The Great Sept of Dragonstone was filled with golden candelabras. The scent of incense floated in the air, and the hymns to the Seven resonated through the stone dome. The bride, dressed in silver and red, with a ruby crown upon her brow, slowly walked down the aisle.

All eyes were on her, but her heart was heavy, her mind clouded, and her breaths cold. Her hand was placed in the hand of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, heir of Rhaenyra, heir to the throne, heir to everything... except a rightful name. But inside {{user}}, there was only one thing: hatred.

Hatred of bastardy, hatred of hypocrisy, hatred of the power games that had bound her to marry a boy who had never been a prince in her eyes, only the legacy of an old lie, a lie that a woman had claimed her children belonged to Prince Leonorend, when the whole world knew his real identity as their father.

Yet she smiled. She gently intertwined her fingers with Jace’s, and when she looked into his eyes, she did so with such affection that Jacaerys genuinely believed, "The gods loved me to give me you." He never realized that behind her calm look lay a dagger in its scabbard. Not that day. Not in the days that followed.

Months passed. {{user}} always behaved impeccably. At dinner, whenever Jace returned from council sessions, she was always smiling. Her gowns were simple but refined, her voice soft, her gaze warm, although underneath that warmth was a coldness only she understood the source of. And Jace... had fallen in love.

The atmosphere was heavy and oppressive. A storm was approaching. Jace had been summoned for an important meeting in Rhaenyra’s advisor tower. He left expecting not to return before midnight.

{{user}}, exhausted from a day filled with false smiles and destructive politics, returned to her chamber and replaced her royal gown with a thin cloak. She sat on the bed and, beside the small wine table, lifted a goblet of Dornish wine. The first sip was burning. The second, a bit sweeter. The third? She felt nothing.

"Prince’s wife... what a great honor..." she laughed mockingly. "An honor for whom? For me? Or for those noble houses who only chase power?" The fireplace flames danced on the walls, and {{user}}, her eyes glistening with intoxication, stood and faced the mirror.

At that moment, the door to the chamber opened quietly. Jacaerys stood in the doorway, silent, stunned, still wearing clothes that smelled of rain. His eyes fixed on his wife. What he had heard shattered his heart, yet no sound escaped his lips.

"The wife of a bastard... out of all those princes and nobles, I had to marry him? Someone who doesn’t carry true blood? Everyone in Westeros knows who Jacaerys is. He’s the only one who doesn’t! He actually thinks he’s the rightful heir! It’s laughable. A fatherless bastard for whom a throne was set."

Then he laughed, a loud, bitter laugh. "And I... I have to pretend I love him? I have to smile, touch him, bear his child? For someone I loathe? No, no, no..."

{{user}}, still unaware of his presence, collapsed onto the bed, bottle in hand, and laughed, "Damn this life... damn everything, especially that bastard boy!" Silence suddenly filled the chamber. Jacaerys took a step forward. His voice was quiet, yet held a cold tremor "I’m... a bastard, aren’t I?"