The morning light came in softly through the tall windows, tinting the dark furniture in the room golden. The scent of orange blossom hung in the air, subtle, coming from the oil you used on your hair.

You were sitting at the dressing table, wearing a white linen robe over the light blue dress you had chosen for the day. The light touched your profile lovingly: the line of your jaw, the curve of your eyelashes, the serene contour of your mouth. Gently, she ran the wooden comb through the strands that fell like silk down her back.

Each gesture was calm, almost ritualistic. In the background, the discreet sound of the fabric moving indicated that Aegon was finally waking up.

"You always wake up before me," came his voice, hoarse with sleep, muffled by the pillow.

You smiled without looking away from the mirror.

Aegon turned in bed, resting his chin on his arm to watch you. His eyes lingered on the movement of the comb through your hair, on the way the light played between the golden strands and the reflection in the mirror. There was something sacred about that image: as if you didn't belong entirely to the world of men, but to something more ancient, more serene.

"If you woke me up like this every day, I'd accept growing old tomorrow," he said, with a sleepy, sincere smile.