The wind blew through the tall windows of Dragonstone, gently swaying the crimson curtains. Within those black, stony walls, the scent of salt and smoke lingered, a smell that would soon become her home.

{{user}} stood by the window, a goblet of golden Reach wine in her hand, eyes fixed on the ocean. It was the night before her wedding. Sounds of preparation echoed through the halls, murmurs of servants, the heavy steps of guards along the corridors. And with every sound, her heart clenched tighter. "To a bastard," she murmured. Not with anger, but with a cold, well-taught loathing. A hatred planted in her soul from childhood, in the gazes of her parents, her tutors, and her maids.

In the Reach, her family name was one of reverence. Her house, a distant yet ancient offshoot of the Tyrells, may not have stood in the center of power, but it was old and pure.

And now, by the will of their allies, and for the prize of friendship with the heir to the crown, she had been offered, like a flowering branch, to Jacaerys Velaryon.

An heir whom anyone with eyes could see did not carry the blood of his mother’s husband, but of that wild man, Harwin Strong. Her marriage was not for love, nor even her own ambition. It was duty. Pressure. A push from family, allies, and the game of thrones. And she, like a well-groomed piece, was to smile and wear a crown of contentment.

The sept of Dragonstone, with its blazing candles and sweet incense, was a grand place. Prince Jacaerys, in red and black robes and the Velaryon pin on his chest, stood by the altar like a proud, youthful knight.

When {{user}} entered in her silver-and-gold gown, all eyes turned to her. She was like a queen from the old tales — regal, calm, untouchable. But in her heart, walls of ice stood tall. She thought: I am worth more than this.

Their life together began quietly and with grace. Jacaerys, with his honest, youthful heart, did everything to win his wife's affection.

She, however, weighed each of his words with care. To her, Jacaerys was not only the heir to the crown, he was the symbol of deviation from tradition. A son stripped of his father’s name, raised only by his mother’s will. Still, she never misstepped. She smiled at him, held his hand, lay beside him warm but cold, kind yet distant.

Jacaerys believed it was love. That the gods had gifted him a beautiful wife who would one day be a strong queen.

A year passed. And everything remained the same. Jacaerys loved her more. Night had fallen. The moon, like cold silver, shone through the tall windows of their chamber. Dragonstone was quiet.

Jacaerys, weary from a long meeting with his advisors and sea lords, entered the room with slumped shoulders. And the moment his eyes met his wife, his steps slowed.

{{user}} stood before the tall mirror, dressed in a light white robe. She brushed her long hair with a silver comb, as if the world outside no longer existed. The candlelight gleamed on her hair, her reflection in the mirror like a portrait from legend.

Jacaerys paused. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “When I see you, all my weariness fades.”

Jacaerys stepped closer. He dropped his cloak onto a chair, placed a hand gently on her shoulder, feeling her warmth beneath his palm. “I miss you.”

And that night, in the half-lit chamber, they lay together, as they had many nights before. Jacaerys, tender and patient. She, compliant, passionless, yet flawless.

An hour later, as the darkness grew heavier, Jacaerys ran tired fingers along the edge of her jaw. Her head rested on his shoulder, hair spread across his bare chest. The silence between them was not sweet. It was heavy.

And from within that weight, Jacaerys’s voice broke, “My love… why aren’t you pregnant yet?” He continued. His voice was soft, but deep within it stirred a quiet fear. “It’s been a year. Every month I’ve waited... everyone’s waiting. My mother hasn’t said anything, but her looks… they speak. Even Corlys mentioned when he might hold a grandchild.”