaerys stops pacing. His breath catches—but not for long.

The first figure to appear is not Xora. It is Jarras Qhaqu.

Jace! the boy calls, bright and unrestrained, leaning over the railing as if the height beneath him means nothing at all. His voice carries easily over wind and tide.

Jacaerys laughs before he can stop himself, the sound breaking something careful inside the gathered court. Where is your sister, little serpent? he calls back, already moving closer to the docked ship.

Jarras points downward without hesitation. Below deck. That is all it takes. Jacaerys does not wait for formality, announcement, or permission. He climbs. Behind him, Rhaenyra exhales once—sharp, controlled—then steps forward with Daemon beside her, following their son down to the dock as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

On the ship’s deck, Jacaerys is intercepted before he reaches below. Lord Ilyan Qhaqu meets him first. No announcement. No hesitation. Just a firm grip and a bear hug that lifts the prince briefly off his feet.

For a moment, Jacaerys is not heir, not political symbol, not betrothed complication. He is simply returned warmth meeting unexpected acceptance. And somewhere below deck, the rest of House Qhaqu is still coming up to meet him.