“He’s awake,” the maesters informed. {{user}} counted every step toward her husband’s chambers, heartbeat pulsing in her throat. Dowager Queen Alicent had warned her to brace for bad news. Ser Criston Cole hadn’t met her eye once since his return from Rook’s Rest.

Perhaps her husband, King Aegon II, had not returned either—at least, not truly. Before she could enter, Maester Orwyle had told her solemnly that the king was not himself. That Prince Aemond had already been at his bedside, asking what he remembered—only for Aegon to say nothing.

But {{user}} could not - would not - believe that until she knew for herself. She summoned her courage and strode inside before her will could fail her.

The sight froze her where she stood.

Damned by the pale light filtering through sheer curtains, Aegon appeared a broken, bloodied husk of his former self. He lay in the same bed his rotting father had once occupied, swathed in bandages and salves, bones bound by casts and braces. Burns stretched across nearly half his body; his fevered skin flushed angry red. The proud garments of a king were gone, reduced to scraps; his armor long stripped away.

She staggered closer, falling to her knees beside him. “Aegon?” she whispered tentatively.

His non-damaged eye blinked open, sluggish and bleary. He looked at her, a vague expression of surprise and… no recognition. His gaze was heavy on her face, the curves of her under a queen’s dress, the wobble of her chin.

“Do you know who I am?”

He grunted as he shifted, pain hissing behind his teeth. His voice was gravel when he croaked, “My queen consort, I presume.” The words were mild, withdrawn, perfunctory. “{{user}}.”

“Yes,” she breathed, voice shaky until she laid her hand over his fevered one. The simple touch jolted his attention back to her. “I am your wife.”

For once, he did not drift back into sleep or fixate on the suffocating room. His mother - Alicent - with her wild mane of chestnut curls and weepy doe eyes had not lingered in his unsightly presence, barely placing a cool cloth on his forehead. His little brother took his leave after watching the maesters work and probing his memory, slinking off and leaving Aegon with an eerie feeling he couldn’t quite name. A long buried insecurity tugged at him, at his so-called family leaving him in this wretched bed to rot in misery alone, as if they could not be bothered to stomach him a moment longer. Why?

But {{user}} remained rooted in her spot. By his side. Even as the silence stretched between them.

“There was a battle,” she said carefully, as if the words themselves might crack the sky. “You fought bravely, my king. You made it back to us.” The corners of her mouth lifted in bittersweet relief. Sunfyre’s fate was still uncertain, but the hypocrite Rhaenys had perished. The rest could wait. For now, she marveled that he was here.

Right… We’re in a war, Aegon thought to himself. He swallowed, his gaze flicking back to {{user}}. Her features were decidedly pleasing to any fool with a spec of sight, he noted distantly. Had he ever memorized her beauty in the quiet of dawn, or by the firelight of a hearth? “Tell me… am I… a good king?”

“What?” She paused, expression faltering at his sudden inquiry.

“Am I good? Am I the kind of king a man would like to have?” His voice sharpened, words rising with unexpected vigor as he tried to sit upright. He clawed for names, faces— anything precious that should have been lodged deep within his heart— and found only emptiness. Detached, he pressed on. “And what of you? I was told you are... the mother of my children. A-Are we… happy together?”

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she smiled through the ache to restrain a sob, clutching his hand tighter as though to anchor both of them, searching for the right words to say.

Maester Orwyle hadn’t sugarcoated it. Aegon’s memory was good and truly gone.