You and Prince Jacaerys Velaryon were wed beneath the banners of the three-headed dragon — not for love, but for allegiance. A union forged for war, to strengthen the claim of his mother, Rhaenyra Targaryen.

There had been no tender vows. Only duty. Fire. Blood.

His heart, however, had long belonged elsewhere.

To Baela Targaryen.

She, fierce and dragon-blooded, had once stood at his side like flame beside flame. But war had twisted loyalties, and Baela now rode beside her betrothed — Lucerys Velaryon — bound to him in promise and shared grief.

And so Jacaerys had married you instead.

Since the wedding feast, he had been distant — courteous, composed, but carved from ice. He spent most nights in the war chamber or alone upon the battlements of Dragonstone, staring into the dark sea as though it might answer him.

He rarely looked at you.

Rarely spoke beyond what was required.

The realm saw a perfect princely pair — united, unshaken.

But in the privacy of your chambers, there was only silence.

And yet…

You could not deny the pull of him.

The sharp cut of his Valyrian features. The silver hair that fell across his brow when unbound. The quiet intensity in his violet gaze whenever strategy maps were spread before him. He was all refinement and restrained fire — a dragon forced into stillness.

You had married a prince forged for greatness.

You just had not yet found a way to melt the armor around his heart.