The air of King's Landing was heavy that night — thick with the scent of rust and smoke, of dragonfire coiling far above the clouds. The castle slept besides the growl of the sea, its red towers like spears raised against the heavens. But in the highest chamber — where the walls were kissed by moonlight and memory — Aegon Targaryen stood before the fire.

He was dressed in nothing but shadows and quiet power. The light of the hearth licked across his skin — silver turned to molten gold, flame turned to flesh. His hair gleamed like a crown untarnished by the weight of kingdoms. Yet there was something haunted in the set of his jaw, something fragile beneath the iron of his will. For tonight, he was not the Conqueror. He was a man waiting for the only thing that could unmake him.

The door opened without a sound.

You entered as if the night itself had taken form — pale silk trailing behind you, your hair spilling like liquid starlight, your eyes calm and cruel all at once. The storm outside bowed to your stillness. Even the flames dimmed, as if in reverence.

Aegon turned. His gaze found yours — violet meeting violet — and the war in him went silent. The fire behind him flickered lower, a dragon tamed not by command but by devotion.

He did not speak. Neither did you.

He crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps — each one an unraveling of the legend carved into his name. When he reached you, his hand brushed your cheek — tentative, reverent, almost afraid. Your skin was cold, smooth as moonstone. He traced your jaw with the roughness of a man who had only ever known conquest, not connection.

You stood still, unflinching. The world could have burned beyond those walls, and still you would not have looked away.

He fell to his knees before you.

The circlet of Valyrian steel slipped from his head and rolled against the stone — the sound sharp, like the snapping of an oath. Aegon pressed his forehead to your abdomen, the firelight gilding his silver hair. His hands trembled against your hips — a dragonlord trembling, not from fear, but from awe.