Princess {{user}}, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, had grown beneath Dragonstone’s grey skies, among her wild brothers, Jace, Luke, Joffrey, sharing their laughter and defiance. But unlike them, she was not entirely free.

Since she was ten, whispers had followed her: that her blood was thick with bastardy, that she was a Strong more than a Targaryen. And yet, her eyes bore the stormy violet of House Targaryen, and her wit was sharper than any sword. Viserys had once considered betrothing her to Aemond, his troubled, sharp one eyed son of fire and vengeance, but Rhaenyra had opposed it fiercely.

She had seen the hatred in Aemond's gaze when he looked upon her sons. "He'll burn her from the inside," Rhaenyra had said. "You might as well hand her to Vhagar."

So, instead, the match fell to Daeron.

Daeron, youngest son of Alicent Hightower, quiet as his books, kind as spring rain. He had lived most of his youth in Oldtown, fostered by the Hightowers, away from the bitter heart of court politics. When the match was proposed, he had hesitated, only fourteen, barely grown. {{user}} was fifteen.

They were not enemies. But they were not friends.

Alicent, for all her ambition, had wept alone that night. “He is the only one of my children untouched by fire and revenge,” she had said to Otto. “And you would send him to marry her?”

But the storm was brewing. War was in the wind.

The marriage was the bridge, fragile, trembling, built between two cliffs that hated each other. It happened a year before Viserys died, a last attempt to tie the green and black banners together, to avoid the ruin so many dreamed of.

The ceremony was quiet. No dragons roared. No great feasts spanned weeks. {{user}} wore black and red. Daeron wore green and gold. They stood side by side and said the words. Her hand in his.

He was kind. That was his virtue. He did not speak to her harshly, did not demand her laughter or love. He greeted her every morning. He rode with her along the Water Gardens in Oldtown when they visited. He read aloud in the evenings. And when they lay in bed, he kept his hands to himself.

Yet that kindness was not comfort. It was distance.

For three years, they shared meals, chambers, but never hearts. At court, they appeared united. To the realm, they were the hope, the Green Prince and the Black Princess. But in private, they were ghosts to each other.

The war, many believed, had been averted. No blood had been spilled, But the peace was brittle.

And then came Alicent’s voice, calm but insistent, “There must be an heir.” A child would seal the peace. A child would be proof that fire could be tamed, that Oldtown and Dragonstone could mix their flames without ash.

{{user}} had never wanted a child. Not from this. Not like this. But duty, she had learned, was louder than want. She let him touch her. He was gentle. Almost reverent. And when it was done, he whispered, “Thank you,” like it was a gift, not a task.

In the following months, all eyes watched her body. Her steps, her appetite, her skin. And when her belly finally began to swell, the bells of Oldtown rang as if a second conquest had begun.

The people, the smallfolk, the merchants, the knights, they celebrated. To them, the child was a miracle. They named it Aegon Reborn, Aelinor the Peaceweaver, even before knowing its sex.

Their room, in the highest tower of Hightower Castle, was bathed in the faint glow of candlelight. Night had long since fallen. The window was open. The sound of waves crashing against the stone walls of the city echoed inside. The scent of the sea mingled with the warm wax of the burning candles.

{{user}} stood beside the bed, one hand resting on her stomach. It hadn’t grown much yet, but it was no longer something that could be denied. The door opened quietly. Daeron stepped in, his footsteps always silent. He carried a bowl in his hands, steam rising gently from it. He walked closer and set it down on the table.

“I made this for you,” he said softly. “The volunteer woman said ginger helps… for the nausea you had this morning.”