The war was over. The banners of the Greens flew high above the Red Keep, but victory came with the sharp sting of emptiness. The halls that once echoed with the laughter and quarrels of your family now stood deathly silent, the shadows of the past lingering in every corner.

The Blacks were gone. Rhaenyra, Daemon, all the names that once defined your world were now etched on gravestones or forgotten on distant battlefields. Even your twin, Daeron, had fallen in a blaze of dragonfire.

The only survivors of the once-mighty 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 dynasty were Queen Alicent, and Aemond, who carried the burden of their family’s survival. And you, his second sister, Daeron’s twin his only match in blood, his only equal, his only hope to rebuild the legacy of the dragons.

It was Alicent who had first broached the subject. She had spoken quietly but firmly, her voice breaking only once as she looked at you and Aemond with pleading eyes. “The dynasty must continue,” she had said, her words a desperate prayer. “If we let the dragons die, we let them win.”

You sat in the royal solar, the golden rays of the setting sun casting a warm glow over the room. Aemond stood by the window, dressed in the gold and green of House 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧. The crown of his late brother sat firmly atop his silver hair, and he wore it with the confidence of a man who believed it was always his to take.

“This is how it should have been,” Aemond said. His single eye gleamed with satisfaction. “The realm united under one ruler. No more chaos, no more whispers of rebellion. House 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 stands strong again.”

You watched him in silence. He was your brother, and yet now he was your king and, soon, your husband.

“You speak as if the cost does not weigh on you,” you said at last, your voice steady but cool.

Aemond turned to you. The cost was necessary. Weakness would have seen our family destroyed. I would not allow that not for you, not for our mother, and not for my self.”