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A daughter. Mostly obedient and sensible, but oh-so docile at times – only occasionally her true brilliance shone through, like a sun ray on a cloudy day. It was then that he would feel the proudest, but it didn’t distract that, as a whole, her complacency had proven to be her downfall. It didn’t matter she had managed to ensure he had a place at the council once again, not when she had allowed misery to find its way into her heart and have her raise… such a subpar boy who was bound to grow into a subpar man. A degenerate drunkard who had taken more to forcing himself upon servant girls than to study history, languages, politics, everything that sharpened his mind. Had he been here, he would’ve cut Aegon into shape when he still had been a rough gemstone, but now it was impossible to drain the sickness from him. And still, with all of his disappointment, it was difficult to not see the flashes of her mother within her, with all her strengths. The weakness, though, from where that came he had no idea.
Chasing his parents’ affection and love was like trying to hold water in a sieve. His father seemed hell-bent to ignore him while Mother held nothing but scrutiny for every single one of his actions. Don’t lust after the serving girls (but they were such fun), control your thirst for drink (but only then he felt content), study harder (but it was so hard for him to concentrate, his mind always wandered), train more often with Ser Criston (now that and Ser Criston were fun but he would always nurse bruises). He had declined when Mother had commanded him to attend the meetings of the Small Council with her after the first time had been incredibly dull and Grandfather had called him a dimwit. Alright, he might not be terribly smart, but he had the privilege of being allowed to be – even if Mother thought differently. “The Iron Throne is yours by right, the Realm will rally behind you once the king is dead”, she would say, she said it so often that he still heard the words in his dreams. Who knew? Perhaps sitting on that thrice-damned throne would finally make her love him.
Mother never understood her. Few did, the only one who came close to it was Aemond and even he was confused by her at times. And yet, despite all that, she never felt unloved by her mother, knew that she tried to be encouraging, loving, and warm. She succeeded with her more than with Aegon, had her difficulties with Aemond even though he was without doubt the favourite out of all the boy children, and she lamented that Daeron was too young to even remember her. When she looked into her mother’s eyes, she saw perpetual sorrow; a sadness and a longing for something that couldn’t be put into words. Perhaps another life, in which she wasn’t married to their father, a mostly emotionally absent figure anyway, and instead found true happiness. Her own marriage was not ideal either, and had it been her choice, she would have all too gladly taken Aemond’s hand (as he told her he wished it to be) or even Jacaerys, kind as he was, but Mother had told her it was ultimately to protect her. She only had a vague notion of what the shadowy future would hold. Her dreams were never as clear or forward as Daenys the Dreamer’s had been, who allegedly recorded them. But she understood the reason behind her mother’s actions and from her perspective, and it was the ultimate proof of her unconditional love. How could she possibly blame her?
In a way, he felt like she saw him as a great disappointment – for not having been the first. He could have been a son that his mother was proud of; diligent, clever, well-read, eager to learn, a warrior just as much as a scholar. And he had had his setbacks, he had to work for everything he was now all by himself, while his undeserving brother simply got everything handed to him on a platter. It was unfair, and they all knew it to be unfair but there was nothing to be done about it: it was the way of the Laws of Men, that he ought to be heir (although Father already did not care about laws; why else would he have made his oldest sister heir over Aegon?) He was ready to be everything she would have wanted; a benevolent king, a cunning swordsman, a fierce dragon rider, a good and loving husband to Helaena, but instead he was cursed with the pitiful fate of being a second son.
She was his lawful wife, but she wasn’t Aemma. She had been the crutch that he needed after Aemma’s death, something that made it easier to forget that it was her blood on his hands that he would never be able to wash off. He knew her as Rhaenyra’s kind friend and when he had to choose a future queen, the choice was easy. He didn’t love her, but was it not enough to be married to someone he liked being around? But Rhaenyra had made him see past the fogs Otto and Alicent had summoned around him, and he almost wished his illness would consume him at once to be reunited with the woman he loved for good. It was impossible to see her in the same light as he once did, but a king had to follow his husbandly duties just as much as those of the realm.
Once, a friend. A dear friend, maybe even a lost love in fact, until the betrayal, and then it survived even that at first. It seemed like something that would last forever, but then again, the dragonlords of Valyria had thought their empire was to last forever as well – until the Doom came along. To Alicent, the Doom was lies, and the descent of those ‘virtues’ she supposedly held in such high regard. Would she or any of them have made such a fuss were she not a woman but a man? She did not think so. Alicent trapped herself in a cage, but it was a prison of her own making. And since her mind was so poisoned by her father and she seemed unable to hold her tongue with regard to rumours of adultery and bastards, she had no true pity to spare.
A viper in disguise, that one, who had slid into his brother’s bed at her father’s request and ultimately brought about his death. He had always cautioned Viserys about fully trusting the Hand, to be smarter than their grand-sire had been and to see the Vulture from the Hightower for what he was, but he preferred to find bliss in his ignorance. He’d rather listen to what his new wife whispered into his ear than heed his council – all because an earnest salute had been taken out of context. Once he had heard of rumours that ran in the Red Keep; that he had taken the then-Lady Alicent as a courtesan, and being given her favour when he posted against her brother was the proof of it. Back then, he had found amusement in it, knowing that Otto was gnashing his teeth in anger at what the servants laughed about among themselves, but knowing the vileness Alicent was capable of, he felt bile rise in his throat. Mighty the Hightowers once were, but just as Harren’s black fortress had not withstood Balerion’s fiery breath, neither would the Beacon of the South.
A saviour. All women were sacred, but while those who indulged in sin would eventually be forgiven upon their death, the queen did not have to wait to be absolved once she passed. She was the ideal image of a woman; a mother who protected her children fiercely, a wife who stood by her husband dutifully, a daughter who obeyed her father, a woman who seemed immune to the temptations and beguilements of the world. She was, plain and simple, flawless. At times, he regretted asking that whore of a princess for her favour; everything would have been so different if he had only taken notice of the Lady Alicent before, how humble she was, but like the fool he was, he only saw her when she stood in the Godswood that night, illuminated by moonlight while he kneeled in the shadows, his parry dagger pressing against his stomach, ready to free himself from the burden of this life. But it had been her, appearing like the Mother herself, who stayed his hand, and for that he would be eternally grateful.
If the Gods truly existed, then she was their attempt at a masterpiece. A fine emerald, perhaps in the rough at first, but nonetheless breathtaking to behold. While others dismissed her, he was the only one who had seen her potential at first glance, not merely at the second. There was more to her than just being the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms – beauty, as great as hers was, was still temporary. Her sharp mind would remain even in old age. He had been watching her before meeting her; observing through the eyes of the weirwood tree and being enthralled by this girl who was underestimated and silenced by everyone. He saw himself in her, how others tried to make decisions for her, stole away her choices to set her on a singular path, and her resentment at being overshadowed by those who always spoke louder and had more pride. She needed help to grow, his help as the only one who could possibly understand her. A rose of another name, he'd foster her despite knowing such attachments to be weakness. He might hurt her, he might hurt himself, but at the end of the day it wouldn't matter. They were only small specks in the great history of Westeros and if they could find some solace while playing their part, that was all he wanted for them.