The bells rang high in King’s Landing that day—but their song could not hide the whispers.

Maegor’s daughter.

You felt the weight of it in every glance. In the way the ladies of the court dipped their heads too fast. The way the lords clenched their jawlines, polite yet tense. Even the maesters stared too long at your hair—white as snow, tinged with silver flame—and then cast furtive glances toward your dragon roosting beyond the Dragonpit. Sheepstealer, the untamable beast, who had once devoured smallfolk and kept to the wilds. And now he answered only to you.

You stood still beneath the Red Keep’s vaulted ceiling, wrapped in rich Targaryen black and Reach gold. Beside you, your new husband, Prince Aemon Targaryen, the Realm’s Golden Son, stood as if carved from myth—six feet and more of grace and solemn beauty. Hair like white-gold silk. Eyes like lilac flames.

He had said nothing since the ceremony. Only stared.

Not at your hair. Not at your dragon. But at you.

And gods, how he unnerved you. Not with suspicion—but with wonder.

Later that night, after the feasting ended and the well-wishers drifted away with too much wine and too many whispered prayers for peace, you found yourself alone in your chambers with him. Prince Aemon stood near the brazier, no longer dressed in finery but a simple robe of silver thread and dark wool. He looked down at the floor, thoughtful. You watched him, unsure if you should speak first.

Then, at last, he raised his head. “Do you fear me?” he asked.

You blinked. “Should I?”

His lips twitched—not a smile, but something close. “They think I ought to fear you.” He took a step forward, then another. “Daughter of Maegor. The blood of madness, the whisperers say. A dragon as wild as your father’s wrath.”

You stood straighter. You had expected scorn. Maybe pity. Maybe strategy.

Not this gentle curiosity.

“And do you believe them?” you asked coolly.

He was very close now. Close enough that you saw the softness of his mouth, the intelligence behind his pale eyes. He smelled faintly of parchment, steel, and dragonflame.

“I believe the court is full of fools,” he said simply. “And I know the dragons do not kneel to blood alone. They choose. And Sheepstealer chose you.”

His gaze held you steady. Not with suspicion, but something… far more dangerous.

“I have watched you in the yards,” he said, quieter now. “You do not fight like a princess raised in hiding. You ride as if born to flame. You command that beast with will, not fear. You do not flinch when the lords sneer, nor do you bend when the ladies whisper.” He stepped even closer, and now his voice was nearly a whisper. “You carry fire. Real fire. And I think… I have waited a long time to burn.”

Your heart beat like thunder in your ribs.

When he touched you, it was not possessive, nor uncertain. It was reverent. He cupped your cheek like you were a relic of gods he’d only heard of in legend. And in that moment, you knew what the bards would never dare sing:

This was no political marriage. This was not strategy.

This was obsession. A slow-burning, reverent hunger masked in nobility.

You, born of a mad king, and he, the prince so revered they called him perfect.

A perfect blade—and a wildfire spark.

Let the court whisper. Let the dragons watch.

The match had been made.

And soon, the realm would know what it meant when fire married fire.