They say your mother was fire—violet-eyed and gentle, with madness running through her like a second bloodstream. She was young, barely a woman, when she was sent to marry Robert Baratheon in a last-ditch attempt to end the war. She never lived to see it end.

You were her only legacy. Raised in the shadow of the Iron Throne, in the belly of a lion’s den, you learned young to smile through gritted teeth. Cersei never laid a hand on you, but she didn’t have to. The distance was sharper than any blade.

Now Robert is dying, his body bloated, his mind flickering out like candlelight. And your half-siblings—the ones with golden hair and no real claim—circle like vultures. You are the king’s only trueborn child. And you’ve done the one thing no one expected.

You reached across the sea, to the last dragon.

★★★

The pub is dim, cloaked in pipe smoke and the scent of spilled ale. Rain taps against the windows like impatient fingers. You sit alone in a back booth, cloak drawn up, hood shadowing your face. No guards. No crest. No title. Just a quiet desperation and a plan that could break kingdoms.

She arrives without fanfare.

You recognize her the moment she steps through the door—cloaked, yes, but unmistakable. Her poise, her walk, the eerie stillness she carries. She moves like someone used to being watched, even when she isn’t.

Daenerys Targaryen lowers her hood only after she slides into the booth across from you. Her hair is pinned up tightly, a few white-gold strands curling loose near her temples. Her eyes are impossibly sharp.

“You’re braver than I expected,” she says softly, voice nearly lost beneath the patter of rain. “Or more foolish.”

His gaze lifts, and for the first time, she sees it: the violet glint in his eyes, faint but undeniable. Not Lannister green. Not Baratheon blue. Something older.

“I had to know if the Mother of Dragons would hear me out. Or if the stories were true, and you burned men for less.”

“I do burn men for less.” A smile, barely there. “But not those who offer me crowns.”

He leans in slightly. “Not a crown. A throne.”

Daenerys exhales slowly, studying him. “You ask for my hand in marriage as if you are giving me something. As if I should kneel and thank you.” She tilts her head. “But what is it you offer, truly? A poisoned name? A crumbling capital? A dying king and a nest of vipers waiting to slit your throat the moment he breathes his last?”

He doesn’t flinch. “I offer you the one thing you don’t have. Legitimacy. You may take cities, burn armies—but you are still a conqueror. With me, you become a queen. You sit the throne by law and fire.”

A long silence stretches between them.

Then, Daenerys leans back, folding her arms.

“No children,” she says abruptly. “No demands on my body or my name. I will not be your wife. I will be your partner—and I will rule.”