Chapter Text
She loved another.
Aegon lived his entire life in doubt, with no path to go and no wishes to be better, to grow further than he ever has. Instead, he has only worsened, degrading like a rotting corpse and killing himself through drinking and chasing a pleasure he couldn't grasp.
Except for Rhaenyra. His older half sister who captures his focus ever since he was of age; sworn to Helaena but forever unfaithful. He felt a certain shame that lingered with him everytime his mind got the better of him to take advantage of other girls. It is his fault, it always is his fault. The shame that comes and goes until he is accustomed to it, and forgets.
But Rhaenyra was the one too powerful to be overcome, too smart to be cunning and too dangerous to threaten. Especially with Daemon so excruciatingly close.
But, she was always a finger's touch away, from both Aegon and the throne.
It is something that Otto Hightower could not accept, not when her is here, the deserved heir to the Iron Throne.
But what kind of brother steals his sister's birthright? Aegon had tried to run, so many times, with his head spinning out of control and bile that rose at the back of his throat. He had tried to run from his responsibilities until the day of his coronation.
"He had twenty years to name me heir, and never did."
It was like he, alongside Rhaenyra, were the only ones who saw the truth. Viserys would never name him his successor, not when there is someone else, more capable, more mature, more understanding than he could ever be. His half sister would be furious of the news once it reached Dragonstone.
But his mother is insistent to the point that it was sickening.
Everything had changed the moment Aegon turned around, to see the crowds of people that have been brought upon to see the new crowning following the death of King Viserys I. They were excited to see him, cheering and chanting like drones of seagulls, but that was when his mind switched, as a triumphant grin swatches his face and Aegon thrusts the sword into the air upon being crowned.
It was the best feeling he had ever felt.
Almost.
Many times before, Aegon would flee to Dragonstone. There was only one reason: to see Rhaenyra. He did not have the heart to tell her of the possible future, for he did not know either. Rhaenyra knew he did not want to be King, and that worked in her favour. She would still be the spoken queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and he would be an excuse of a prince.
His visits did not bring much talk, but there didn't need to be, not when she looks at him with such affection. Whether that be sibling bond or further, Aegon was unsure. But, he never had any in any sense, and so he drank up as much as he could like a dying man of thirst.
And it would turn into more, and more. Closer and closer, he would want to stay. But Aegon could never reside for long; his brother would grow curious, his mother would grow angered. Viserys refuses to acknowledge much of his existence.
But what does any of that matter, when Rhaenyra kisses his temple and tells him it is alright?
In the heat of the moment, Aegon forgets, as foolish as it was. He forgets those feelings that had made him feel so wanted. He is king now, of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. He is the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. What would it matter what Rhaenyra thinks? Rhaenyra is a women. She would never ascend the throne and their father knew it enough to change his mind before it was too late.
But war is impelled into his face almost immediately, a mistake from his so perfect brother, the death of Rhaenyra's son. Aemond had isolated himself after what he had done, and although the man was of little words in mere nature, anyone could tell he was grieving terribly; his mind lost and shambled he could not think for anything except Lucerys.
Aegon would heard him yelling and wailing to nothing. To no one.
But this does not faze the King either, he could not wait to fight and prove himself after so many years of not wishing to.
And in his growing arrogance, this mistake would almost cost him his life, disfiguring him so poorly that half of his face is burnt, scarred and ugly like Viserys himself. Fighting the Blacks made him realise all over again. He is not invincible. He had not changed at all.
Even Targaryens can burn.
He was not aware, however, of a plan which had been set out by Ser Alfred Broome, meant to send Rhaenyra where he was staying at Dragonstone with his dragon, so weakened and wounded he could not stand properly. Burnt to pieces just as Aegon is.
And so, when he sees the figure, a hollow husk of who he remembered, his eyes widen. She was with her last child. Also named Aegon, who was torn away from his mother and pinned by knights. Rhaenyra had told him she would name one of her sons after him, in the privacy of her chambers, breathless and vulnerable with the aura of a flower.
But like a flower, they all wilt and die, their time coming to an end too short if the world is cruel against them.
"Dear brother, I had hoped you were dead."
Her voice snapped Aegon out of his trance, he would pretend they did not hurt. There was so much anger a deep pain slashed across his chest.
I never wanted to be King.
Ser Broome moves, a dagger in hand, but Aegon croaks out, his words held no demand or power and never had, but the man stops anyway, retreating back to where he was.
"Step away and leave us."
Rhaenyra glowered, her fists clenching until knuckles turned white.
"Are you to feed me to your dragon and watch? To live your shortened and miserable life in pain?"
She motioned to his crippled leg, crooked like a stick, scars etched along pale skin, and he flinched at the reminder. It was not the only thing he bore.
"You took everything from me. My family and my birthright."
"No."
Aegon choked out only then, then pushing himself to both feet to find his balance. The Kingsguard had gone on his orders, and like he was six and ten all over again, he had to do it all himself.
He would do what he should have done the moment the war had started, the moment the opportunity was given to him so generously yet he turned it down.
At Dragonstone, on the 22th day of the 10th moon of 130 AC, a crippled king hobbles his way towards the rightful queen, until he is inches away from her. She is not fearful, and does not back away.
He drops down on one knee with his hand on his chest, and bows his head, whispering two words.
"My Queen."
And the world goes quiet.
Coronation of Queen Rhaenyra of Dragonstone, accompanied with her son, Aegon the Younger, and Aegon II, her husband and prince consort.
All hail, Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen. First of her name. Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.