Archive of Our Own

117 AC

Viserys finds the itching of stress slithering its way through his head, the ever-growing presence a testament to the years that have come and gone.

He has sat on this throne for fourteen long years and it never gets any easier.

When the crown first touched his head all he could think about was how his Father should have been standing in his place. Baelon Targaryen was as brave as he was strong and he held the knowledge of years spent standing Hand of the King by the Wise King's side. The seat of the Seven Kingdoms belonged to him and yet Viserys stood there in his place, not as second or third but as a spare who holds no weight but to keep the peace.

He remembers how some people jeered and mocked him as no true king. How could he rule a dynasty when his own dragon had died not even a year after he claimed him? He holds no male heir to his name and the last remnants of the Old King's reign are weighted on the shoulders of a girl. It wounded his pride a bit but he knows he could be worse, there are kings who have been worse than him, and he has seen the consequences of it. So he sits on the Iron Throne and tries to keep the peace the best way he knows how.

He could play the role of a generous king, give the people a break from their responsibilities and hardships if just for a day. He had tried to give them a true heir as well. Though fate does not follow rules and plans, does it? His late wife, Aemma had already given him several stillbirths and miscarriages, and the thought of losing her or another potential child weighed heavily on his mind. Despite the risks, he knew that he had a duty, both for the good of the throne and for the love he had for his wife. Viserys should have known the Gods were less than favourable towards him, they have cursed him since birth and for that, he is sorry for the ones who dared to be a part of his life.

Perhaps Rhaenys should have ruled instead, or even young Ser Laenor. Perhaps Daemon. But as it stood, Viserys found himself on the throne, with the duty heavy upon his shoulders. Duty took no breaks because of grief. 

Through his anguish at losing both the loveliest woman there could ever be, as well as his much longed-for son, there have been few lights that have chased away the darkness. Lady Alicent has been one.

Viserys remembers when he first dared to speak to her. The soft voice as she read to him was almost enough to soothe the guilt at having seen Rhaenyra's tears. Her shining smile had chased away the agony of hearing Aemma's screams in his nightmares. Sometimes, in the late hours of the evening, when he could not find rest in a now cold and empty bed, he thought that perhaps with time she might even shine as brightly in his heart as Aemma had. As Aemma still did. 

Viserys understood why in his final moments his own grandsire had requested that the young Lady read to him. Lady Alicent's soothing voice and presence took one's ailment away with the snap of her slender fingers, a siren's song that one could not escape before being trapped in her embrace. Her beauty was one few could hope for. Bow-shaped lips, high cheekbones and hazel eyes that never cease to wander.

The council had been pestering him to consider remarrying before Aemma’s body was cold, even after having named Rhaenyra heir instead of Daemon. Viserys had not wanted to consider it, for moons he had pushed away any thought of it that strayed inside his mind; however, Lady Alicent's warmth was enough to make him at least think about it, if only for a second. ‘In the end, it was for the best.’ She had given him four children, three of which boys proved to be suitable spares if Rhaenyra ever came to pass.

He methodically twists the signet ring between his fingers, his thoughts taking the form of the words spilling from his councilman's lips.

Lord Jasper Wylde seems to address him in particular, ". . . Mayhap we may have your opinion of it, Your Grace," He says he pretends to clear his throat to garner attention after his query is not immediately regarded. It is a simple thing and yet successful nonetheless. Viserys sits up putting on a joyful smile so as to not raise suspicion of his lack of interest.

"What a wonderful idea, my Lord," Viserys answers, even though he does not really know what he finds himself agreeing to. It seems to be the right answer to a select few, as Otto radiates happiness from the other lord's side. 

"That is excellent news, Your Grace. When should we send out the letters?" Asks Grand Maester Mellos.

Lord Tyland Lannister, the youngest of his men, leans back against his seat. "It should be as soon as possible, the wedding between Prince Aegon and the crown Princess Rhaenyra deserves to be celebrated lavishly," Viserys' heart sinks. A wave of dread washes over him as the reality of the words sinks in. 

"Are you well, Your Grace?"

With a weak laugh, he merely waves off the concern. "My mind has been rather scattered as of late, the new year brings so many changes. A wedding for my own two children will be one of the biggest celebrations the Realm has ever seen."

Viserys would have liked to see it be set in stone by two different parties, maybe a young Crownlander who would treat his daughter well and grant her security. Alas, he cannot deny that Aegon would grant her every bit of security Rhaenyra would ever need if push came to shove.

His men do not question his word, the duty of a king is more than a little taxing. Ser Tyland in particular gives him a worthwhile grin. "Oh, do not worry, Your Grace. We will take care of everything to take your mind off the stress."

Lord Otto hums in approval, adding. "We should also begin preparations for the feast, the food, the entertainment, the accommodations for the guests. . . There is much to be done."

As his men congratulate him and Otto for the uniting of their family once more Viserys finds himself dreading what is to come after. What is to become of Rhaenyra and Aegon once everything is done?

