The stone chambers of Dragonstone were cold even in summer.

The sea winds wailed against the narrow window slits like mourning ghosts, and the shadows cast by the torchlight danced with the menace of dragons. You sat on the edge of the massive bed carved from volcanic black stone, wrists shackled with cold iron that clinked every time you shifted. The scent of smoke and salt filled your lungs. The air felt heavy.

The chamber door creaked open.

Aegon Targaryen—Aegon the Conqueror, the Dragonlord, the King of the Seven Kingdoms—stepped in.

The flickering firelight illuminated his figure first: tall, broad, a silhouette wrought of battle and bitterness. His armor still clung to him in pieces—black scales like a serpent’s hide, smeared faintly with ash and blood. His eyes, those impossible Valyrian amethyst eyes, locked onto you with a cold intensity that made your pulse stutter.

You straightened unconsciously, trying to suppress the trembling in your spine.

He said nothing at first, merely studied you as one might a newly acquired weapon—precious, sharp-edged, and dangerous. You had not wept the day he dragged you from Dorne, had not screamed when he forced the marriage. But you had spat on the floor when he brought you into this very chamber and shackled you like a beast.

That had made his jaw tighten.

Tonight, though, something else burned in his gaze. A grief that refused to die. The grief of Rhaenys.

“I should have burned Sunspear to the ground,” he said at last, voice low, hard. “But I wanted you alive. To remember.”

You lifted your chin despite the ache in your arms. “And now that you have me? What then, Dragonlord? Will your dead queen rise from the ashes?”

His expression did not change, but something stormy flickered across his face. He approached slowly, each step deliberate.

“You are not her,” he said, stopping before you. “You are not Rhaenys. You never will be. She laughed like fire and danced like the wind. And you…” His eyes swept over you. “You glare like the sun.”

You refused to flinch. “Then unshackle me, and see how well the sun burns.”

Aegon stared at you for a long moment. Then he crouched down, his face now level with yours. Up close, you could see the strain lining his face—the fury in the tight line of his mouth, but also the exhaustion in his eyes. His crown of Valyrian steel and rubies still sat on his head like a curse.

“I did not want this,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted justice. I wanted her. But justice is ash in my mouth, and she is gone.”

A silence hung between you. You could hear the waves crashing against the rocks far below, the muffled roar of Balerion echoing from the cliffs.

“And what am I to you?” you asked, voice soft but steel-edged. “A ghost to haunt you? A puppet to wear her crown? You think chaining me will fill the void she left?”

Aegon’s face darkened.

“No,” he said coldly. “You are my punishment. And my vengeance.”