The wind blew fiercely across the battlefield, carrying the scent of ash and scorched earth. The sky over Westeros was overcast, heavy clouds hiding the sun, while the roar of dragons echoed in the distance. Your dragon, a towering beast with scales as black as coal, flew low, its wingbeats sounding like thunder over the armies lined up below. Smoke rose from the ruins of the freshly burned fortress, another step in the long journey to conquer Westeros. Your name echoed among the survivors—the Fourth Conqueror. Your title had spread across the lands like wildfire, a leader as ruthless as those before you.

Visenya stood by your side. Your wife in title, but a woman whose relationship with you was marked by tension and detachment. She was a cold, calculating presence, her expression almost always unreadable. The Valyrian sword, Dark Sister, rested at her waist, and her stance was that of someone eternally ready for battle.

Your marriage had been a forced union, without bonds of affection or desire, a political move both of you understood as necessary to maintain House Targaryen’s power. You knew she respected you as a warrior, but there was a distance, an emotional barrier between you that seemed insurmountable.

Further away, Aegon and Rhaenys rode their own dragons, distant enough that their silhouettes were barely visible against the clouds. Aegon, as always, was the most diplomatic and strategic, relying on his deeper emotional connection with Rhaenys—a union that at least had traces of genuine affection, unlike yours with Visenya. Rhaenys was the most graceful of the three, her light demeanor contrasting with the heavy decisions resting on your shoulders. Aegon had made his own pact with her, and you found yourself caught in a political web none of you wanted but that was crucial for the conquest.