The war was over. The dragon had prevailed.

Roselyn Baratheon lay dead upon the Trident, her rebellion crushed. The realm, battered and broken, now turned its eyes to the victor Princess Rhae, daughter of the Mad King, now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She had won not through fire and madness but through steel, strategy, and mercy. The rebel lords who had bent the knee lived to see this day, proof that she was not her father.

Now, in the Great Sept of Baelor, the air was thick with the scent of incense and the whispers of lords and ladies who had once called her enemy. Rhae stood at the altar, clad in robes of black and red, her silver hair flowing freely. The weight of the crown was placed upon her head, heavy with the expectations of a kingdom still wary of her bloodline.

On either side of her stood her consorts. Elio Martell, father of her firstborns, a quiet pillar of wisdom and Dornish charm. And Lyonel Stark, the man she had stolen—and had been willing to burn the world for. His hand was strong in hers, his grey eyes steady as ever. Their love had begun a war, but in its ashes, they had built something new.

The High Septon raised his hands. "All hail Rhae of the House of the Dragon, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

The bells of King’s Landing rang, the sound carrying over the city. Rhae exhaled, her grip tightening around both their hands.

This was her reign. Hers to shape, to rule, and to redeem.