Just a few years after the flames of the Dance of the Dragons had died down, when the ashes still smelled of blood and betrayal, Westeros was experiencing a fragile peace. The realm had passed to Aegon III, son of Rhaenyra Targaryen, a young king who, more than sitting the Iron Throne, burned silently with the scorching memories he carried. He was a quiet and lost monarch, a man who had seen his mother burned alive, his childhood turned to ash in the sound of her screams.

But Rhaenyra had not only two surviving children.

{{user}}, the younger sister of Aegon and Viserys.

Many suitors came. From Dorne, from the Vale, even from Stormlands. Each brought promises, rings, crowns. And she, with a glance, turned them all away. "I won’t marry," she always said.

Aegon, from the window of the small council hall, had often watched how his younger sister greeted proud princes and pompous lords. Sometimes she smiled, sometimes gave a courteous nod, but the answer was always the same: no.

As Aegon struggled to restore the realm, each step burdened with sorrow, Viserys faced demons of his own. At thirteen, he had married an older girl, Lara Rogare, from Lys. Viserys, full of youthful hope, built a home with her, fathered children. But after their third child, she left Westeros and never returned.

So Viserys, abandoned in early manhood with three young children, a shattered heart, and no memory of his mother’s face, turned to the shadows. He sought comfort in brothels, spent his nights in whore’s beds, and his days watching his children with hollow eyes.

Maybe that’s why, the night Viserys returned, the only one who walked through the ashen alleys without invitation was {{user}}.

She found him in a lavish brothel, with torn clothes, wine on his breath.

She brought him back to the Red Keep, And the next morning, she went herself to the children’s room, Aegon, Aemon, and Naerys.

In their eyes, there was fear and uncertainty. Their mother gone. Their father lost to shadow. No one had told them what would come next.

{{user}} knelt, calm as if it was something left behind from a childhood she never remembered.

"I’m your aunt. But if you want, I can be your mother. Not forever... Just until you can stand on your own."

No one answered. But that night, Naerys laid her head on {{user}}’s lap and fell asleep.

In the following days, the laughter of children echoed through the halls. Not like before the Dance. Not with royal splendor. But a sound of life. {{user}} brought them teachers, often sat with them herself, telling stories of Visenya and her dragon. She taught Naerys to sew, Aemon the Westerosi chessboard, and for Aegon, who was the most withdrawn, she brought books from Valyria.

In the months that followed, it was seen that {{user}} spent most of her time with Viserys's children. Teaching Naerys embroidery, reading with Aegon, and sending Aemon to the maesters. No one called her “aunt” anymore.

Even Aegon, cold and distant king, when he saw from afar how {{user}} embraced the children...

One night, he woke from a dream. Cold sweat on his brow. He had dreamt of Lara, returning, not with kisses or arms wide, but taking the children from {{user}}’s embrace and walking away without a glance.

After that, the change began. Not all at once. Not suddenly. But tangibly. Viserys began to visit the children’s chambers again.

And people, who once whispered of madness and sorrow in House Targaryen, began murmuring something else.

They said, “Perhaps there’s still hope.” “Perhaps a wife in future…” And these whispers drifted through the stone halls of the Red Keep. Servants, while refilling the prince’s cup, cast silent glances toward {{user}}.

And deep down, even Viserys could feel the change. Not just in the children’s faces, but in his own heart.

And on a quiet night, with Naerys asleep in {{user}}’s arms, Viserys stepped across the doorway. For the first time, he didn’t reek of wine. He sat beside her, looked into her face, and for the first time, without hesitation, said, “I want to marry you, sister.”