It was a momentous occasion — one that would be sung of for generations.

Aemond Targaryen, second son of King Viserys and Prince of the Realm, had presented as an Alpha. The first true Alpha born to House Targaryen since Aegon the Conqueror himself. The Red Keep had erupted in celebration that night — the bells of King’s Landing rang from dawn until dusk, dragons cried in the skies above, and courtiers whispered with trembling awe of what this might mean.

For the Targaryens, this was no mere family milestone. It was prophecy.

An Alpha Targaryen, destined to sire strong heirs with the perfect Omega. The maesters called it the renewal of the blood. The septons declared it the gods’ blessing upon House Targaryen. Every noble house in Westeros, from the proudest in the Reach to the humblest of the Vale, sent envoys to King’s Landing within days — each bearing lavish gifts and an Omega child dressed in their finest silks, perfumed and trembling with hope.

For three long days, Aemond was forced to endure the procession.

Dozens of young Omegas bowed before him in the Great Hall, each one smiling prettily, fluttering lashes, scenting the air with their expensive oils and sweet wines. But Aemond’s sharp violet gaze remained cold and distant. Their scents clung to the hall like honey turned sour. Too polished. Too artificial. None stirred the dragon within him.

By the dawn of the fourth day, he had dismissed them all.

The court was left buzzing — scandalized that the Prince had found none to his liking. Yet Aemond himself felt strangely restless, his blood humming with something unfulfilled. He rode Vhagar through the morning mist to clear his head, circling over the city that sprawled beneath him like a breathing beast. When he finally landed, it was not at the Red Keep, but in the lower streets, where the scent of freshly baked bread drifted through the fog.

The smallfolk scattered at the sight of him, the great dragon looming overhead — all but one girl.

You stood behind the counter of your father’s bakery, brushing flour from your hands, utterly unaware that your life was about to change forever. The bell above the door chimed softly as the tall, silver-haired prince stepped inside, his long cloak trailing behind him.

The smell hit him first — warm bread, vanilla, cinnamon — but beneath it, something purer, sweeter, something that clawed deep into his chest. Your scent.

For a moment, Aemond forgot who he was. The dragon stilled.

You turned at the sound of his boots, heart leaping when you saw the prince — the Alpha every noble dreamed of serving. You quickly bowed your head, unsure what to do.

“Your Highness,” you murmured, voice soft and trembling.

But Aemond didn’t speak. He only inhaled, gaze sharp, pupils dilated as he took a slow step forward. The hum in his blood deepened, the bond threads snapping taut and alive between you.

He had finally found it — the scent that made the world fall silent.

His voice came low, almost reverent. “What is your name?”

“Poppy,” you whispered.

The corner of his lips curved into something dangerous — not quite a smile, but close. “Poppy.” He tasted the sound like it was sacred.

By the time he left the bakery, half the city would be whispering that the Prince had gone into heat for a baker’s daughter. And by nightfall, the Red Keep would burn with fury and disbelief — because no matter what laws or titles stood in the way, no one could deny an Alpha their bonded Omega.

And Aemond Targaryen, the dragon reborn, had found his.