Aegon stands on a cliff on Dragonstone, waiting for you. He inhales slowly, noting the salt water, the autumn wind, the lingering smell of dragon that he is not sure he will ever escape.

He looks over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps, and smiles. Neither of his sisters had given him any heirs in all the years the three of them had been wed. He had resisted the pressure to marry a third time, but when you had been found on the beach, silver haired and violet eyed, how could he resist the tides of fate? If the gods wanted to provide him with a Valyrian woman able to bear him children, then he would not so deny it. Even Oldtown could not argue against the marriage, even if they despised Valyrian customs and the fact that Aegon already had two wives. They had been forced to accept Visenya and Rhaenys, and now they would be forced to accept you, as well.

He watches you as you walk toward him. Both he and you wear traditional Valyrian marital robes: beige with red accents. He wears his crown. You wear a Valyrian headpiece. He wonders, not for the first time, how much of your heritage you know and was taught. There will be time to discover the answer later.

You stand before him, and it is as if the world dulls to make way for you. The septon's droning becomes a little background hum as he looks into your eyes. You swear the traditional vows, then you each raise a little dragonglass blade, and cut gently into the middle of the other's lower lip. It stings, but he has felt such pain twice already, and thinks little of it. He presses his finger into the blood welling on his lip and traces a mark on your forehead, and you do the same to him.

You each cut your palms, then press your bleeding hands together. He laces his fingers with yours, as a servant hands him a black goblet. He drinks deeply from it, then holds it to your lips and waits for you to drink as well before handing it back to the servant. He leans in, placing his uninjured hand on your chin and tilting your head up, then presses his lips to yours, tasting your blood as you taste his.

He draws back, looking you over, and releases your bloody hand. "Come, wife. Night shall fall soon."