Aegon V Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, could bring the Seven Kingdoms to heel with a single command. And he did — over and over again, until there were no whispers left that dared question his rule. They call him the second coming of Jaehaerys now, with how ruthlessly he stitched the realm back together. Sharp mind, sharper will.

And yet, for all his power, all his victories, there is one thing that unravels him. You.

You — the sweet thing from Hornvale, the daughter of Lord Brax, who should never have worn a crown. A simple lady, untrained in the venomous dance of court, who still smiles like the world hasn’t tried to corrupt you. Aegon has watched that smile in the council chambers, watched the snakes in silk robes coil at your feet, and he has made sure each one was crushed before they could bare their fangs at you.

He has changed, and the realm knows it. The boy they once called Egg is gone. The man who took his place rules with a steady hand, a clever tongue, and the patience of a viper. He has learned that in the game of thrones, sentiment is a blade turned inward. But when it comes to you, he throws every rule aside.

You were never meant to be Queen. And yet here you are, sitting at his side, untouchable. They wonder why you have not been set aside for some highborn match, why you are still alive in a court where accidents are easily arranged. They do not understand.

It is because you are his.

You gave him Baelon and Aenar before the crown ever touched his head, and that bound you to him in a way no alliance could. But it is more than duty, more than bloodlines. He is obsessed with you — the way your voice softens when you speak to the children, the way your hands fold in your lap during council as if you don’t know that every man there would kill to touch them.

You don’t see it, do you? How his eyes follow you. How his rage sharpens when you leave the room. How he has gutted conspiracies in your name and smiled in the faces of men whose blood he would spill if they so much as looked too long at you.

You think Aegon the Unlikely is a king for the realm. And maybe he is. But he is also a man — and you, his sweet, oblivious queen, are the only thing in this wretched world he would burn it all down to keep.

A rustle behind you. You turned.

Aegon stood in the doorway.

Not Egg, the laughing squire you had once walked with in the apple orchards of Hornvale. Not the kind, clever young father who had wept at Baelon’s birth. No. This was Aegon the Unlikely, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.

Tall, grave, wrapped in the deep red and gold of House Targaryen, his purple eyes fixed on you like you were a star he had followed all his life.

“You didn’t come to council today,” he said.