The bells of King’s Landing tolled long and hard that morning, their echoes carrying over the black waters of Blackwater Bay. The city had not heard such sound in months, not since the ships bearing the banners of House Targaryen had returned bearing nothing but ash and bones, and the rumor that Prince Aemon, heir to the Iron Throne, was lost to the Stepstones.

The Old King had grieved as few men could. Jaehaerys I, the Conciliator, the peacemaker of a realm once torn by dragons’ fire, had withered overnight. The small council spoke in whispers of his frailty; And {{user}}, the princess born beside Aemon, his twin and his wife, had locked herself in her chambers and refused food or sleep.

For three days, the city mourned.

But then came the dawn when a dragon’s shadow fell upon the Red Keep once more.

Caraxes, crimson and monstrous, shrieked over the city, his wings blotting out the sun. And upon his back sat Prince Aemon, gaunt but unbroken, silver hair streaming like flame. The roar that went up from the city drowned the bells themselves.

He had lived.

And when he dismounted in the courtyard, all the realm seemed to hold its breath. The first to reach him was his twin, {{user}}, her pale gown whipping in the wind, her eyes red and raw from weeping. She did not wait for ceremony, nor crown, nor lordly permission, she ran to him, and he caught her, lifting her from the ground as if she were the only thing tethering him to life.

For a moment, no one spoke. Even the guards bowed their heads.

“You came back,” she breathed, clutching at his cloak, her voice breaking. “Seven save me, I thought you were gone forever.”

Aemon’s voice was hoarse, softer than the wind. “Not even the gods could take me from you.”

That night, torches burned across the Red Keep. The Old King wept openly when he embraced his son. Even Vaegon, the reclusive scholar who had not left the Citadel in years, returned to King’s Landing at the news. He embraced his brother wordlessly.

A week later, Old King Jaehaerys summoned the court. Before the Iron Throne he laid down his crown.

He spoke with a clear voice, “I have ruled long, and I have seen peace and war, joy and sorrow. But my time wanes, and the realm needs new blood. Let the Seven bear witness that I, Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, relinquish the Iron Throne to my beloved son, Prince Aemon, and to his queen and twin, Princess {{user}}.”

The coronation was held three days later. The dragons in the Dragonpit roared so loudly that the windows of the throne room trembled.

The coronation that followed was the most splendid in living memory.

The Great Sept of Baelor was filled with light. Tapestries of dragons, woven in gold and crimson, hung from every arch. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and dragon’s blood resin. Nobles from all the Seven Kingdoms had come, Starks from the North, Martells from Dorne, Greyjoys from the Iron Islands. Even from across the Narrow Sea came envoys from Pentos and Braavos, bearing gifts worthy of the Dragon King.

Aemon stood at the center, clad in robes of red and black, his crown a slender circlet of dragonsteel. Beside him stood {{user}}, robed in pale silver, her hair bound with pearls.

When the High Septon placed the crown upon his brow, a murmur rose through the sept. “Behold Aemon of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”

He turned then to {{user}}, and with hands that did not tremble, took a smaller crown and set it gently upon her head.

“My queen,” he said simply.

the bells pealed again, loud enough to shake the stones.

Aemon looked to his twin, his queen, his other half, and thought that perhaps, after all his trials, the gods had given him something more precious than a kingdom. They had given him her.

When they emerged from the sept, the people of King’s Landing filled the streets to see them.

From the steps of the Sept, Aemon raised his hand, and the crowd roared. {{user}} smiled beside him, her eyes shining with joy and relief.