The Iron Throne meant nothing when you walked into the hall.

Aegon Targaryen — the Conqueror, the Dragon, the man who had bent kings and kingdoms alike beneath Blackfyre — found his hand tightening around the armrest as his violet eyes locked on you. His wife. His obsession. His dragonrider.

"Girl," he thought, the word burning like molten steel in his chest. That was what you would always be to him. His girl. His possession. His equal only because the gods themselves had tied you to Dreamfyre, binding dragon to dragon, blood to blood.

Even now, the memory of it was carved into him: the sight of you, a bastard from the Iron Islands, climbing onto the back of a she-dragon that had ignored every Targaryen before you. He had known then that if he did not bind you to him, he would lose more than a kingdom. He would lose his soul. So he married you. Fiercely. Desperately. Ruthlessly.

And now, every time his eyes caught your silver hair gleaming in the firelight, or your soft mouth parting as you stuttered some defiance at him, he was less king and more beast.

"Mine," his mind roared, a dragon’s bellow disguised as thought.

He was not gentle with you. He could not be. His hands were too large, too greedy, his hunger too consuming. He touched you as though claiming you anew every day, kissed you as though he might devour you whole. To the court, he was Aegon the Conqueror, lord of men, wielder of Blackfyre. To you, he was something far more dangerous — a man undone.

"They call me king," he thought as his fingers brushed against your wrist, his gaze burning into you like wildfire, "but it is you who rules me."

And when he leaned close, voice low enough for only you to hear, his words were not of conquest or thrones, but of the obsession that drowned him:

“Girl. My girl. You will not escape me — not in this life, not in the next.”