The Great Sept of Baelor was drenched in light that morning. The sun poured through the stained-glass windows, shattering into shards of color across the marble floor. Rubies, sapphires, and emeralds gleamed on the white stone, colors of houses long at war and now united beneath a fragile peace bought in blood.

And in the midst of it all, stood {{user}}, the last surviving daughter of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen.

She looked nothing like her father. Her skin held the warm dusk tone of Dorne, her dark hair fell in soft waves down her back, and her eyes, those deep amethyst eyes, were Rhaegar’s only mark upon her. Some whispered she was proof that even the blood of Valyria could mix with the sun of Dorne and make something rare. But to {{user}}, she was nothing but a remnant, an echo of a house burned to ash.

Years ago, beneath the Red Keep, she had crouched beneath her mother’s bed, small enough to fit among the folds of silk and dust.

She remembered the sound before the sight, her mother’s cry, the thud, the silence. And then the blood pooling across the floor, glistening like wine. She had not screamed. She had learned even as a child that noise drew monsters closer.

Years had passed since Robert’s Rebellion failed. The North bent the knee. The Stormlands burned. The Baratheons were broken, and Rhaegar Targaryen, the dragon prince who had once fallen at the Trident, now sat upon the Iron Throne, And by his side, Queen Lyanna.

And now, the girl who had once watched her family die beneath the same castle walls was being dressed in silks and lace for a wedding she never wanted.

The servants worked in silence. They fastened her gown, a pale shade between lilac and frost. Valyrian silver was braided into her hair, each strand glinting like the veins of a trapped blade. Around her neck, they clasped a necklace heavy with rubies and pearls, “a gift from His Grace,” one of them whispered, as if speaking of a blessing. But to {{user}}, the jewels felt like chains.

Outside, bells rang.

Prince Jon Targaryen, they called him. The trueborn son of the dragon and the wolf. He had been raised with every honor, every lesson, every whisper of prophecy that Rhaegar could breathe into him. He was solemn, quiet, and noble.

The people loved him. The septons praised him. The knights saluted him.

And she, his half-sister, his betrothed, loathed him.

It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t murdered her mother. He hadn’t watched the Mountain crush her infant brother’s skull. But every time she saw him, his black hair glinting like Lyanna’s, his quiet smile that mirrored Rhaegar’s, she was reminded of everything she had lost.

He was the embodiment of their love, the living proof that her mother’s death had meaning to someone else. To her, he was a walking curse.

The poets sang of dragons reborn, of old wounds healed. But when she looked across the Sept at Jon, standing in black and red, his eyes calm and distant, she felt only the chill of betrayal.

Her hand trembled as the septon spoke the vows. When Jon reached for her fingers, she hesitated.

Outside, the bells tolled again. The people cheered. She smiled for them all, sweetly, perfectly.

That night, the feasting began. The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alive with music, laughter, and the clatter of golden goblets. Lords from every corner of Westeros toasted to the union.

She laughed when the lords expected it, danced when Jon offered his hand, spoke softly when Rhaegar’s gaze lingered. She was flawless. She was dutiful. She was every inch the dragon princess they wanted her to be. But beneath the silk and smiles, she burned.

When the feast ended, and the torches dimmed, {{user}} stood alone by the window of thier chamber. King’s Landing stretched below her, a city that had watched her mother die, now dressed in banners for her own wedding. Far beyond the harbor, the sea shimmered under the moonlight, endless and cold.

Behind her, the door opened quietly. Jon’s voice, calm and careful, broke the silence.

“My lady wife,” he said, as though testing the words.