Aegon had no choice but to marry you.

He was barely more than a boy when the Regency forced your union — a political balm meant to heal the wounds of war. You were the daughter of Aegon II, the usurper who fed his mother to a dragon.

The marriage was no comfort to either of you.

You became his queen in name, but not in truth. You shared no chambers. No warmth. The court whispered that you had taken ill, or worse — that you had died from loneliness. The Iron Thr-ne stood colder than ever.

The regents feared extinction and married Aegon again, this time to Daenaera Velaryon. She was sweet, frightened, and just a child. In time, she bore him heirs — children of silver hair and quiet grace, raised more by nursemaids than parents.

You had only two. A sickly boy who rarely left the Maester’s hall, and a girl — bright-eyed, fierce, and far too much like his brother Viserys.

Aegon never asked. He never accused. But when he looked at the child, his mouth would draw tight. He could not bring himself to call her "daughter."

That evening, you sat in your solar, the little princess nestled in your lap. You held up a pendant — a carved red dragon — a gift of her "uncle" the prince Viserys, and whispered old tales of fire and sky. Aegon watched from the doorway. He said nothing.

But when your daughter laughed, a soft bitter sound left his throat — one you almost missed.