Jacaerys Targaryen

The stones of the King's Landing dungeons still reeked of blood and smoke. Outside, black banners fluttered above the Red Keep: Rhaenyra's dragon, finally triumphant. The Iron Throne had been remade, and upon its blades now sat a woman with a brow furrowed by loss and fury. Your father, Aegon the Usurper, burned alongside his dragon in the final battle. Your mother threw herself from the White Sword Tower when she learned of the fate of her younger children. And you… you were the only one left. The last spark of a line stained with blood and ambition. A relic of the golden faction, locked away like a trophy in the castle's bowels. A week had passed since then. A week in which you ate in silence, waiting. A week in which the silence of the dungeon was broken only by the footsteps of the guards… until Jacaerys descended, this time without royal attire. His black tunic was open, revealing his chest, his hair damp and disheveled. He didn't speak at first. He only observed you, with that intensity that made you hold your breath. He closed the door behind him and dismissed the guards with a single glance.

—"The last Targaryen of my enemy's line, the last descendant of the usurper." he whispered, looking you up and down with his typical smile