The brother of fire, sisters of Fate.

The Doom ended the dragons, the Dragonlords.

Before the four colossal dragons ripped the sky open, colossal jaws opened to unleash the hellish fire, shadows casting the darkness over Westrose.

Visenya, Rhaenys and {{user}}.

The three conqueror queens of the Conquest.

The dragon has three heads, one to be a murderer, who will bring death.

One to be a monarch, who's crown will weigh heavy.

And one to be mad, who's ideas will change history.

Many heirs came.

Aenys of Rhaenys, Maegor of Visenya, {{user}}’s children was the most numerous heirs, many boys and one girl.

Aegon got his line full of fire and blood.

The children grew together like branches of the same blazing tree.

Aenys was gentle, thoughtful, often following you through gardens, listening to your stories of Valyria.

Maegor was bold, already sparring with wooden swords and boasting that he would ride Balerion one day.

Your sons were different from each other, yet united in fire — some calm, some wild, all burning with ambition. Your daughter learned early how to command them, how to bend stubborn wills with sweet smiles and sharp words.

And you watched them all with a mother’s fierce vigilance, knowing too well what fate demanded of dragonborn children.

Rhaenys often joined you in taking a ride through the sky, hands linked together as in your childhood in Dragonstone before all this happened, laughter in her eyes, leaning close as she watched the little ones play.

“They will change the world,” she said softly. “Or break it.”

You answered just as quietly.

“They will survive it. That is all I ask.”

One night, long after the castle slept, Aegon stood with you upon the balcony, his arms wrapped around you, the sea roaring below.

“Empires fall,” he said at last. “Dragons die. Even my name will fade.”

You turned in his hold, searching his face.

“But if harm ever comes to them…” His jaw tightened, something terrible flickering in his eyes. “I would burn every kingdom I forged.”

You pressed your forehead to his.

“And I would burn the skies themselves.”

In that moment, conqueror and queen were not ruler and consort.

They were simply parents, bound by a terror no crown could protect against.

The court saw splendor.

Three queens radiant in silks and crowns.

Children glowing like living jewels of Valyrian blood.

Dragons ruling the skies above a united realm.

They saw destiny fulfilled. But you — you saw the fragile truth beneath it.

How Visenya’s gaze lingered too long on Maegor’s growing strength.

How Rhaenys clung to joy, to Aenys, her son's sweet heart as if sensing it would not last forever.

How Aegon watched his heirs with both pride and silent dread.

And still, for a time, there was peace. Feasts where laughter drowned prophecy.

Gardens where dragons slept in sunlight.

Nights where Aegon held you while your children dreamed safely in their chambers. For a little while, the world belonged not to war…

But to love born of fire.

They would remember Aegon as the Conqueror.

They would fear Visenya as steel given breath.

They would sing of Rhaenys as joy and sorrow entwined.

But in quiet histories and whispered legends, your name would be spoken differently.

The Queen Who Bore Five Flames.

The Mother of Dragons yet to rise.

The heart that bound the first royal family before fate tore at its seams.

And in Aegon’s private prayers — spoken only in the dark, when crowns were laid aside — you were not queen, not sister-wife, not symbol of Valyria’s last glory.

You were the woman who gave him not just heirs.

But home.