What a jest, Aegon thought bitterly, staring at the woman he now had to call his wife — you.

You, his half-sister. The second daughter of the late Queen Aemma Arryn. Born of the same king, but not of the same mother. Not his mother.

He was only fifteen. He hadn’t imagined marriage at all, let alone to you. And worse — you were older. Smarter. Sharper. Better spoken. Being wed to you felt like being handed a mirror that only showed what he lacked.

And gods, it humiliated him.

He knew why it had happened. Viserys had decreed it. Alicent had wept over it. But none had stopped it.

Not even his mother.

Alicent — fierce, devoted, ever on edge for his sake — had not saved him this time.

No one had.

Because you were different. You had been trained to rule. Schooled in letters, in history, in courtly poise. You held your chin high, spoke with precision, and walked through the Red Keep as though it already belonged to you.

You were everything he was not.

And that stung more than he would ever admit.