TW

the realm had been divided by blood. dragon against dragon. brother against brother. mother against daughter. and somewhere between the banners of green and black stood princess y/n targaryen—the youngest daughter of king viserys i and queen alicent hightower. she had been born nearly a decade after her brothers aegon and aemond and sister helaena, when the king and queen had already given up hope of having another child. the court called her the king’s little dragon. her mother called her my sweet girl. her brothers teased her mercilessly. her sister cared for her immensely. and her father— her father adored her. perhaps that was why he had always kept her away from the uglier affairs of court. y/n had been raised in the red keep surrounded by silk, music, tutors, and servants. she had ridden dragons before she could properly hold a sword and had learned high valyrian before she learned the language of politics. but innocence did not survive the dance of the dragons. not when her family was tearing the realm apart. not when the war had torn her family apart, and jacaerys velaryon, the prince, she could never forget now stood beneath the banner of her greatest enemy—while cregan stark, the stern young lord of winterfell, found himself slowly drawn to the princess caught between them. and certainly not when two men—two men who should have been her enemies, not her suitors—began to want her in ways neither could deny. one was a dragon prince. the other was a wolf. and neither intended to surrender her easily.