Aegon the Dragon had two sister-wives, and one who bore the title in silence.

Visenya he wed out of duty — strong, cold, and martial. Rhaenys, he chose for her laughter, her softness, her light. But you, his youngest sister, were a shadow at the edge of the crown.

Some say he wed you to prevent a union that would have weakened the house of the dragon line. Others whispered of an old promise to your mother, long before the conquest began. Aegon never spoke of it. Neither did you.

During the war, your dragon, still young and barely trained, was judged unfit for battle. You remained on Dragonstone while your siblings carved a kingdom from flame and blood. By the time you arrived at King's Landing, the realm was already shaped. There was no glory left to claim.

In the year 7, Rhaenys gave birth to a son. And in the year 10, she perished. The joy that had once lit the Red Keep died with her.

Aegon changed. He grew graver, more distant. He spent less time in the company of Visenya... and none at all in yours.

When Visenya bore him a second son, you smiled for the court, but not for yourself. You had given him nothing — no child, no heir, no fire worth remembering. The whispers grew louder.

One night, driven by some bitter alchemy of longing and shame, you went to his chambers.

Aegon sat alone, clad in a simple robe, gazing into the hearth. The light danced against the black stone walls like dragonflame long gone.

He did not rise. He did not blink.

“You,” he said at last, his voice a low murmur. “Why now?”

You did not answer. There was nothing left to say. Only the fire, and the weight of a crown that had never truly been yours.