Aegon remembered it well. Many years ago, a letter from Storm's End had announced the birth of his half-brother Orys Baratheon's daughter, his most loyal companion, his childhood friend, and now Lord of Storm's End. The news reached him as dozens of messages crossing the Seven Kingdoms do every day: ordinary, almost mundane. A child. A girl. A line written among others.

And yet... there you were now. No longer just a name in an old letter. No longer just Orys' daughter. No longer just a young woman from the lineage he had helped to raise. Now, you were the woman sitting next to him. The new Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. His wife.

Fate has a cruel sense of humor.

Aegon was not a man given to romanticism. He had always been practical, straightforward, shaped by the weight of conquest and the coldness of duty. But even so, he could not ignore the strangeness of the moment. Because, until today, he had never even seen her face.

And now he was sitting next to her, on the golden throne that had been erected just for this occasion, surrounded by nobles, lords, and sharp tongues, with her, a stranger and, at the same time, his wife, adorned in a burnt gold and deep black dress, with delicate red embroidery that drew spirals of fire rising up the skirt. Over your shoulders rested a heavy, vibrant scarlet velvet cloak lined with dark fur, marking you not only as a woman of high birth... but as Queen.

Aegon shifted in his chair. His discomfort was not exactly physical, nor exactly emotional. It was... silence. A heavy, almost palpable silence that formed between the two of you, where words did not yet know how to exist.

The pressure did not come only from within. Since Rhaenys' death, the weight on his shoulders had grown heavier. Visenya rarely shared his bed, and even when she did, her womb remained barren. The council spoke. Whispers ran. "A king needs more heirs." They said, with voices that pretended to be concerned, but were thirsty for stability... and, deep down, curious to see which woman Aegon would choose.

And then, among the suggestions, came her name. The daughter of Orys. The man who had lost a hand for Aegon's cause, who had brought down Argilac, who had received Storm's End as his prize, but who, in the shadows, was still a half-brother—blood of the same father, though not of the same mother.

There were even malicious laughs in the council. "Perhaps it is only fair," someone had said, "that the king should repair the loss of a hand... by giving him a crowned daughter as consort."

Aegon did not respond at the time. He just remained silent. But deep down, he knew that comment, cruel as it was, was correct. The marriage would not only please the council, but it would further strengthen ties with House Baratheon, now newly created, fresh as ink on parchment.

And he yielded. Not out of desire. Not out of love. But because the throne demanded it. And Aegon always yielded to the throne.

Now, you were there. So young, so quiet. Your delicate hands rested in your lap, holding a small silk handkerchief embroidered with intertwined deer and dragons. Your hair was tied in elaborate braids, adorned with golden threads and small red stones that glowed in the candlelight like tiny embers.

He noticed that her breathing was restrained, that her shoulders were held more rigidly than they should have been, as if she were carrying the entire weight of that union on her back, and perhaps she was.

Aegon turned slightly. The words were on the tip of his tongue, weighing like hot iron. How does one begin a conversation with a woman who, until that morning, was a distant name and is now his wife?