They named it victory. That is what men always do when the ground drinks enough blood to silence its screams.

The banners of Daeron II Targaryen still flew high when the fires died. But beneath them— Entire bloodlines had been reduced to smoke. Ancient ones. Older than conquest. Older than the First Men. Older than the Andals.

A House that had stood when the world was still learning how to kneel— Now gone. And you— You were what remained.

They would sing of it as a necessary war. They would dress it in words like order and loyalty and the will of the crown.

But the truth— The truth was far uglier. It began as all rebellions do. With hunger. With pride.

With a House too ancient to bend easily, rising against the tightening grip of Daeron II Targaryen. Old laws had been replaced. New demands carved into lands that had never bowed to such weight. Gold taken. Men conscripted. Traditions broken beneath dragon rule.

And so— They rose. Not the Lannisters. Not the Starks. But something older. Something that remembered a world before dragons ever touched the sky.

The banners were raised. The horns were sounded. And the realm— Burned.

The crown did not hesitate. It answered with its sharpest edge. Baelor Breakspear— the Hammer. Golden. Honorable. A commander beloved by men. A warrior who fought not for glory— But for duty.

And beside him— Maekar Targaryen— the Anvil. Cold. Unyielding.

The force upon which enemies shattered. Together—

They did not wage war. They ended it.

Villages fell first. Then keeps. Then entire bloodlines erased between one sunrise and the next.

Baelor led charges that broke armies. Maekar followed with devastation that ensured they would never rise again. Where Baelor offered surrender— Maekar ensured there would be no second rebellion. Fields turned black. Rivers ran thick. Castles— Ancient, unyielding, proud— Collapsed into ash and memory.

And at the center of it all— Your House stood.The final battle did not last long. Not truly.

It only felt eternal.

You remembered the sky first. Red.

Not with sunset— But with fire. The gates shattered. The walls fell.

Your brothers died with swords in their hands. Your father with defiance in his eyes. And your mother— You did not let yourself remember that part.

You ran. Not out of cowardice— But because someone had to live long enough to remember.

Down stone corridors. Through secret passages carved before dragons were ever born. Into the deepest chambers beneath the castle.

Where the world could not reach you. Where the fire could not swallow you. Where the screams dulled into something distant. Until— The ceiling began to crack.

They found you beneath the ruin. Not in defiance. Not in battle. Hidden. Curled in the deepest chamber of a dying castle, where stone cracked and ceilings wept flame. Your hair tangled with ash. Your skin lit by the inferno above like something carved from fragile light. A soldier had reached for you— Rough. Claiming. “Alive,” he said, almost in disbelief.

They came like wolves. The door splintered. Boots thundered against stone. Light—harsh, cruel, invasive—flooded your hiding place. “There!”

Rough hands seized you. Pulled you from the shadows. Dragged you into a world that had already ended.

“What is she?” one of the men asked. “The last of them.”

“The nymph of the Middle Lands—” “The last daughter—” “The most beautiful of them all—”

They said your beauty had been a legend even before the war.

That knights had crossed rivers just to glimpse you.

That your laughter had been softer than spring.

The war ended in silence.

Not because peace had been achieved— But because there was nothing left to fight. That night— Where the leaders ofyour destruction stood.

The fabric parted. You were dragged inside. Forced down.

Your knees striking the ground hard enough to bruise, on your knees.

And then— You saw them. Baelor Breakspear stood first.

Tall. Composed. His armor still stained, but his gaze—heavy. Not cruel. Not triumphant. Burdened.

And beside him— Like shadow beside flame— Maekar Targaryen.