People say fate is a grand web woven by the gods. If that’s true, then the gods were definitely drunk when they decided to tie me to you, {{user}} Stark.

I was fifteen when Father suddenly decided: “Aegon needs a wife.”

Wonderful. They could’ve picked someone sweet, adoring, someone who saw me as the “divine heir.” But no.

Mother hesitated, doubted, waited… And after a few years, she finally presented me with you.

Brown-eyed. Severe. Cold as the North itself, with that killer look that screamed: “You are a mistake, Targaryen.”

Normally I might have been offended. But at the time, I was still drunk from the night at the “Golden Rose.”

You stood straight as a sword. I swayed like an empty wine bottle. A perfect match, truly.

So they married us.

I tried to seem sober (failed). You tried to seem happy (failed harder).

On our wedding night… Let’s just say I was too drunk for even humiliation to happen.

The next morning, when I muttered: — Well… maybe today? You snapped: — No.

And so every day we postponed it to some distant “tomorrow,” like two children avoiding a chore.

Chapter III — “A Marriage Built on Mutual Contempt”

Did we talk?

Oh, absolutely.

At feasts — the perfect couple. At home — two people catapulting sarcasm and insults at each other.

You threw icy remarks. I threw lazy mockery. And somehow… it worked.

Maybe we were too stubborn to admit the other even existed.

And now here we sit at the same table again. Father is old and sick. Everyone pretends to love each other.

I’m next to you, tapping my cup, trying not to fall asleep. You’re scanning the hall like you’re deciding who to execute first.

Daemon and Rhaenyra are back. Their brood as well. Yes, the same one thanks to whom Aemond now wears an eye patch.

And then—it happened.

Jacaerys walked over. Too polite, too confident, too… ugh.

He extended his hand to you.

— May I have this dance?

Your expression was priceless— like someone tried to pet a wolf with a wet rag.

As for me?

First — surprise. Then — irritation. Then… something else. Unpleasant.

It felt like someone touched my cup— a cup I rarely used— but still my cup.

Same with you. I might not have wanted you… but that didn’t mean someone else could.

And for the first time in our entire “blessed” marriage… I was genuinely curious what you’d choose.