The bells of the Red Keep tolled for dusk, their weary echoes spilling across the crimson spires and marble towers of King’s Landing. The sky had darkened to a shade of bruised violet, the same color, Daeron thought absently, as his own eyes.

Inside the royal carriage, the world seemed smaller, suffocating, the clatter of hooves, the murmured chants of gold cloaks outside, the scent of damp velvet and perfume heavy in the air. Across from him sat his wife, his sister, {{user}}, her face pale as milk, her gaze fixed coldly on the window. Neither spoke for a long while.

The wheels groaned over the cobblestones as they left the Great Sept behind. Their wedding had been as joyless as their betrothal.

Daeron’s gloved fingers toyed with the edge of his cloak. He could still feel the eyes of the court upon him, of their father, Aegon IV, sitting upon his throne of swords like some decaying god. The king had smiled that day, though his smile was a wound, a cruel, knowing twist of lips. “The dragon’s blood must remain pure,” he had said.

Daeron had not argued. He rarely did.

He glanced now at {{user}}, studying her through the dim carriage light. She had her mother’s face, Naerys’ eyes, Naerys’ sadness. She carried herself like a ghost of that gentle queen who had prayed each night for death. {{user}} was her mother’s daughter, soft-spoken, proud, but not meek. There was a quiet rebellion in her that Daeron had never seen in Naerys.

Her fingers were tight on her lap, pale knuckles showing through the silk. He wondered what she thought of him, the frail scholar, the dreamer with ink-stained hands who loved books more than blades.

Perhaps she despised him as much as she despised their father.

The silence between them stretched until Daeron broke it. His voice was low, weary. “Do you love me?”