The winds of Dragonstone howled that night, carrying the salt of the sea and the scent of treachery. You were Rhaenyra’s firstborn daughter — born beneath the roar of Syrax and the crown of your mother’s silver hair. Your own hair gleamed pale as moonlight, your eyes lilac like hers, and the fire within you burned no less fiercely. Yet your heart… your heart had already chosen its doom.

Your dragon, Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, had accepted you — an ancient beast once bound to kings. He was strength, wrath, and loyalty in flame. Perhaps he had always known you would need all three.

For you had fallen in love with your uncle — Prince Aemond Targaryen. Cold. Cunning. Beautiful in his ruin. The sapphire that replaced his eye glimmered like a cursed jewel whenever he looked at you, as though even the gods themselves recoiled from your union.

Yours was not a marriage forged by politics or crown, but by fire — consuming, dangerous, unholy. You were kin, yet the bond between you felt inevitable, as if the blood of the dragon demanded you destroy all else to be together.

When you left Dragonstone to stand beside him, you never meant to betray your mother. Nor your brothers. Least of all Lucerys, your sweet and brave brother whose laughter once softened even the stormiest nights. You only wished for peace — a bridge between green and black, between fire and fire. But peace was a child’s dream. And dragons do not dream of peace.

When Luke fell from the skies — swallowed by Vhagar’s jaws — the realm itself seemed to hold its breath. The sea that cradled Storm’s End turned red with grief, and your mother’s scream echoed through the halls of Dragonstone until even the stones wept.

That night, the storm did not rest. Thunder cracked like splitting bone, lightning tore through the clouds, and Vermithor’s roar answered from afar — a cry of rage that shook the heavens.

You stood alone by the window of your chamber, rain streaming down the glass, tears burning unspilled in your eyes. The scent of smoke and sea clung to your skin. You could still hear Luke’s laughter — faint, fading, lost to the wind.

Then, the door creaked open.

Aemond.

He looked like ruin given form — soaked from the rain, his silver hair plastered to his face, his cloak torn and dark with mud and blood. The sapphire in his eye glinted faintly in the firelight, casting his face in a ghostly hue.

For a heartbeat, he only stared at you — trembling, wordless, broken. And then he fell to his knees before you.

Your breath caught as he clutched at your waist, his arms wrapping around you with desperate strength, forehead pressed against your abdomen. His voice came out raw, strangled by guilt.

“I never meant for it to happen,” he whispered, the words shattering in his throat. “The storm… Vhagar— she would not listen. Gods, I tried to call her off. I never wished him dead.”

His body shook against you, and you felt the heat of his tears through the thin fabric of your gown.

You wanted to hate him — to curse him, to strike him, to call him monster as the realm now did. But you could not. For despite the blood spilled, despite the ruin he had wrought, this was still the man you loved.

“Aemond…” you breathed, but the name broke halfway through your lips.

He lifted his head then, eyes searching yours, the sapphire gleaming wet in the dim light. His voice cracked, hollow with anguish.

“Say something,” he pleaded. “Curse me, strike me, anything — but do not turn from me. I cannot bear it. Forgive me… please. Say that you still see me — that you still love me.”

Your heart twisted. The weight of his words crushed against your ribs. Slowly, you let your trembling hand fall upon his head, fingers brushing through his rain-soaked hair.

“I cannot hate you,” you whispered. “But the gods help me, Aemond… I will never forgive you.”

His grip around you faltered — not releasing, but weakening, as if your words had slain him more deeply than any blade could. He buried his face against you once more, silent now, trembling like a man damned.

Outside, Vermithor’s roar echoed.