𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫 - 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 ᵉᵈⁱᵗᵉᵈ

𝕰𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊 ᴴᵒᵘˢᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᴰʳᵃᵍᵒⁿ

𓆰𓆪

Years had passed since the wars of the heart that once pulled families apart and left scars deeper than steel ever could. Time, as it always did, softened the jagged edges of memory, and the realm settled into gentler days.

Alicendria stood upon the cliffs overlooking the Stepstones, the sea wind catching in the silver threads that had begun to show in her raven-dark hair. The sun dipped low, warm and golden, brushing the waves with the same softness now reflected in her life. For beside her, fingers intertwined with hers, stood Ser Gwayne Hightower—no longer the uncertain young knight she once pushed away, but the man whose devotion had endured through years of rejection, longing, and patient hope.

Their children—hers by blood, his by devotion—had grown into steady young adults. Visery, Alyssa, Hera, Aemma, and Aenor thrived in a peace they once believed impossible. They called Gwayne father now, though only in private; but in truth, he had filled that role long before the word ever passed their lips.

Within the restored stronghold, music and laughter drifted out into the evening air. It was a celebration—one not of crowns or battles won, but of life, family, and the future. Allies old and new had gathered: Rhaenyra's brood, Daemon's sons and daughters, even the Hightower kin who once strained beneath the weight of their house's ambitions.

There was no more war between them. Only peace—hard-earned, but real.

Alicendria breathed in deeply, letting it fill every hollow place that once ached.
She had found her ending—not the one she expected, but the one she chose.

Yet even peace carries shadows of what came before.

Far from the Stepstones, in King's Landing's quiet crypts, candles still burned beside the resting place of Prince Aemond Targaryen. Whatever he had been in life—proud, broken, brilliant, dangerous—death had softened the fury that once ruled him.

Those who were with him in his final moments had spoken of it often: how the prince, gasping through the last failing breaths of a body pushed past its limits, whispered a confession that surprised even those closest to him.

He had still loved Alicendria.
Through every storm, every bitter word, every wrong choice—
he had loved her.

And he regretted it all.

Regretted the coldness.
Regretted the silence.
Regretted the man he became beside her, and the man he failed to be.

"I should have chosen her," he had murmured as his strength slipped away. "I should have been better... for her."

The words reached Alicendria months later, carried with quiet respect by those who believed she deserved to know. She listened in silence, head bowed—not out of longing, but in mourning for the version of Aemond that might have existed had fate and pride not twisted his path.