Neither his son nor daughter hold high admiration for each other and it is clear that neither of the two will relish in this union once it's officiated. He knows all too well the pain of a loveless marriage, and the thought of either of them ending up as Daemon did with his own wife weighs heavily on his heart.

Viserys sighs as he leans on his hand to hide his form sagging, he should take his words back. He is king and his word is undeniably law - and yet he refrains. The anger will just pass from one person to another, the people who knew of the betrothal set out between Rhaenyra and Aegon, those who anxiously cannot wait until they stand atop the podium in the high Sept and share their vows with one another would be more than a bit slighted by his unwillingness to come to a decision. While others would find themselves burdened with the latching onto another more viable heir for the throne.

After a moment of thought, Viserys adds another order instead of changing his decision."However, I would like both Rhaenyra and Aegon to not be informed about the decision until we have everything in order. It would be better for all of us to be saved from their complaints."

Hopefully, in that time he will have a course of action to mend the rift between them. They are both still young and there is still time for the tides to change at the very least. 

The meeting has no reason to go on any longer and soon comes to an end. Otto is the first to leave, walking in long strides — obviously off to compile the letters to every noble to let them know of the decision that has been weighing on their mind for years.

Before the King can follow suit, and go his own way, the Princess of Dragonstone turns the corner surrounded by her entourage. Rhaenyra smiles once she spots him, clad in a gown of blue that makes her look like the Maiden herself.

"Have you gone through the Council meeting without me, Father," She asks with a mischievous grin on her young face. The thought of putting a frown on it makes his insides churn.

"We had private matters to discuss," He says, taking her cheek in his hand. "Much too drab for a Princess such as yourself to be taken with."

His daughter merely hums and offers to help him with his coffers which he ruefully denies. 

He writes a letter to Maester Mellos addressing his many issues and troubles once he settles back in his chambers. The man is a close friend, close enough that he could trust that he would give him some form of comfort that he could not receive anywhere else.

Before night sets in, when Viserys has gathered all his arguments, he goes towards the Queen's chambers. He finds Alicent seated on the plush cushion of divan, no more watching than reading as their eldest children run around in circles in the large room, Aegon chasing after Helaena and Aemond tries to catch up to the both of them as much as his little legs can carry him. The King attempts to stifle joy he feels at the endearing sight — what better is there in the world than the innocence of a child? However, it is hard not to notice that his eldest boy is still a babe with the way he acts. Perhaps if he weren't so foolish, he would have seen this problem arise earlier. 

"Good evening, my dearest wife." 

"Viserys," Alicent looks up from her book, the inquisitive shine in her hazel eyes hard to ignore. "I did not think you would visit my chambers this morrow," At the acknowledgement of their father the children begin to join in on the curiosity, momentarily halting their game to look at him. "The children have missed you dearly, especially little Helaena. The precious girl can barely pass a candle mark without asking when she will next see you."

Helaena nods her head along at the recognition, her tiny feet padding across the stone floors as she wanders closer to him. "I have waited all day for you, Father. You promised to take me to the stables, I want a horse of my own for my nameday," Viserys can only chuckle softly at his youngest daughter's request. No other is sweeter than her nor holds such an innocent presence in the entire castle, maybe even the entire Realm if he believes it to be so.

Viserys kneels over to press a kiss to her cheek with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I will take you to the stables some other time, my dear. I must speak to your Mother first."

"Have I done you wrong, my King?"

His wife was a delicate woman when she wanted to be. All sweet words and light and flattery compliments slipping from her tongue like the sweetest of wines from the Reach sticking to Viserys' ears each time without fail. After the birth of their fourth child, Daeron she found herself quite eager to play the part of the attentively clingy mother to him. He is their last child after all and soon all of their children will fly from the coop if they were so lucky to find them matches.

Viserys laughs at the thought. "Far from that, my dear. In fact, I may say I have a grand surprise for you."

"Ser Criston, perhaps you can take the children to the garden. Let them run through their energy in time for dinner."

The loyal Kinggaurd nods and turns to address the children of which only Aegon truly listens, taking the man's hand and following him through the doors with Helaena and Aemond sullenly following after. His eldest son holds Ser Criston in the highest of regards, it is perhaps one of the only things that makes him happy in all honesty. If not for him, who knows how Aegon would fare?

The King is pulled from his thoughts once more with the touch of his wife. "Viserys? You wished to speak?"

"Oh, yes. I have not much rest, my mind wanders off from time to time, do not worry."

Alicent hums. "One of the many prices to pay for being king."

"The other is the future of your children. . . The eldest ones more so," He says, taking a seat on the plush couch. "And I think it is high time I put the matter of Aegon's future to rest for both of our sakes."

"Tell me you have finally settled this, Viserys," Alicent clasps her hands together as if she were about to recite a hymn of a prayer. "The years do continue to pass and with it so does the Princess's age. Do you not wish to see her settled down with a few children of her own?"

"You know I wish the best for her. . . That is why I have decided Rhaenyra and Aegon will be wed, four moons at the earliest."

