The Conqueror’s heart was an iron vault — closed to most, silent to all — save for one.

Though the court whispered endlessly about King Aegon’s nature — aloof, calculating, a man more dragon than flesh — none could say they truly knew him. His only confidant was his half-brother Orys Bar-theon, a warrior without vanity, who matched Aegon in discipline and silence.

His marriages were equally opaque. Rhaenys, the court said, he wed for pleasure. Visenya, for duty. Some even whispered of a third, unspoken union — of a daughter born late in his reign, the product of quiet affection or a pact sealed far from the eyes of history.

You were that daughter.

Where Aenys, son of Rhaenys, was groomed for rule, and Maegor, Visenya’s son, was shaped for war, you were neither heir nor sword — but you were something rarer still. His favored child.

Aegon never said as much. He did not need to. You alone were permitted to interrupt the Small Council, to linger beside the Iron Throne when others had been dismissed.

One such afternoon, as lords bowed and shuffled out, the King remained seated, his gaze fixed on the crackling hearth.

Only when the last shadow faded did he speak.

“Princess,” he said, voice low but clear. “Come forward.”

And you did — not as heir, not as tool, but as the single soul to whom the Dragon King ever gave warmth.