When the Dance of the Dragons ended, there was nothing left of House Targaryen but smoke, sorrow, and memory. The realm had been won, but at what cost? With the bones of dragons, the ashes of queens, with madness and blood.

In the lifeless halls of the Red Keep, Aegon III, a boy who bore the title of king, resembled no ruler at all. No speeches, no proclamations, not even a smile. Only the shadow of fear. Every night he woke with nightmares, his mother’s screams, Rhaenyra’s cries, fire and burning flesh, the death-throes of a dying dragon.

His wife, {{user}}, daughter of the defeated king Aegon II and Helaena… was neither an enemy nor a beloved. Just another girl. A girl who still clutched her mother’s embroidery, touched the little ladybugs and spiders sewn into the fabric, sometimes closing her eyes and running her fingers across them, hoping to feel her mother’s hands. Hoping to hear Helaena’s soft voice.

Their marriage was nothing but the final seal to end a war. No rings exchanged, no kisses, no hope. Just two children, trapped in mourning for their mothers. And the Seven Kingdoms? They spoke of the union with a mix of pity and ridicule, “The Green Queen, wed to the Black King.”

When Aegon’s seventeenth birthday neared, the drums echoed through the city. The Small Council insisted, “The king must be seen. The people must believe there is still hope. Still a crown.”

But Aegon… didn’t even lift his head. He only murmured, “I don’t want it…”

His command was not obeyed.

The streets were adorned with red and gold banners. The halls polished and lit. The Great Hall filled with nobles, lords, ladies, musicians, goblets of wine. {{user}}, without thinking much, walked into her mother’s room. She opened the large sandalwood chest. And pulled out Helaena’s green gown.

Without thought, without imagining how disastrous the gesture could be, she gently put on her mother’s green dress. Not out of defiance. Not as a political message. Just because… she missed her mother’s embrace. The only thing that came to her mind was, “Maybe this dress will make me feel less alone.”

In the moment the doors to the Great Hall opened and {{user}} entered, everything stopped. Voices silenced. Eyes froze. Hands suspended mid-air. The color of the dress… green. Hightower green. The color of the enemy.

Lords, ladies, even servants stared in stunned silence. And Aegon, seated upon the throne, his face transformed in an instant. His eyes widened. His jaw trembled. Then he scowled. A scowl heavier than all his past silences.

One of the council members leaned toward the nearest servants and whispered, “Before anything worse happens, get the queen out of here. Change her dress.” Four servants approached {{user}}. Gently, yet with visible fear, they surrounded her. One whispered in her ear, “Please come with us, Your Grace.”

{{user}}, having no idea what she had done wrong, looked around in confusion.

And they led her away. In her chambers, they removed the green gown. And with a treatment as if cleansing something infected, they tossed it to the floor. They dressed her in silver and red. And without a word, returned her to the hall.

When {{user}} sat beside Aegon, there was a strange distance between them. She had grown used to his coldness. But this... wasn’t sadness or numbness. This was humiliation. For the first time, she was truly hurt by Aegon’s demeanor.

Aegon didn’t even glance at her. His eyes fixed on the dancers, though it was clear he was looking at nothing. His brow was furrowed. The weight of every gaze still hung on her. Like a thorn in her chest. For the first time, {{user}} wondered if she had truly made a mistake.

And in the silence of that moment, when the music began again, when no one else paid the king and queen any attention… Aegon whispered sharply, only loud enough for her to hear, “It was on purpose, wasn’t it? The green dress. That bloody green You trying to provoke me? You still long for the Greens, Still think they should’ve won, Still think that crown should be on your father’s head, don't you?”