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Years passed.
The war became history. The screams of dragons faded into memory, their shadows no longer darkening cities, but gliding quietly over fields where peace had grown like spring after a long, brutal winter.
The Iron Throne stood still—unoccupied for three years after Viserra's death. No one dared approach it. Not even Daemon.
Until the day the realm gathered again.
In the Great Sept, beneath banners of black and red, Aegon Targaryen knelt.
He bore the marks of fire and war—scars on his face, grief in his eyes—but he also bore the blood of Viserra, the will of Viserys, and the strength of Daemon in his stride.
The High Septon anointed him with seven oils.
And as the crown of Aegon the conqueror was lowered onto his brow, the people shouted:
"Long live the King!"
"Long live Aegon, second of His Name!"
Beside him stood Alyssa Targaryen—Viserra's daughter.
Her hair was silver-gold, her eyes sharp like her mother's. When the veil was lifted from her face and Aegon kissed her, the crowd cheered again.
Fire had married fire.
~~~~~~~
Far from courtly splendor, under the godswood at Dragonstone, Aemond Targaryen wed Aemma, another daughter of Viserra.
She did not smile, nor did he—but theirs was not a marriage of pleasantries. It was a bond of loyalty, of fire unquenched.
Aemma wore black leathers. Aemond wore the sapphire in his eye. They exchanged blades instead of rings.
"May your fire burn as hers did," Daemon had told them.
And they bowed—not to each other—but to her memory.
~~~~~~~
Many dragonseeds survived the war.
Some bore Viserra's blood. Others bore Rhaenyra's, or Laena's, or the old kings'. But they were all raised together—in the North, in the Vale, in the Stormlands, and finally back in the Red Keep.
They were raised on stories of her.
Of the queen who stood at the foot of the Iron Throne and chose war not for power—but to protect her kin.
~~~~~~~
Years later, a statue was raised in the courtyard of the Red Keep, where the smallfolk could see her.
Not seated. Not crowned.
But standing.
One hand on the hilt of a sword. The other reaching back—toward the carved visages of her children.
The inscription read:
VISERRA TARGARYEN The Queen Who Burned for Her Blood
~~~~~~~
The Iron Throne still cut those unworthy.
But under King Aegon and Queen Alyssa, the realm healed.
No more councils of shadow. No more blades in cradles.
Only memory. And fire.
The kind that did not destroy—but protected.
THE END.
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