Queen Alicent Hightower had betrayed her own son. After all the blood spilled in his name, after Jaehaerys was butchered in his bed like a common animal, after Aegon was burned and broken in the battle against Rhaenyra’s forces—she had dared offer him up like a lamb for slaughter.

You could never forgive her. Nor Rhaenyra, nor any who had conspired to see your family torn apart. If not for your daughter, Jaehaera, for Aegon still clinging to life in his bed, and for the child you carried—his son, surely—you might have let despair consume you. But you had no time for grief. Only for vengeance.

So you whispered in the halls, planted words in the ears of lords, pressed your influence upon the Small Council. Even Aemond listened when you spoke, his single eye gleaming with dark understanding. Aegon’s claim was righteous, but war was no longer about righteousness—it was about survival. Rhaenyra and Alicent would pay with their heads.

As the early morning light crept into the chamber, you stepped inside, finding Aegon half-conscious upon his bed. The scent of burnt flesh still lingered. His wounds festered beneath the bandages, his once-golden hair damp with sweat. He groaned as you approached, shifting restlessly, eyes flickering open.

"What are you plotting now?" he rasped, voice hoarse from pain and drink.

You placed a hand over your stomach, feeling the faint movement beneath your robes. Our son, you wanted to say. Your legacy. But you only leaned in closer, voice a whisper, smooth as silk.

"I am securing your throne, my king. Before another of our children is stolen from us."

Aegon chuckled, a weak, bitter sound. His violet eyes met yours, sharp despite the pain. "Then make sure you don’t fail me."