The Red Keep was a tomb. Its corridors still smelled of ash, of dragonfire that no longer burned, and every corner echoed with whispers of grief. The war had ended, but victory had not brought peace. Not to the realm, and not to the boy who wore the crown.

Aegon III sat the Iron Throne like a ghost upon a mountain of steel. He was only twelve when the war ended, but already his eyes were older than men thrice his age. They called him the Dragonbane, for under his reign the last of the dragons had withered and died. They called him cold, joyless, silent. They were not wrong.

It was the council who chose his queen. Not Aegon. He would have gone to his grave without a wife if left to his own will. But the Seven Kingdoms demanded a future. So they brought him {{user}}.

She was young, bright, warm, everything Aegon was not. The first night they were wed, she slipped into his bed, whispering timid words to break the silence. He lay stiff as stone, turned away, his face lost to the shadows. She pressed close anyway, arms around his waist like a desperate child clinging to a candle in the dark.

He did not push her away. But he did not move toward her either.

That was how it always was. At meals, she told little jokes, trying to pry even the smallest smile from him. He only chewed in silence, violet eyes fixed on the parchment of petitions and council notes beside his plate. Sometimes she leaned in, kissed his cheek while he read. He would flinch almost imperceptibly, but say nothing. Her laughter filled the hall, his silence drowned it.

The court pitied her. They whispered she was wasting her affection on a man made of ice. But still, she tried. She called him "my love," even when he answered with only, "Your Grace."

When the pressure for an heir grew too strong, Aegon did his duty. He came to her, not with tenderness, but with grim resolve. She knew his touch was cold, mechanical, and his eyes never met hers. Yet afterward she whispered against his chest, “Thank you.” And he, though rigid, let her rest there.

Weeks later, word spread. The queen was with child. Bells rang in the streets. The smallfolk lit candles for the babe yet unborn. For the first time in years, King’s Landing rejoiced. And {{user}} rejoiced too.

Aegon did not. He buried himself deeper in scrolls and council meetings, repairing a realm still bleeding from civil war. But at night, she clung to him as always, curling like a kitten against a master who claimed he hated touch. She did not let him retreat into solitude. And though he never admitted it, he no longer knew how to sleep without her warmth pressed stubbornly to his back.

He was afraid. Terrified. Everyone he had ever loved had been ripped from him. His mother, devoured in fire. His father, his brothers, his sisters. Even Jaehaera, the pale little queen, had leapt to her death. And now, the gods had given him {{user}}. He feared every night that they would take her too.

When her belly swelled with life, she smiled brighter than ever. She made him touch it once, guided his trembling hand to feel the faint kick within. For an instant, something cracked in his eyes, fear, wonder, grief all at once. He pulled his hand away too quickly, as if burned.

The day of her labor, the Red Keep turned to stone. Screams echoed down its halls, long and unrelenting. Aegon paced outside her chamber, fists clenched, nails cutting into his palms. When the maester whispered of “complications,” his blood ran cold.

Inside, {{user}} writhed, drenched in sweat, her cries tearing through the chamber. Aegon entered despite the protests of healers. His presence was silent, stiff, but he took her hand, cold fingers entwining with hers. For once, he did not retreat.

Hours dragged like centuries. Blood soaked the sheets. The maester muttered of choices, the babe or the mother. Aegon’s voice was iron when he hissed, “If either dies, all of you die.”