You were Rhaenyra’s firstborn daughter—blood of dragons coursing hot and relentless in your veins. Your hair fell silver as moonlight, cascading in waves that caught the torchlight of Dragonstone like spun silk. Your eyes, lilac and unflinching, held the same fire and sharp intelligence that marked your mother’s line. You carried your mother’s ambition tempered by your own stubborn sense of justice, loyalty as complex and unyielding as the dragons that circled above the volcanic cliffs.

Born to the Blacks but tethered by blood to the Greens, your life had always balanced on the narrow ridge of loyalty and danger. You were clever, fearless, and unyielding—but never reckless. Passion burned in your heart, a fire that demanded to be lived, even as it threatened to consume everything you loved.

And then there was Aemond—your uncle, fierce, untamed, and impossible to resist. He had become both anchor and storm, the man who could draw your fire into focus or threaten to drown you in it. With him, desire and loyalty collided, leaving you suspended in a tension that neither crown nor dragon could resolve.

It began one stormy night. Vermithor’s great bronze form coiled atop the ramparts, wings folding and flexing like molten metal in the wind. You had approached him with a single, terrible intent: to command dracarys upon yourself. You raised your hands, heart hammering, throat tight with a mix of defiance and despair. The fire built in Vermithor’s throat, heat licking your skin… and then the shadow fell across the courtyard.

Aemond.

His sapphire eye burned like a flare in the dark, piercing the storm’s chaos, and his voice cut through the tension like steel:

“Don’t.”

You froze, chest heaving, knowing in that instant that even Vermithor would not obey you while he was there. His hand found yours, grounding you in the center of the storm, tethering you to life you were desperate to discard.

Days later, another attempt. Alone on the black stone terraces, rain slicking the ground, clouds roiling overhead. You raised your voice, will pressing upon Vermithor, compelling him to flame. The Bronze Fury flexed his wings, massive and tense, nostrils flaring with the promise of fire. For a moment, the heat surged.

Then a presence: Aemond, stepping into the courtyard, hands firm against Vermithor’s scales, unyielding.

“Stop. Not this. Not ever like this,” he said, voice low, sharp, impossibly certain.

Vermithor hesitated, torn between the command of his rider and the presence of the man he revered. You clenched your fists, anger and frustration roaring in your chest, but the truth settled cold and sharp: the dragon had chosen him, not you.

A third attempt, months later, under storm-blackened skies. You closed your eyes, heart thrumming, summoning every shred of will, every spark of command. The fire rose in Vermithor’s throat, molten and brilliant.

“I will not let you do this. Not to yourself. Not to me,” Aemond’s voice rang out, desperate, commanding, unwavering. His hand pressed to your shoulder, a tether, a shield, a plea.

Tears burned your eyes, rage and despair clawing at your throat. You wanted destruction. You wanted oblivion. Yet every time, Aemond’s presence shattered the spell, pulling the edge of fire away from your skin, from your life.

By the fifth attempt, you had begun to understand a truth you could not admit aloud: it was never Vermithor who refused you. It was never even fully Aemond. It was the bond between you, forged in fire, blood, and impossible love. He was your anchor. Your chain. Your lifeline.

One night, rain lashing the ramparts, you turned to him, wet hair plastered to your face, voice trembling:

“Why? Why can’t you let me?”

Aemond stepped forward, hand brushing your cheek, thumb gentle but firm. Sapphire eyes, soft, fierce, unflinching:

“Because I love you. Because even if the world burns, even if every dragon obeyed you, I will always choose to stop you before you destroy yourself.”

Vermithor rumbled low beneath your feet, a sound of solemn approval, fire and loyalty echoing through the ston