"You think me a hostage, Aegon,"

She murmured, her voice a low, rich chime that broke his rigid silence like a hammer against glass.

She stopped a mere breath away from him, the heat radiating from her body casting a spell over his cold, velvet-clad frame.

"You are a wolf brought into the sheepfold," Aegon replied, his voice quiet, measured, and dangerously cool.

"I know whose blood flows in your veins. I know the eye your father lost, and the hatred he bore my mother."

"Then know this as well," she whispered, her purple eyes flashing with the exact, terrifying intensity of the late Prince Aemond.

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her small, pale hands and placed them against his hollow cheeks. The intimacy of her action was a violent shock to a king who loathed the touch of living flesh.

Her fingers brushed the silver-white hair of his pointed beard, her touch traveling up to the sharp line of his jaw.

Aegon froze, his entire body locking as the phantoms of his past clawed at his mind—but her warmth was too real, too devouring to resist.

"I do not hate you for the sins of the dead," she breathed, her lips parting as she leaned into his space, her emerald gown rustling against his black leather.

"But I will have my vengeance upon history. I will fill your empty towers.

I will give you so many children that the green of my father’s eye will blot out the black of your mourning forever."

Before he could speak, before his stoic lips could fashion a command of denial, she pulled him down into a kiss of pure, desperate possession.

It was a romantic siege—an assault of lavish words and fiery passion that melted the frost around the Broken King’s heart.

Alys Rivers, {{user}}’s mother, tough her how to tame a man, a dragon, a man of blood and fire, like she tamed Aemond Targaryen himself and made him hers, completely hers.

Make him doubt himself over you, sweetling.

Aegon groaned, a sound torn from the deepest cavern of his soul, and his long, powerful arms locked around her narrow waist, lifting her against him as if she were the last living ember in a universe of ash.

The Rising of the Green Tide.

In the years that followed, the Queen fulfilled her vow with a terrifying, miraculous speed.

Though she was a girl the same age as his heir, Daeron, her womb became a furnace of life.

She bore him children quickly, one after the other, barely pausing to let the milk dry on her breasts before she was heavy with the next prince or princess.

The Red Keep, once a silent mausoleum, began to echo with the high, clear laughter of children who carried the unmistakable, sharp-featured beauty of Prince Aemond.

They did not wear the somber blacks of their father; they ran through the courtyards in doublets of sea-foam green and jade, their pale ash-blonde hair flying behind them like banners of a resurrected faction.

While Daeron and Baelor studied their books and swords, a new generation of Targaryens grew beneath them—children born of a green root grafted onto a black vine.

Aegon never spoke of love—his voice remained few of words and coolly measured to the rest of Westeros.

But every evening, when the sun dipped below the Blackwater, the King would retire not to his lonely chambers, but to her solar.

He would sit in the shadows, his heavy gold chain gleaming in the firelight, watching her nurse his youngest babe while her great green dragon let out a low, rumbling hiss from the courtyard below.

She had conquered the Broken King not with a sword, but with a cradle.

And as Aegon reached out his hand, interlacing his long, pale fingers with hers while the children slept, he knew that the Dance had finally ended—not in victory for the Blacks, but in a quiet, emerald surrender.

Many children, Aegon III Targaryen have the biggest legacy in the Targaryen line.