Rhaenyra Targaryen’s eldest daughter, born after a scandalous few nights when she and Daemon vanished from court, walked the halls with a kind of untouchable pride. Her silver hair flowed like molten moonlight, her eyes icy and sharp, her very presence regal. People whispered that such beauty was natural for a child of House Velaryon, but there was something in King Viserys’ tired gaze that said otherwise.

When her younger brothers, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey, were born with dark brown hair and strong, broad features, the rumors swelled. Whispers of Harwin Strong haunted the Red Keep, murmurs in the shadows, and worst of all, Alicent Hightower’s pointed glances.

"Two men. Two beds. One crown." Alicent would sigh dramatically, her eyes scanning Rhaenyra’s children with barely concealed disdain. "At least my sons carry true blood in their veins. Not these... counterfeits."

Rhaenyra never answered. She was a queen who knew that every confession had a cost.

Jacaerys, the eldest son of Rhaenyra and believed to be the son of Harwin Strong, always looked at her strangely. Not only because she was beautiful. Not only because she looked like their mother. But because something burned within him that no one was allowed to speak of.

The great hall of the Red Keep hadn’t felt this full in years. With the king growing weaker by the day, and House Targaryen’s future uncertain, Viserys had summoned all his kin for one final, desperate attempt at unity.

The long feast table gleamed under the light of a thousand candles, casting dancing flames over silver goblets and polished plates. Targaryens and Hightowers sat in forced harmony, the air thick with old wounds and tighter smiles.

Rhaenyra sat near the head of the table, chin high, her children gathered beside her. On her right, Prince Daemon, now her husband, watched the room with sharp, cutting eyes. Beside them sat her daughter, the silver-haired girl who had long been the whispered stain on her name. But no one dared say the word bastard anymore.

Not since Daemon had taken Rhaenyra’s hand, not since he claimed the girl as his own, not since her dragon had taken flight over King's Landing and set the sky ablaze in silver flame. The lords and ladies of court might whisper behind their fans, but their tongues trembled.

All except for Alicent, and her sons. The queen sat across the table, her jaw clenched, her green gown shining like envy itself. Her eyes flicked constantly between the silver-haired girl and Jacaerys, who sat just beside her, his hand resting lightly on hers.

Aegon snickered into his goblet, whispering something to Aemond. The one-eyed prince didn’t laugh, but his good eye never left the girl.

Then, Rhaenyra stood. A hush fell over the room. Even Viserys lifted his heavy head, his sunken eyes searching for clarity in her expression. "I wish to make an announcement," she said, her voice strong and clear. “It is time for joy in this house again. My eldest daughter, {{user}}, will be formally betrothed to Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to the Iron Throne.”

The silence shattered like glass. Viserys, feeble and tired, lifted his goblet last. “Let there be peace,” he whispered. Daemon said “To the future king and queen, of true Valyrian blood.”

Aegon scoffed. But it was Alicent who answered, low and sharp “Valyrian blood? From which man, I wonder? The husband or the uncle? You’ve truly embraced the Targaryen way, haven’t you, Rhaenyra? Cousins, siblings, half-bloods… it's all the same to you. Two bastards. One of fire, one of steel. And now they are to be King and Queen? The gods must be weeping from such mockery.”

The hall held its breath until the scrape of a chair echoed loud against stone. Jacaerys stood. His chair was flung back behind him, but he didn’t even flinch. His dark eyes burned like coals. “Enough,” he said, voice low but unshaking. “You will not speak of my sister that way.”