Chapter Text
When he regains consciousness enough to make his own decisions, he demands Rhaenyra's chambers.
Aegon must admit that Dragonstone impressed him; or at least the part of it that he managed to see in its fragile state. Ancient magic seemed to circulate within the castle's walls, the stately library was still filled with tomes that had no doubt survived the destruction of Valyria, and on some cold, stormy nights Aegon allowed himself to think that Aemond would have loved the place, while the queen dowager would have preferred to ride a real dragon rather than stay there.
He thought of his family, his mother, his brothers, sometimes even his father when he refused to take more poppy milk than was absolutely necessary, and the lingering smell of roses and salt water overwhelmed him. It was impossible to push away the thought that despite everything, this place had absolutely soaked Rhaenyra.
Her flags had long since been taken down and burned, long weeks had passed since the usurper's absence (or maybe he was the usurper; maybe they both were), but the silent silver-haired ghost hovered around.
Pressing his nose to the bedclothes, which he had absolutely forbidden the maids to change from the very beginning, he imagined Rhaenyra in that bed. He desperately refused to allow himself the thought of Daemon beside, her; in his visions she was alone, in her nightgown, sleeping as peacefully as he himself never could. Several times gripped by delirium, he even saw her gentle smile as she hugged her sons in the middle of the night, and their bed (now it was their bed; king Aegon II's and queen Rhaenyra's) was overflowing with people.
She looked like the kind of mother who would invite her child to sleep with her with a smile and spread arms.
(He once thought Lucerys should spend at least one night here after dreaming a nightmare in his bedroom. Alicent slept with Aemond for weeks after Driftmark because of this. That would have been fair)
(Aegon also had bad dreams; his mother never let him sleep with her)
(After marrying Helaena, when he drank too much and it still wouldn't pass, he would go to her. He remembered how she flinched at the sight of him. She stayed awake all nights, her back turned to him. Then he stopped going to her)
(He threw up when he thought about it)
*
The next night he remembered that Rhaenyra also had two silver-haired sons.
It would have been easy to imagine that they belonged to Aegon.
(It would be even easier to imagine that he was one of them. The older one was also named Aegon)
It's a nice thought; one that makes one's heart grow warmer. A pleasant vision of parents with two laughing young children. A fire crackles in the fireplace, darkness prevails outside the window.
Utopia, idyll. Unreal.
*
They leave him alone in the chamber with the Conqueror's table.
He feels, somehow knows, that this must have been his queen's favorite place. With his eyes he sees her standing proudly with her eyes focused on the map, surrounded by a handful of chosen ones who were allowed to wallow in her presence.
(Was this where all the decisions were made? Was this where the verdict on little Jaehaerys was passed?)
He immediately orders Ser Marston to refer to the bedroom.
That night he sleeps in an armchair. He feels contempt for himself, disgust for this cursed bed. He doesn't even want to think that his son's execution was celebrated in it.
(He also doesn't want to think that Lucerys was mourned in it. It's easier to blame him. It's easier to think that he was to blame, as if he had personally sent executioners to the queen dowager's chambers)
(He vomits as he allows himself the thought that it was Rhaenyra's fault)
(The bucket is full of vomit and they have to bring him another one when he recalls the feast in honor of Lucerys' death and the shameful thought that it was actually Aemond who killed his son and then his wife as well)
*
He refuses the milk of the poppy, and pain takes over his body.
He has spent the last few days in a neighboring chamber, but now that he no longer has the strength to think about Jaehaerys, Helaena and Aemond, he lets himself be carried to his bed, to Rhaenyra's bed.
He sinks his nose into the bedclothes, and the scent, her scent, is already practically gone, but plunged into suffering, he imagines that remnants have survived, and now Rhaenyra's scent is mingling with that of Aegon.
He takes off his breeches and touches himself. He really wishes he could say that it's all about the pain, that there is a foolish hope that pleasure will help forget it.
It's a lie, he knows it, which is why he doesn't hold back when he thinks of the smell of roses as he comes to, and the name barely escapes his lips.
(It would be hard to do anything about the whore now, but Aegon knows, just knows, that even if he had the opportunity, she wouldn't let him into that chamber, into that bed.)
(It's sick, but the feeling of betrayal stings more than the pain when he remembers that Daemon was not denied access)
*
Later, when he has been given a minimal dose of milk of the poppy, and remorse floats around the bed more like another hallucination and not an actual reminder of what he has done, he contemplates going sept.
This is absolute foolishness. The queen dowager would probably be proud of at least the idea, but Aegon feels unworthy to enter the place. He has the feeling that even his mother would be ashamed to let someone so depraved in.
So he stays in his bedroom, in his safe place. Any policy decisions he manages to make are handled outside, in the huge office at the end of the hallway, which he's been told hasn't been used in years.
He would never be able to concentrate in a room with a big table (Jaehaerys, Jaehaerys, Jaehaerys, Jaehaerys, traitor, sinner, usurper), and Rhaenyra's office is somewhere higher up, and while he would love to take another seat that belongs to her, he doesn't see the point in tiring himself out that much.
(But of course he had to see the room. He could see Rhaenyra in it, but it smelled of Daemon)
(He vomited, told to refer to the bedroom, where he inhaled the scent of the bedding while he could still smell it)
(He had no intention of returning to that cursed place, and would burn it if he could)
*
He lay in their bed and dreamed of those he allowed himself to think about least on waking.
Daeron, still so young. Apparently his death was not worthy of someone so brave. He deserved better. He was the least frumpy of them all.
(He was allowed to escape from the capital, from the nest of vipers. He always envied him that)
Alicent, mother... Alone in the capital, uncertain of her own fate. So frightened.
(He feels satisfaction at this thought. He has felt this way all his life)
Jacaerys, who one day was to become king. Mockery. The bastard didn't deserve it.
(But he would still be better than him)
When he wakes up for a moment he thinks of Jace's betrothed. Baela was locked up in the same castle, but far away from him.
(He hates her like he hates the smell of Daemon in Rhaenyra's office. He would like to gut her)
(He hates Baela the most. She almost took Sunfyre away from him. Of all those he lost in the war, his was the one he grieved for constantly, even when he is still alive. Barely, but he is)
*
He falls asleep with his nose in the bed sheets, still smelling the scent of roses and salt water, now forever mixed with Aegon's natural musk and honey oil. That night he doesn't dream. He feels like he hasn't slept this well since early childhood.
In the morning he is rested, satisfied and relaxed enough to put his hand on his dick again. He is no longer ashamed of the name that slips off his tongue when he comes.
He welcomes the orgasm with a smile that grows larger when Ser Marston enters his bedroom, Rhaenyra's bedroom, their bedroom, and announces that the queen has returned home.
*