Chapter Text
The Wolfknights passes after more than twenty years of service to the realm, not clashing swords on the battlefield in a blaze of Targaryen glory, but from an infected arrow wound caught in his side during an encounter with bandits on the kingsroad. The Crowned Kin had plagued the Riverlands for months, though Lord Tully refused the help offered by his king. Finally, Aegon ignored his cousin-by-law's decree and sent to Kingsguard and a host of soldiers to deal with the criminals. The best of their men, his brother Ser Jon and young Ser Martyn Lannister. But they were not enough to fight back the Crowned Kin.
Sansa will never forgive Aegon for that tactical mistake.
The news arrives with Ser Martyn as he stumbles into the throne room, hair dark with grime from his travel on the road, white cloak stained with blood and dirt, body stinking and unwashed. He approaches his king and queen upon their dias, bowing before the Iron Throne and staring hard at the queen's swollen stomach, not present when he left. It is Aegon who sends the nobles and onlookers and petitioners away, Aegon who commands the space as his wife's eyes widen and she whispers a single name. "Jon?"
Ser Martyn shakes his head. "I'm sorry, my queen. He died on the road."
She doesn't have the strength to gasp, the anger or fury to scream. Instead, she clutches at her pregnant belly and the panging pull within, stepping down the stairs, falling into her husband's waiting arms. Queen Sansa's eyes flutter and her chest heaves, her husband calling for a Maester and a midwife. He holds onto her hand. "You'll be alright, sweet one." He pushes back an errant strand of hair. His wife's face was clear of any color, washed away with the burden of this news.
“Jon.” She sighs, and her body stills.
Aegon carries her back to her chamber himself, for all that he is over forty and the aches and pains of age rock his sore muscles with every step into the Holdfast. Sansa clutches at his hand, squeezing and waiting.
For three nights, the maesters labor at her side and for three nights, Aegon ignores his duties and his court, keeping to his wife’s side and only hearing from the maesters and his children. On the second day, he sends a raven to Dragonstone, begging their son and heir to come home and see his mother. Their other children are all here, waiting at their mother's bedside, the twins and Elia and Robb and Daeron. He hopes that Egg can lift her spirits, for he was always her favorite son.
The maesters offer little hope for Sansa or for the child she carries now.
On the fourth day, she stirs. It was not much, but it is the first movement after a long night. Aegon sits bolt upright in his chair, looking to his wife’s pallid face. She smiles at him, faintly, like a comet in the sky, before closing her eyes again.
“Please, live.” He whispers, grabbing for her hand. “If not for me, for our children.”
“They’re grown, my lord husband, or nearly are.” She squeezes lightly, barely enough that he would notice the touch. But he notices everything about her, even still. “They no longer need their mother.”
“This one will.”
“This one is gone. She hasn’t moved in days.” Sansa’s face contorts in a frown. “I haven’t felt her since-”
She chokes on her words before tears slip from her eyes. Since his brother left the world, the Targaryen she loves so fiercely. Aegon hasn't had the chance to grieve Jon's death, not as he waits for Sansa to live. "Egg is coming from Dragonstone, hold on for him."
Sansa blink the tears away. "Something's wrong, Aegon." She rarely calls him by his name, hiding behind the shield of her courtesies. His brow furrows in concern. "I don't feel right, not sorrow or grief. I fear I won't see our prince again." Her eyes are brimming with something distant, some deep emotion. He moves closer, offering support but never giving it, just as he has never done more than take his wife's hand without her permission. Sansa lifts her body up a little, leaning against his chest as she comes undone. And finally, once all her tears are gone, she sleeps again.
The blood comes two days later, flowing from between her legs and never stopping. Sansa cries in pain and clutching at her stomach, calling for her children and her knight, but never for her king.
He stands there anyways, watching after the woman he loved who never loved him.
"Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay." Aegon pleads as she leaves their world. She would follow his brother into the afterlife, leaving him behind. He begs her, but he knew it was not her choice to make. That the gods have summoned her to the seven heavens, her and their last child, the one she insisted would be their little princess. And how can he ask her to stay with him when she was never his?
The whimpers end, her pain finally relieved by the sweet taste of death after the maesters and midwives could do nothing for the queen of seven realms. The tale was over, the songs would be sung, and still he will stay here alone and unloved.