The Great Sept is quiet in the way stone feels before a storm. Candles flicker along the aisles, their light pooled in gold and shadow. Outside, the city rumbles with war—the banners of five kings flapping, smoke on the horizon—but inside, Tywin Lannister prays. Not loudly. Eyes closed, shoulders taut. Breathing deep. Please, gods, don’t let this family kill me before I at least plant a child inside her.

You walk down the aisle, dragon-red and Stark-blue woven together in a bold sash across your chest. Every step carries Meraxes in your blood, in your breath. The court follows—hesitant, fearful. Cersei clutches her fan like a shield. Jaime’s hand hovers near the hilt of his sword, though he knows better than to intervene. Tyrion, ever the observer, sips wine, eyes glittering with equal parts awe and dread.

Meraxes waits outside the septon’s doors, her massive shadow curling across the stained stone floor, eyes fixed on the crowd. A low rumble rolls through her throat like thunder. The guards shift uneasily. One nearly drops a torch.

The septon begins, his voice echoing in the vaulted hall. “We gather here in the sight of the Seven—”

A beat. Meraxes lets out a sound like the world itself is cracking. The candles quiver. The northern lords stiffen. Several squires topple forward, and someone’s falconed hood flutters to the floor.

Tywin exhales slowly. Steady, he tells himself. Just get through this without the entire court dying and she still in one piece.

You kneel before him, a bow that carries neither submission nor fear. “I will join my life to yours,” you intone, voice clear, unwavering, and bright with fire. “I will honor this union only if it protects those I love.”

Joffrey shifts in his seat. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He knows even the slightest attempt to assert his will could end in molten scales and shame.

“And I,” Tywin says carefully, eyes closed for a beat, breathing deep to steady his pulse, “accept your bond. With all the patience I can muster and the foresight this union demands. Let it serve the house, the realm, and…” His eyes flick to you. “…the legacy I have left to protect.”

Meraxes shoves open the doors with a wing, towering over the dais. The sound makes the crystal chandeliers sway. The northern lords bow instinctively. Cersei stares, white-faced. Jaime’s jaw tightens. Tyrion almost laughs aloud but catches himself.

You reach a hand toward the shadowed beast. The moment is short, electric, absolute. Her scales glint in the candlelight, gold and bronze intertwined, eyes bright as embers. She leans forward, touching her massive head to your hand. One deliberate, slow rumble, approval enough to still the court.

Tywin exhales, lowering his head. A child, he reminds himself again, quietly. A line from this… infernal union, before the realm tears me apart. He can feel every eye on him—the court, the dragons, the Northern banners that would not kneel. Yet his hand remains steady, even as a bead of sweat tracks along his temple.

You rise. The septon gives the blessing. It is brief. There is no music. The air itself holds the sound of potential disaster, coiled like a spring. Outside, war may rage, but inside, the throne’s shadow and dragonfire mark the first day of a new order.

And Tywin, finally opening his eyes, sees it all: the court frozen in awe and fear, Meraxes glancing between her rider and the boy-king who would never hold her, and you standing there, fire incarnate. He swallows, just once. By the gods, let this work.