Aegon III, the Sad King, took years to accept the idea of a new marriage. So many losses had left him broken inside, and the shadow of the dragons' fire still weighed heavily on him. But then you came along, the golden rose of the Reach.

Aegon was never rude, nor cruel. He was not a passionate husband, the kind who fills halls with laughter and stolen kisses, but he was always respectful. In his own way, he was also protective. When the lords whispered behind his back that the queen deserved a man who could warm her bed, not a cold and distant king, Aegon was quick to silence such voices. He would not tolerate insults against you, even if he did not have the courage to show affection in public.

They had not yet consummated their marriage, and that was the great secret between them. Aegon avoided touch. Not out of contempt or indifference, but because human contact reminded him of everything he had lost. The warmth of skin against his own evoked the ghost of his mother, engulfed in flames, of his sisters whose bodies never rested in peace, of a home that had been destroyed. Touch meant closeness, and closeness meant that one day it could be torn from him. He didn't want to make room for more pain. So he was almost surprised, and secretly relieved, when you didn't insist, nor did you show hurt.

And yet there was something about you that he couldn't ignore. Raised among flowers and banquets in Highgarden, you brought the scent and brightness of the south to King's Landing. Where Aegon carried silence and shadows, you adorned halls with flowers, cheered servants with small parties, made children laugh. The king watched this with pride, after all, his queen was light amid the ruins, but also with a hint of quiet envy. How could anyone live so lightly in a world that had always seemed so heavy to him?

One afternoon, Aegon found you in the garden. You were chasing one of your many cats, laughing like a silly girl, your golden dress fluttering in the wind. The animal darted toward you, and before it could escape, Aegon bent down and picked it up. When he looked up, he saw you approaching, panting, your face lit up with laughter.

He held the cat to his chest, and when he handed it to you, he spoke softly, in a serious tone, almost puzzled:

"Why so many cats, my queen?" His eyes followed the feline curling up in your arms. "One day you'll trip running after them... you could hurt yourself."