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Aegon does not want to be king.
It's a wonder the crowd cannot see that. His head hangs low as he enters the dragonpit, weighed down by the phantom of a crown he is yet to wear, stooped beneath the arch of swords that hang above his head. Tears glisten unspilled on his lashline, a glint like the Valyrian steel of the Conqueror that hangs at his side when the sunlight filters in. Her husband cries often, particularly when drunk, and Helaena has learned that it is better not to offer comfort when he does.
He does not cry before the people, however, one restraint he possesses. The tears in his eyes will not fall here, not now.
A bruise sits high on his cheekbone, a red flame to his alabaster skin. It's further evidence of his unwillingness to rule, or so she's been told. While their father had been taking his last breaths, Aegon had been in Flea Bottom, drinking himself blind until he'd been dragged kicking and spitting back to the Red Keep. The bruise he keeps as a souvenir for his troubles, a memory of the destiny he cannot escape. It’s a fine match for the rims of his eyes where the tears gather, as though all of the colour that's been drained from his visage—pale skin, pale hair, pale eyes—has pooled there in drops of glaring crimson. From what Helaena was told, he's lucky the red has faded some, for the deep rings that stained his skin previously would have proclaimed his unworthiness to the realm every bit as loudly as his actions if word were to ever get out. He is lucky that it never will. Their mother and grandfather will see to that.
Their mother wasn't the one to tell Helaena of her husband's escapades under the cover of darkness, though she had broken the news of their father's death mere hours before Aegon's return, the prodigal son. No, it was Aemond who told her: Aemond who had hauled him from the Grand Sept like a petulant child, who bore no signs of a struggle besides the grim set to his jaw. The brother who'd always been kind to Helaena, in spite of her otherness, whose presence still has the power to soothe her when all she can taste is blood in her teeth and the ashes of a fire long burnt out.
He seldom lies to her, for which she is grateful—all too often people assume she is too delicate for the truth, as though she is not a dragonrider, not every bit fire and blood as her siblings—but she can tell from the tightness of his face that there are details he omits. She thinks it unlikely that he does so to spare her the indignities of Aegon’s behaviour, for she is no stranger to indignity. Growing up alongside Aegon has forced upon them both indignities aplenty. More likely it is a lingering, begrudging loyalty to their brother that holds Aemond’s tongue in spite of all that has passed between them, and Helaena does not press him for the details. She knows well enough the complexities of their siblinghood.
Yet it was their mother who dressed Aegon, washed the grime from his hair and draped him in the finery of the king he is not. She who rode with him in the wheelhouse when Helaena did not. Who presented him with their father’s dagger, the dagger of Aegon, First of His Name, gifted to the boy who would soon be the second. It is she who stands by his side now when Helaena can scarcely bear to look upon his face, blood and tears be damned.
No, Aegon does not want to be king, that much is clear. But what of her? The ring on her finger feels every bit as heavy as the circlet of steel that will soon rest uneasy atop her husband's head.
She has done her duty, borne him two children with hair of white gold and eyes of amethyst. There can be no mistaking their lineage: they are undoubtedly Targaryen, pure of blood, even if Aegon is rarely sober enough to lie with her. It's a blessing as much as it is a curse to share her bed with a drunkard whose fingers shake too much to hold a glass let alone fumble with her smallclothes, whose cock works only in the pits of Flea Bottom or the Street of Silk. Most nights he drinks himself into a stupor and passes out on the other side of their vast bed, his wine stained clothes still clinging to his wine softened body, while Helaena closes her eyes and does not dream.
In spite of their father’s shortcomings, her twins need never fear accusations against their legitimacy. It is one decency Aegon has bestowed upon them. They will not be challenged as her elder sister's sons have been. No rumours will dog their every step. She fears even that will not be enough when the time comes.
The children are not with her now, still tucked in their cradles, attended to by their nursemaids while their father stands before the realm, one stroke away from making history. Prince and princess they were born, but moments from now her son, still a babe with rounded cheeks and milk teeth, will be heir apparent. A babe with a thousand swords aimed directly at his heart.
And Helaena will be queen.
She knows nothing of running a kingdom. That has long been her grandfather's domain, her father too ill to attend to his duties and the Hand all too happy to serve. If possible, she thinks Aegon might know even less, despite their mother's best efforts to school him. Born the second child, Aegon has never seen it fit to take her lessons to heart; the spare would sooner spend his time whoring and gambling while in his cups.
It would be wiser to relinquish control to their grandfather again, king in all but name, but Helaena knows, like she knows that the sun will rise each day that it won't happen. Aegon, now thwarted, will do his duty as he is asked, his protests silenced in the early hours of the morning by the Cargyll twins, by Ser Criston Cole and his own brother. He will assume the responsibility that could be the making of him but that Helaena knows deep in her bones will not. It will be his unmaking—his, and the rest of their line with him.
The pit is too silent in the face of the catastrophe unfolding before them. Their acceptance, like Aegon's, twists in her gut like rancid flesh—Mother warned her that the coronation might prove too much for Helaena's delicate constitution, but it is not a delicate constitution that disturbs her so. Part of her wants to howl, to scream until she is hoarse. There is a beast beneath the boards. There is a fool upon the steps. She cannot make sense of her own dreams, but still she knows that they are all making a mistake here on his day. The faces that stare out at them from the crowd wear curious expressions, some expectant, others uncertain. They hold no fear in their eyes. They do not see the folly for what it is. She stands, frozen, the words she cannot speak aloud threatening to choke her as she watches on, not a player but a mere spectator.
Their mother presses a kiss to Aegon’s brow, leading him with both hands like a lamb to the slaughter. He kneels, a reluctant offering.
Helaena watches Aegon's trembling lips as he is anointed in the Faith of the Seven. Each swipe of the septon's thumb across his forehead marks another step towards their doom. She wonders, briefly, if Aegon feels it too—the crushing weight of fate bearing down upon him. If, perhaps, he hears her warnings, many-tongued though they are, whisper in the air around them.
But this cannot be, for her husband has never listened to a word she says, even before they were wed, and he stumbles blindly now into fate's web, chafing only for his personal freedom. He has no knowledge of sacrifice. What does a firstborn son know of sacrifice?
The words of the sacrament make a mockery of him. Of her. May the crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom. Tears prickle at her own eyes now.
As Cole lifts the Conqueror's crown, her brother's namesake who united the realm, and raises it above Aegon's head, Aegon’s shoulders shudder and Helaena finds she can watch no more. She cannot watch the sacred steel touch down upon his crown of silver. She will not. She turns away from the proceedings as though struck.
Her gaze falls on Aemond instead, the brother she's ofttimes wished had been born first. The king who should have been; the king who never would be. But for once he doesn't meet her eyes, for his own eye is fixed firmly on Aegon. There's a hunger in his expression that he never shows openly, and Helaena knows that neither of her brothers can help her now.
The bell tolls, each clang another blow. They will each tumble, unknowingly, to their ruin and she will be powerless to stop it.