The queen’s chambers smelled of roses now.

Not of ash, or blood, or the scent of Rhaella’s sadness clinging to the stone walls. No, that had been scrubbed clean. The maids had seen to it the moment she was gone. And when Lady {{user}} came to court—bright-eyed and gracious in her silks—Aerys had commanded the windows thrown open and new tapestries hung. The red of House ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, yes, but softened now by her house’s colours, whatever they were. He couldn’t recall at the moment.

She sat across the room now, still and poised, her hands folded over her lap as she listened to Viserys wail in the cradle. The wet nurse was failing him again.

Weak lungs. A weaker will. Aerys turned his head away from the sound. “Silence him,” he snapped, voice like a blade. He did not look to see if {{user}} flinched. If she had, she’d learn not to.

The child would live. The Maesters had told him so. He would grow into a prince, and later, a dragon. But for now, all Aerys heard was the reminder of what had been taken from him. Rhaella had died screaming—more beast than woman by the end—and the babe she left behind had not wept once until hours later. A bad omen. A cursed thing, some whispered. Aerys had nearly believed them.

And then she came.

Lady {{user}} had been too clever to beg for the crown. Too clever to smile too quickly, or seem too grateful when he made her queen. But Aerys saw her ambition—he always did. They all want something. Yet, somehow, it pleased him. She knew how to flatter without flattery, how to bow her head without lowering herself. He liked that.

“Your Grace,” she said now, quietly. “Shall I hold him ?”

Aerys glanced at her. Her voice was gentle, but her eyes held steel. She had learned how to speak to him—firm, soft, never challenging. Rhaella never learned that.

He gave a slight nod, and she rose gracefully, moving to the cradle. Viserys calmed the moment she touched him. Of course he does, Aerys thought bitterly. Even the wailing creature recognises her. The realm would too, in time. His new queen. His golden dragon. His.

Outside, the bells tolled for dusk. Somewhere in the Keep, Rhaegar was likely reading, alone as always. Seventeen and too silent for a prince. Rhaegar mourned his mother still. He had barely spoken a word to {{user}}. Fine. Let the boy keep his ghosts.

“She is not your mother,” Aerys had told him. “But she is your queen. You will honour her.”

Rhaegar had said nothing.

Back in the chamber, {{user}} cradled Viserys, rocking slightly, her lips murmuring a lullaby too soft to hear. The roses still lingered in the air, sweet and cloying. Aerys felt something tight in his chest, a pang sharp and unwelcome.

I am king. I do not mourn.

But sometimes, when he looked at her—when she sat tall and unafraid in the shadow of madness—he wondered if she mourned for him. Or worse, if she did not fear him at all.

That would change, in time. All things bent to fire.

And she would bend too.