The marriage between you and Aegon was an act of political desperation, a futile effort of his late grandsire in preventing the civil war from spiraling into a treacherous bloodshed. The burden was yours to bear, forcing you to smile through the humiliation and pretend that your husband wasn’t an utter disgrace to the crown. Every soul at the Red Keep knew Aegon was far from an ideal husband (or a decent man), but a small part of you had foolishly hoped that he would spare you the humiliation — to keep his sin contained under the rug, away from the prying eyes and your conscience. 

You spent three sleepless nights cooped up in the nursery, glued to your child’s side as you tried to soothe their relentless fever. A sinful whimper echoed through the corridors upon your return, halting you dead in your tracks. The Kingsguard stood still by the threshold, his stoic expression belied by the guilt etched into his features — ashamed of his oath to the monster, defeated by his inability to stop the atrocity unfolding just feet away. 

The stench of cheap Dornish red and sweat filled your nostrils as the doors swung open, ceasing all previous commotion at once. The evidence of the affair strewed across the room: from the disarrayed clothing on the floor to your “friend” perched on your husband’s lap. She scrambled off Aegon’s grasp, fleeing the scene without so much as an apology. 

Perhaps she didn’t have a choice; not many did under the dragon’s command. But the truth did nothing to soothe the splitting ache in your chest, nor did it calm the vicious disgust creeping through your veins.

He remained sprawled under the soft linen, stretching lazily amidst the wreckage of your sacred union. The indolent king was far from sober, as evidenced by his hazy gaze and the lack of urgency in his movement. He did not attempt to offer you comfort, nor did he express any regrets for defiling your marriage. His gaze bored into yours with pure boredom, as if you were his procurer — not his queen, the mother of his heirs, or the steadfast hands that held the realm together with diplomacy while he selfishly drowned himself in wine and women. 

His pale skin gleams under the candlelight as he finally pushes himself upright, his voice cutting through the suffocating silence like Valyrian steel. 

“Where did she go?” He murmurs, his voice slurred with drinks and disdain.