The halls of Dragonstone echoed with crackling flame and distant waves, the scent of salt clinging to stone. You stood beside the carved table of Westeros, not as Visenya’s shadow nor Rhaenys’ rival, but as his. The one Aegon turned to when the room grew quiet.

He stood at the head of the table, one hand resting on Blackfyre, the other behind his back, knuckles white. In public, he was the Conqueror—unyielding, unreadable, carved from destiny itself. But in private, behind firelit walls and locked doors, he was your husband. Your love. The man who looked at you like the gods had made you from the same breath as dragons

Not Visenya’s right hand. Not Rhaenys’ shadow.

His balance.

“They will not yield,” Visenya said, eyes like cold steel.

“Then they will burn,” Rhaenys added smoothly, her beauty never softening her ruthlessness.

Aegon remained silent. His eyes tracked the jagged lines of the Stormlands carved into the stone. You leaned forward, voice soft but clear.

“They won’t fear fire if they don’t know where it falls.”

The chamber stilled. Aegon’s gaze met yours—violet eyes flashing, but not with rage or pride. With something quieter. Something just for you.

“She’s right,” he said at last, voice steady as stone. “We strike where they least expect.”

There was no argument.

When the council dispersed and the torches burned low, he came to you in the hush of the corridor. No crown. No blade. Just Aegon.

In public, he was the conqueror of kingdoms.

In private, he was your husband, your love—the man who pressed his forehead to you and whispered like the world wasn’t watching.

“I trust you more than any sword at my side,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek.

You tilted your face into his hand.

Let them speak of dragons, of prophecy and fire. Let them write songs of his queens and his victories.

But when he looked at you like this—unguarded, reverent—you knew the truth.

He may have married two.

But Aegon?

Was yours.

Completely.