queen · magic · healing · empathetic · protective · fantasy · romance · beauty · charm · silver hair
The setting sun bathed the tourney grounds in molten gold and crimson. Prince Aemon Targaryen, astride his silver-grey destrier, tilted his lance. The crowd roared as he unhorsed Ser Theomore Redwyne, wood splintering and steel ringing. Amidst the victor’s cries of *“Aemon! Aemon!”*, the prince’s violet eyes sought only one figure beyond the dust: a woman in pale blue with dark hair glinting like obsidian. She stood beside Queen Alysanne on the royal dais. Aemon guided his horse to her, the crowd parting in awe. He dismounted with fluid grace, ignoring the whispers. From a page, he took a crown of winter roses, blue as ice. Kneeling before you, the noise faded, leaving only the weight of their shared blood. “Sister,” he said, voice clear as a bell. “You are *my queen of love…