297 AC
The towering gates of Meereen creaked open as Ancalagon landed with a thunderous roar, sending ripples of awe and fear through the gathered crowd. The city's streets were lined with citizens—some bowing, others staring in wide-eyed wonder at the dragonlord and the silver-haired woman beside him. The banners of House Targaryen fluttered in the breeze, their red dragons vivid against the black cloth, a symbol of the power that now ruled Slaver's Bay.
At the palace steps stood Missandei, her posture as graceful as ever, though her eyes held a spark of curiosity as they settled on Daenerys. She had received Aemon's raven days before, informing her of the arrival of the last living Targaryen princess and the impending wedding. Still, seeing Daenerys in person—the young woman who had been the sister of Viserys, the dragonlord's blood—brought a flutter of emotion to her chest.
Aemon dismounted first, his dark eyes scanning the crowd before locking onto Missandei. He gave her a slight nod—an unspoken acknowledgment of trust and loyalty—before turning to help Daenerys down from Ancalagon. Daenerys hesitated for a moment, her fingers tightening around the dragon's scales before she allowed Aemon to guide her down. Her violet eyes met Missandei's briefly, and for a fleeting moment, an understanding passed between them. But Daenerys quickly lowered her gaze, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. Everything felt overwhelming—the crowd, the palace, and most of all, the man beside her.
"Welcome home, my lord," Missandei said, her voice soft yet strong. She turned to Daenerys, inclining her head with respect. "And welcome, Princess Daenerys. We have prepared for your arrival."
Daenerys offered a small, polite smile, but her eyes flickered to the ground, and her grip on Aemon's arm tightened. She was still adjusting to her new role, the weight of expectation pressing heavily on her shoulders. The warmth in Missandei's tone eased some of her tension, but her heart still raced.
Aemon's voice was calm but firm. "Prepare the palace for our wedding. I want it in the Valyrian style."
Missandei nodded, her mind already racing with the details of the ancient customs she had studied in the tomes Aemon had collected since his rise to power. "It will be done, my lord."
Daenerys's heart fluttered at his words—our wedding. She had known it was coming, but hearing it aloud made it feel real in a way it hadn't before. She stole a glance at Aemon, her cheeks warming as she wondered if he could sense her nervousness.
Preparations for the Wedding
The palace buzzed with activity as Missandei oversaw every detail of the preparations. The grand hall was draped in rich tapestries depicting the history of Old Valyria: dragons soaring over the Freehold, the Doom that shattered it, and the rise of House Targaryen on Dragonstone. The air was filled with the scent of exotic flowers imported from the distant corners of Essos, mingling with the faint, ever-present aroma of dragonfire.
Missandei directed the servants with quiet efficiency, her thoughts occasionally drifting to Aemon and Daenerys. She knew what this wedding meant—not just for the realm, but for her personally. She had been Aemon's confidante, his adviser, and more. Now, Daenerys would share that space beside him.
In the private quarters, Daenerys sat before a polished bronze mirror, her gown a shimmering masterpiece of black and red silk, embroidered with the three-headed dragon of her house. Her hair was braided in the Valyrian tradition, interwoven with tiny dragon-shaped ornaments that glinted in the candlelight. Despite the grandeur, Daenerys couldn't shake the flutter of anxiety in her chest.
When Missandei entered the room to check on the final arrangements, Daenerys turned, her violet eyes wide and uncertain. "You've done a beautiful job," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Missandei inclined her head. "It is my honor, princess."
Daenerys hesitated, then asked, her voice quieter still, "Does he… does he expect much from me?"
Missandei met her gaze, her expression softening. "He expects loyalty and trust, Daenerys. The rest will come in time."
Daenerys nodded slowly, though her heart still raced. She was stepping into a role she hadn't chosen, and though she trusted Aemon, the weight of it all felt immense.
The Valyrian Wedding
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of crimson and gold, the grand hall of Meereen filled with the high-born and powerful of Slaver's Bay. The flickering light of hundreds of torches danced on the walls, casting shadows that seemed to bring the ancient Valyrian tapestries to life.
At the center of the hall stood Aemon, his black and red robes echoing the colors of his house. His sword, a Valyrian steel blade, rested at his side, a symbol of his strength and legacy. His eyes, however, were fixed on the entrance where Daenerys would soon appear.
When she did, a hush fell over the crowd. Daenerys walked with measured grace, though her steps were tentative, her gaze flickering nervously across the assembled faces. Her gown trailed behind her like a river of molten fire, but she felt every eye on her, the weight of expectation pressing down.
Her violet eyes met Aemon's, and for a brief moment, the room seemed to fade. His steady gaze anchored her, and she drew strength from the quiet confidence in his eyes. Still, her heart pounded as she approached.
The ceremony was conducted in High Valyrian, an ancient tongue that resonated with power and history. Missandei, fluent in the language, recited the vows with a steady voice, though she couldn't help but glance at Daenerys, noting the slight tremble in her hands.
Aemon and Daenerys clasped hands, their fingers intertwining as they repeated the sacred words of union. Daenerys's voice wavered slightly at first, but Aemon's gentle squeeze steadied her. As tradition dictated, a single drop of dragon's blood—taken from Ancalagon—was mixed with wine and shared between them, sealing their bond with fire and blood.
When the ceremony concluded, Aemon pulled Daenerys close, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was both a promise and a declaration. Daenerys's heart fluttered wildly, her cheeks flushing as the hall erupted in cheers. She felt the warmth of his touch, the strength of his presence, and though she was still shy and uncertain, she knew she was no longer alone.
A New Beginning
That night, as the celebrations continued into the early hours, Aemon and Daenerys stood on the balcony of their chambers, looking out over the city they now ruled together. The dragons' roars echoed in the distance, a reminder of the power they wielded.
Daenerys leaned into Aemon's side, her head resting against his shoulder. "Do you think they'll fear us?" she asked quietly, her voice still tinged with uncertainty.
Aemon's arm tightened around her. "They will. But more importantly, they will respect us."
Daenerys nodded slowly, a small, hesitant smile playing on her lips. "Then let them come."
Together, they gazed into the night, their hearts beating as one. They were the blood of the dragon, and their reign was only just beginning.