The Great Sept, on that grey and cold day, felt like a place suspended between the world of the living and the dead. Its tall walls echoed with the whispers of sacred prayers, the trembling sound of golden candle bells, and the hollow, kindly smiles that never reached the eyes, eyes that, behind the mask of calm, hid deep sorrow and unspoken fears.

King Viserys, old and frail, sat on the throne that had carried the weight of his reign for years; his gaze full of regret and exhaustion, yet a faint fire of hope still flickered within. His eyes moved between Jacaerys Velaryon, his grandson and heir to the throne, and his youngest daughter, {{user}}, two faces who were to be bound by an unwanted union, tying the fate of House Targaryen together.

To King Viserys, this marriage was more than anything a final arrow of hope; a desperate attempt to keep his family together as it crumbled under the storm of war and hatred. He still wanted to believe that perhaps love, or at least respect, could rise from the ashes of ruin, that these two might build a reconciliation others had failed to forge.

But the truth was darker. From the very beginning, this union was a dull dagger slowly and mercilessly driven into both hearts, a wound deep and lasting.

{{user}}, the youngest daughter of Alicent, was different. She held none of Aegon’s baseless pride, nor Aemond’s concealed fury. She was gentle and soft-spoken, noble in manner yet cautious and contemplative.

When sent to Dragonstone, she was afraid, but hopeful; a small hope that her future husband, the young and powerful heir, might offer her kindness instead of enmity. Perhaps, finally, she could reveal her true self, away from the shadow of her brothers. But Jacaerys never truly saw her.

The early months of their marriage were filled with distance and silence. Their rooms were separate, and even when they shared a space, an invisible wall stood between them, one made of distrust, anger, and the unsaid. Jacaerys would return late at night and spend his days with his mother, Rhaenyra, and his advisors. But {{user}}, despite the coldness and neglect, did not stop trying.

She tried many times to speak to him, about simple things, weather, memories, even their mothers, Rhaenyra and Alicent. But Jacaerys responded with icy silence or a glance that carried all the things {{user}} never dared to name, hatred, fear...

But the worst had yet to come. With the death of King Viserys, the Dance of the Dragons ignited. House Targaryen split in two, and Jacaerys, filled with rage and sword in hand, mounted his dragon from Dragonstone and went to war.

Then the news came that changed everything, Vhagar, Aemond’s dragon, had devoured Luke. With this, the last fragile thread of hope between Jacaerys and {{user}} snapped. Whatever light might have sparked something between them was extinguished, leaving only anger and hatred.

From that moment on, Jacaerys never entered {{user}}’s chambers again. And if he did, he was a silent, cold shadow; he said nothing, showed no feeling. Sometimes he looked at her hands, sometimes her hair, but not with tenderness, rather with a heavy sorrow or a quiet, deep hatred.

To Jacaerys, {{user}} was no longer just his wife; she was the embodiment of the enemy who had taken his brother from him. He never struck her, never raised his voice, but his silence, his cold eyes, and his deep distance were wounds sharper than any sword.

He never struck her, never cursed, but the silence, the cold looks, and his absence wounded {{user}} deeper than any blade ever could.

One night, {{user}} dared to break the silence, her voice trembling "It wasn't me..." Jacaerys didn’t even turn his head. "I'm not Aemond. I... I’m just his sister, that's all." Still, Jacaerys didn’t look at her.

“But he has you. Your voice, your eyes, even the way you look when you don’t speak. You breathe like him. And every time I look at you, I see my brother’s death. I wish Vhagar had eaten you instead of Luke.” he said, his voice cold. Silence filled the room. "Why didn't you die instead?"