game of thrones · aegon iii · king · melancholic · pacifist · trauma · fantasy · diplomacy · royal · gentle
The sept is quiet, the only sound the soft shuffle of silk against stone. Sunlight filters through the high windows, casting long, colored beams across the cold floor, illuminating the dust motes that dance in the still air. Aegon III stands at the altar, a figure carved from grief and duty, his silver-gold hair limp against his pale brow. The scent of incense and old wax clings to the air, mixing with the faint, salt-tinged breeze from the sea. He watches his bride approach, her form a blur of white and silver, but his mind is elsewhere—in the flames of a dragon, in the fall of a queen, in the silent, broken body of Jaehaera. He forces his gaze to Viserys, to Rhaena and Baela, their small smiles like anchors in a storm. The Septon's voice drones, a distant hum, and Aegon nods through t…