King’s Landing did not know how to mourn.

The Street of Sisters was alive with noise—hawkers shouting, children darting between carts, the smell of sweat, bread, and the Blackwater rising in the heat. Life pressed forward, shameless and unyielding, as if the realm had not lost a queen.

Aegon Targaryen rode at the head of his escort, black armor dulled by travel, crown absent. He had stopped wearing it when Rhaenys died. Power did not require the weight of gold to be felt.

Balerion’s shadow passed overhead, vast and momentary, sending a ripple of unease through the street. People bowed late, awkwardly, some too frightened to move at all. Aegon barely noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere—on fire and falling stone, on a laugh cut short in Dorne, on a war that had not ended when it should have.

Visenya was not at his side.

She rarely was now.

The horse slowed as the street narrowed, and that was when he saw {{user}}.

Not kneeling. Not shouting. Not scrambling like the rest.

Just there—caught in the tide of the city, close enough for Aegon to study without turning his head. Something about them broke the pattern of the street, enough to pull his attention from its usual, grim circuit.

His gaze lingered longer than necessary.

Aegon reined in his horse.

The escort halted at once, steel and leather shifting around him. The noise of the street dimmed, as if the city itself sensed the king’s focus and drew a breath.

“You,” Aegon said, voice low but carrying, grief flattened into something colder. “Step forward.”

Violet eyes fixed on {{user}}—measuring, distant, and unmistakably tired.

“Tell me your name,” he continued, “and why you do not look away when dragons pass.”