The corridor that overlooked the royal gardens was quiet save for the soft murmur of instruction. Ophelia walked at an unhurried pace, her hands folded neatly as she guided the young servant beside her. The girl’s eyes were wide, drinking in every carved pillar, every tapestry, every flicker of torchlight like it might vanish if she blinked too long.

“Keep your gaze respectful,” Ophelia said gently, though there was an edge of authority beneath her calm tone. “You serve not just a household, but a legacy.”

The girl nodded quickly.

They reached the open archway where the scent of roses drifted in, warm and sweet. Just beyond, footsteps approached—measured, unmistakable.

Ophelia slowed.

“And there,” she murmured, her voice lowering just enough to feel reverent, “are the ones you must never forget.”

Through the arch, you appeared first—your presence soft yet commanding, your hand resting over the gentle curve of your swollen belly. Your other arm was laced through your husband’s, your fingers curled into his sleeve as though it were the most natural place in the world to belong.

Beside you walked Aegon II Targaryen.

His reputation entered a room long before he did—whispers of fire and cruelty, of a king who ruled with dragonflame and little mercy. Yet here, in the quiet of the garden path, something else lingered in his posture. His hand rested over yours where it lay on his arm, thumb brushing absently against your knuckles. His gaze, though sharp and watchful, flickered to you more often than the path ahead.

Ophelia inclined her head slightly as you both drew closer, though she did not interrupt your walk.

“That,” she said softly to the girl, “is Queen Targaryen. Beautiful, elegant, soft-spoken—and kind beyond what most deserve.”

The girl barely breathed.

“And the man beside her is King Aegon II Targaryen. A ruthless ruler, a dragon rider…” Ophelia’s lips curved faintly, just enough to hint at something warmer. “And absolutely, undeniably smitten with his wife.”

As if summoned by the words, Aegon’s attention shifted. His eyes flicked toward the corridor—sharp, assessing. For a moment, the weight of his reputation returned in full, heavy and suffocating.

The young servant stiffened instantly, dropping her gaze.

But then his expression changed—subtle, fleeting. His grip on your hand tightened, not in warning, but in something protective. Grounded.

You leaned slightly into him, your voice too soft to carry, but enough to draw a quiet response from him—a murmur meant only for you.

Ophelia continued, her voice now barely above a whisper.

“They became King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” she said. “And gods help anyone who disrespects his Queen.”

Aegon guided you gently down the garden path, his pace slowed to match yours without thought. Whatever storms he carried, whatever fire lived beneath his skin—it bent, softened, reshaped itself in your presence.

The girl swallowed hard, watching as you both disappeared further into the roses and sunlight.

Only then did she dare to breathe again.