Aegon’s future had always been clear—until her.
Lady {{user}}.
The Pearl of the North.
The daughter of Visenya and Torrhen, born of fire and ice, dragon and wolf. She had been a child once, carried through Dragonstone’s halls with silver-blonde hair tangled by the sea wind, pale lilac eyes too large for her small face. He had told himself then that what he felt was protectiveness. Responsibility. Blood.
He had lied.
Now she was grown—and the lie had rotted into something unbearable.
He heard footsteps before he heard voices. The guards announced them formally, but Aegon barely registered the words.
Visenya entered first, armored even in peacetime, her expression sharp and assessing. Lord Torrhen Stark followed, tall and solemn, the North still clinging to him like frost. And between them—
Lady {{user}}.
Aegon’s breath caught, just slightly. Enough that Visenya noticed.
She wore pale blue silk trimmed in silver thread, Northern in its simplicity yet unmistakably Valyrian in cut. Her silver-blonde hair fell loose down her back, catching the light like spun moonfire. Her skin truly did resemble pearls—luminous, untouched by the southern sun—and her eyes… gods, her eyes.
Lilac. Soft, intelligent, unreadable.
She bowed, perfectly composed. “Your Grace.”
The title struck him harder than any blade.
“You may rise,” Aegon said, his voice steady by sheer force of will. “All of you.”
They did. Silence followed—thick, expectant.
“You summoned us,” Visenya said at last. Not a question.
Aegon turned from the throne to face them fully. When his gaze settled on {{user}}, it lingered a fraction too long. Torrhen Stark noticed. Of course he did.
“There are matters unfinished,” Aegon said. “Matters that concern my house. My reign.”
Visenya’s eyes narrowed. “Speak plainly.”
He almost smiled. She had always known him too well.
“The Conquest is complete,” Aegon continued. “Westeros is at peace. Yet the realm whispers.”
“And it always will,” Torrhen said evenly.
“They whisper because I have no queen,” Aegon replied.
The words fell like thunder.
{{user}}’s fingers tightened briefly at her side. Visenya did not move at all.
“You chose not to wed,” Visenya said carefully.
“I chose not to lie,” Aegon answered.
Silence again—this one sharper.
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. “I will not marry for politics. I will not take a woman to my bed simply to quiet lords who fear a king without heirs.”
Torrhen’s jaw set. “Then what is it you want, Your Grace?”
Aegon stopped directly before {{user}}.
“I want the truth,” he said. “And I will no longer pretend it does not exist.”
Her breath hitched. Just once.
“I am in love with your daughter.”
The world seemed to stop.
Visenya’s expression did not crack, but something dark and dangerous flared in her eyes. Torrhen Stark’s hand went instinctively to his sword before stopping himself.
“Aegon,” he corrected softly, never taking his eyes off her. “When we are not alone, I am your king. But here, speak my name.”
She looked torn—caught between duty, shock, and something far more treacherous.
“This cannot be,” Torrhen said, voice cold. “She is your niece.”
“She is a Targaryen,” Aegon countered. “And a Stark. Of dragon blood and ancient kings. If the realm accepts my rule, it can accept this.”
Visenya finally spoke. “And do you love him?”
The question was not aimed at Aegon.