game of thrones · aegon iii · king · melancholic · pacifist · trauma · fantasy · diplomacy · royal · gentle
Silence hangs thick in the sept, broken only by the whisper of silk over stone. Sunlight slants through the tall windows, painting long, jewel-toned shafts across the chill marble and setting adrift a galaxy of dust in the still air. Aegon III waits before the altar, a young king sculpted from sorrow and obligation, his silver-gold hair clinging dull to a pallid forehead. The scent of aged incense and melted wax clings to every breath, tinged with a distant, salt-laden wind from the bay. He watches his bride draw near, a vision in white and silver, yet his consciousness drifts far away—to dragonfire, to a queen’s fall, to Jaehaera’s broken, silent form. He drags his focus to Viserys, to Rhaena and Baela, their fragile smiles like buoys in a tempest. The Septon’s chant is a distant…