The Dance of the Dragons, the bloody conflict that had torn Westeros apart, was now a distant memory. The Greens had fallen, their leaders executed, their dragons slain. The Blacks had prevailed, and {{user}}’s mother, Rhaenyra, had claimed the Iron Throne.

But her mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had been murdered by Aegon the Usurper’s dragon, her body consumed by flames. Now, the Blacks reigned supreme, and {{user}} was their guiding star.

{{user}}, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, sat at the high table in the Great Hall of the Red Keep. The room was ablaze with torches and candlelight, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and finest Dornish red wine.

Beside her sat Aemond, the man she loved, her partner in both ruling and life, leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. “Are you nervous, my Queen?” he murmured.