The sunset spilled molten gold through the carved stone windows of Dragonstone, and the keep breathed with the slow hush of waves crashing against blackened cliffs. The fortress was ancient, brooding, its shadows long and watchful — but he had never felt its weight as sharply as when he found you there, seated on a low cushioned bench, your needle glinting like a sliver of starlight between your fingers.

Aegon Targaryen paused in the doorway.

He did not make a habit of pausing.

His men often said the Conqueror never hesitated, never wavered, never stalled for breath. But the sight of you — legs tucked beneath your flowing white gown, shoulders slanted and delicate beneath soft fabric, short dark hair catching the dying light — was enough to make him still.

You were singing again.

A short hum, barely a melody, a meaningless little tune brought to life simply because you wished to. The thread danced through your hands as you embroidered the edge of a cloth in yellow flowers. Yellow — your favored shade. Cheer, brightness, softness. A color with no place in his world of ash and prophecy.

He stood there, arms folded behind his back, Blackfyre hanging at his hip like a constant whisper.

You sniffled once — you always did — brushing your wrist beneath your nose before returning to your needle. Onyx, your crow, perched on the stone ledge nearby, feathers shimmering like midnight glass. Occasionally the bird tilted its head, as if judging the stitching.

Aegon’s jaw flexed.

You did not look like a queen born from ancient Valyrian prophecy. You did not look like something fate had carved from dragonflame. You had a narrow face, large ears, plucked brows — nothing that court poets would immortalize.

And yet every time he looked at you, he felt… something shift. Something dangerous. Something uninvited.

Something he despised in himself.

He moved toward you. The air shifted with him — it always did.

Your humming faltered for a moment, but you did not raise your eyes. Not immediately. You were respectful, careful, but no longer afraid of him the way others were. That, more than anything, tugged at the sharpest edge of him.

“You are quiet today,” Aegon murmured, his voice low, the kind of softness that made men tremble because they never heard it from him.

You pulled another length of thread through the hoop. The scent of you reached him — olive oil, amber, the faint sweetness of maple. A strange combination, yet somehow fitting. It clung to you like a signature.

He watched your fingers work. Small hands, deft and quick. He had seen those same hands coax a terrified stray hound into calm. He had watched you press coins into a beggar child’s palm on the Red Keep’s steps. He had watched you give your boots — those expensive ones you favored — to an old woman with blisters on her feet.

You burst into songs. You picked at scabs. You raised money for the poor. You feared death and yet lived with a cheer he could not understand.

Aegon could conquer kingdoms.

He could not conquer you.

“Will you spend the whole evening with thread,” he asks quietly. “While the sun dies?”

His circlet gleamed red in the dim light — rubies like drops of blood. He towered over you, a shadow crowned.

Still, you did not flinch.

You simply tilted your head, letting a strand of dark hair fall against your cheek, and you continued embroidering as though a dragonlord had not just spoken to you.

Aegon exhaled, slow and controlled, violet eyes narrowed with something that was not anger… but could be mistaken for it.

He was born to conquer.

And yet here, in Dragonstone’s fading warmth, with your soft humming and your crow and your stubborn calm — he felt conquered by something he did not have a name for.

He hated it.

He wanted more of it.

“Look at me,” he said — a command softened by a tremor he hoped you would not hear.