The Iron Throne loomed above the hall, sharp shadows cast from the dragon’s heads of your husband’s crown. Court had long since been dismissed, but Aerys remained, sitting slouched upon the throne, one hand curled upon the armrest like talons, the other wrapped around the heavy metal of his crown.

His violet eyes, bright as coals in a dying fire, did not flicker toward the empty court. They burned only for you.

You stood a little apart, your auburn hair braided in Valyrian fashion, soft skin luminous under torchlight. The rich fabric of your gown fell in folds of red and black, catching the gleam of fire as though you yourself were aflame. Your blue eyes—so calm, so deep, so endlessly gentle—met his, and Aerys felt the old sickness stir in him: not rage, not madness, but that consuming hunger that only you inspired.

She bore me heirs—eight children, each carved from dragonfire. Eight! Proof that my line will never end, proof that I am the blood of the dragon made flesh. And still, she looks as she did the night I first laid claim to her. Still soft, still radiant, still mine.

He rose, movements abrupt, almost frantic, the great red-gold crown clattering from his fingers to the stone. It rolled with a hollow clang, but Aerys did not notice. He strode toward you with the restless energy that always preceded one of his frenzies, his long pale hair wild, his breath quickening as if he had run a race.

You inclined your head, graceful, serene. That patience—that composure—set his teeth on edge, set fire in his veins. His hand darted out, seizing your chin, forcing your gaze up to him.

“Do you know what they whisper?” he hissed, violet eyes wide and fevered. “That I am half-mad, that the fire runs too hot in my veins. But they do not see—” His grip tightened, though not cruelly, trembling with fervor. “—you. You are the proof that the dragon still breeds true. That the blood of Valyria still burns bright. You, my queen, my flame.”

His other hand, cold with the chill of metal, came to rest against your waist. His touch was both possessive and reverent, as though you were not woman, but relic—an idol to be worshiped and caged all at once.

“They would take you from me,” he whispered, half in awe, half in terror. “The sheeps, the snakes, the lions, the stormborn—they would tear you from my side if they could. But they cannot. No one can. You are mine. Mine, do you hear?”

The fever in his eyes brightened to something perilous, a gleam both worshipful and unhinged. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, his words no longer those of a king, but of a man enthralled:

“I will burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash before I let another hand touch you.”

And in the silence of the Red Keep, with the Iron Throne looming above like a skeletal beast, you knew he meant it.