The torches along the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast burned low, their flames wavering against the carved stone like restless spirits. Outside, the rain battered against the windows of the Red Keep, turning the night cold and sharp. Inside the royal chambers, silence lingered heavy between king and queen.

Aegon II Targaryen sat near the hearth with a goblet loose in his hand, though he’d hardly touched the wine. The meeting with the small council had ended poorly. Again.

“An heir would strengthen your claim, Your Grace.”

“As many children as possible.”

“The realm must see stability.”

The words still rang in his skull like a hammer striking steel.

As if his wife were nothing more than a broodmare to be discussed around a table.

His jaw tightened.

Across the room, his queen stood before the tall mirror while your handmaid carefully removed the silver pins from your dark brown hair. The rich Stark coloring stood out harshly in King’s Landing, among all the pale hair and violet eyes of House Targaryen. Beautiful, but dangerous. Court whispered about appearances more than loyalty.

Aegon dismissed the handmaid with a flick of his fingers. The girl bowed quickly and slipped from the chamber, leaving only the crackling fire and the storm.

His wife avoided his eyes as you moved toward the window.

“That look again,” Aegon muttered.

You glanced over your shoulder. “What look?”

“The one where you retreat somewhere I cannot follow.”

Your lips pressed thin. “The council has made their wishes plain enough.”

“The council can choke.”

A faint smile almost appeared on your face, but vanished just as quickly.

Aegon rose from his chair, boots echoing softly across the stone floor. “You think I care what those old men say?”

“I think they care.” Your voice was quiet now. “Enough to poison everything.”

You stared out into the rain. “They speak of heirs as though it is simple. As though children are only useful if they look correct.”

Aegon frowned slightly.

Slowly, you turned to face him fully, hazel eyes uncertain in a way he rarely saw from you.

“What if our son has my hair?” You asked softly. “Or our daughter has my eyes?”

Realization settled over him.

Rhaenyra.

The endless accusations. The whispers. The cruelty. Alicent picking apart children for daring to resemble their mother more than their father.

His wife swallowed hard before continuing. “Your mother hated them for it. Everyone saw it. If our children look like me…” Your voice nearly broke. “What if she convinces you they are not yours?”

For a moment, Aegon simply stared at you.

Then he laughed once — sharp and humorless.

“She thinks I wouldn’t recognize my own wife sharing my bed?” he scoffed. “Gods, is that truly what frightens you?”

“It should frighten me.”

He stepped closer until only inches separated them. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, you did.

“I am not my father,” Aegon said firmly. “And I am not blind.”

His hand lifted to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly across your cheek.

“If our children come out with brown hair, silver hair, purple eyes, or eyes black as coal, they will still be mine.” His voice lowered. “And if anyone dares question them, I’ll have their tongue for it.”

Your expression wavered, caught between relief and emotion you dared not fully show.

Aegon rested his forehead against yours.

“I want children with you,” he admitted quietly, honesty slipping free without wine to drown it first. “Not because the council demands it. Not because the realm expects it.” His fingers intertwined with yours. “Because they would be ours.”

The storm raged outside the castle walls, but for the first time that evening, neither of them seemed to hear it.