You were born beneath war banners and mourning veils.

Maekar’s firstborn, sharp-eyed and dragon-blooded, raised in a court that whispered of crowns and rebellions in the same breath.

From childhood, you were taught that love was a weakness, alliances were armor, and a Targaryen’s heart must belong first to the realm.

And yet, from the very beginning, your gaze followed Baelor Breakspear. Not the prince. Not the heir.

But the man who knelt to your height when you were small, who set you upon his shoulder during processions so you could see over the crowd, who corrected your sword grip with hands that were always careful, always steady.

You grew. He did not change. Still watchful. Still protective. Still the shield between you and the world.

It was only when you were no longer a child that you began to understand the weight of the way he looked at you.

Not as a knight watches a charge. But as a man watches something he must not want.

His voice softened when he spoke to you. His gaze lingered too long. His temper sharpened when others grew too bold in your presence.

And you — dragon-blooded, stubborn, born of fire — you noticed everything.

“You watch me like I am a danger,” you once told him.

His answer was quiet, strained.

“You are.”

Not to him. To his restraint.

Westeros does not miss such things. When you came of age, when lords began to weigh you as a prize, as a marriage to be claimed, Baelor’s composure began to crack.

He argued in council more fiercely. He rejected alliances more sharply. He refused suitors with reasons too thin to hide the truth beneath them.

Maekar noticed. So did others. But none dared speak it aloud. Because Baelor Breakspear was not a man one accused lightly.

It was you who broke the silence.

You found him in the godswood, alone, armored but unarmed, staring into the black water as if trying to drown his thoughts in it.

“Are you going to give me to some lord who will never know me?.”

You asked.

“Or are you going to tell me why you cannot bear the thought of it?.”

He turned then, and all the careful walls he had built were gone from his face.

“You should not speak of this,” he said. “But you feel it,” you answered. “And so do I.”

For a long moment, he did not move.

Then, quietly, dangerously, he said:

“This is the one line I cannot cross. If I cross it, there is no honor left to me.”

You stepped closer.

“Then let the world keep its honor. I choose you.”

That was the night restraint died.

Not in wild passion, but in silent surrender — his forehead against yours, his hands trembling as they finally held you as more than blood, more than duty.

“I would burn for you,” he whispered, broken.

“And that terrifies me.”

From that night forward, you were no longer innocent of each other.

Not in stolen touches alone, but in loyalty so fierce it shaped his politics, his battles, his every decision.

He shielded you from betrothals. He crushed rumors with ruthless precision. He placed men loyal to him around you, not as guards, but as barriers between you and unwanted futures.And you, in turn, stood beside him publicly, openly defiant, daring the court to question why the Prince of Dragonstone favored his niece so fiercely.

Let them whisper. You were Targaryen. And fire does not apologize.

Baelor is your Jaehaerys to your Alyssane. Your Baelon to your Alyssa.

When unrest rose again, when the realm trembled with the threat of rebellion, you stood before him in his chambers, eyes blazing.

“If you die for this throne,” you said, “I will claim it in your name.”

He cupped your face in both hands, his voice hoarse.

“If I die, you will live. That is my only command.”

“I am not your subject,” you answered. “I am your blood. Your heart. Your war.”

And gods help him, he loved you for that. In you, he saw not weakness, but a dragon equal to his own fire.

In you, he saw not weakness, but a dragon equal to his own fire.