"I can't be any happier," Though her voice remains sweet and chaste, Viserys can see the creases over the smile forced upon his wife's lips before she raises a quizzical brow. "Why do you frown so, husband?"

"I can't help but think that I am doing wrong by Rhaenyra," He says. "It was not her fault what Daemon coaxed her into, she was just a girl—"

Before he can find the proper words Alicent is scoffing. "Viserys, Rhaenyra is a woman grown now," She declares. "There are sacrifices she must make in order to make a good Queen and what better than to sate her. . . Urges while we can. You know how men are and more so how they pray on unsuspecting maidens. . ."

Viserys' lips turn into a grim line. The thought of another situation arising in which he would have to restore his daughters honour in the rise of some other vapid lord who thinks himself bigger than the king’s word makes him ill, however, there is the promise that someday soon she will be a wife. "You're right I am just being foolish. Rhaenyra will be queen after all and what better way to prepare her than this?"

Alicent hums. "Of course, we all know our roles well."

There are few things in Rhaenyra's life which she cannot get. If she asked for the moon itself her father would likely find a way to get it for her, even if it meant moving the seven heavens and the Realm. Alas, he cannot give her what she truly desires now.

"Mother says we are getting married soon."

Her half-brother Aegon sits by her side while the rest of the royal family eats away. It is a rare occurrence for her, usually the prince would not speak a word to her and if he did it was rarely anything pleasant. He has been forced to sit by her side in hopes of growing closer and yet Rhaenyra cannot help but despise him with an even greater passion. He is everything she hates about her life and more, not only is he the King's eldest son but he is also the hope of the Realm in some ways. 

"She has been saying that for years now," She sneers, picking at her cooked quail. Aegon simply hums and looks down at his own plate. "She means it this time. She spoke to Father last night and they set a date — 'Gods be damned, woman. Give me three moons and that is that!'"

Rhaenyra cringes at the mocking voice, just the thought of her father speaking such words makes her ill. She had thought if she waited long enough the King would see reason, that this false betrothal would be put to rest and she would be able to have a lord of her choosing or perhaps more desperately a prince. Yet it seems as if the viper’s claws have sunken into the king tighter than before.

The queen has a bright smile on her slender face, picking the best food and sweets for her children to indulge in like no other. She even dares to ask Rhaenyra if she would like an extra slice of pie. Pride must have gotten to her head to consider such an offer, any other day she would have surely reprimanded Rhaenyra for feasting so 'unladylike' in her own words. ‘A Princess such as she should watch her figure,’ She would say. ‘As if I would take any advice from someone like her,’ Rhaenyra thinks to herself.

“Whatever you say,” She says, rolling her eyes in an attempt to play his words off.

When dinner comes to an end the princess makes it her duty to speak to the king before he retires off to bed. The right moment to strike comes just as the queen leaves to usher her children off to bed. "Father, I wish to speak to you," Rhaenyra pulls her arms around his tightly, putting on a petulant pout that always manages to subdue him.

And subdue him she does. The king looks down at her with a worried affection on his aging face. "What is it, my child?" Clutching him a bit tighter, she dares to utter the words that have been bouncing around her head. "Well. . . I wanted to know about the wedding. . . You see, Aegon told me—"

Before Rhaenyra can speak her next word, Father groans with an annoyed look as he addresses Aegon's slight. "Ah, the boy knows how to cause a scene without even knowing.”

So is it true?

Her belly feels tight in knots, ready to burst at the seams. 

"Do you not think it is a bit too soon? I mean Aegon is just a boy, ten if we are to be direct. You cannot expect us to be a worthwhile bride and groom. And how are we supposed to consummate our marriage?"

"I hear your concerns but none of this is an issue," The king continues to walk, dragging Rhaenyra along with him. "I married Aemma when she was no more than eleven and we had a beautiful twelve years together — someday soon you will learn—"

How dare he? 

"Do not bring Mother into this!" Rhaenyra can feel her blood boil at even having to address this. "This is nothing like that! Aegon is a cruel boy who likes to laugh at my misery and you will subject me to a lifetime of that! Have you now shame, do you not love me as much as you say?!"

"Rhaenyra calm yourself! It is time for you to set aside your petty grievances. The betrothal will not be broken, and we must focus on the bigger picture. You are the Crown Princess and you have a responsibility to act as an asset to the kingdom, not a source of additional strife."

Letting go of the King's arm Rhaenyra turns to face him directly. "It has been years, Father, do you not think I have learned my lesson?" It does not even take a moment of hesitation for him to voice his answer, scoff and all. "If you still need to ask, you have learned nothing."

Father brushes past her then, leaving the Princess to her own tumultuous thoughts before turning one last time. "Now go off, it is late."

Rhaenyra does what is asked of her without complaint, she is tired of being in his presence anyhow. The sound of armour clanking is the only thing to keep her composure until she is through the doors and faced with the sight of her ladies all of whom look ready to go to bed themselves before they take in the sight of her.

"Are you well, Princess?" Lady Bertha asks. One of her oldest and dearest friends alongside her younger sister, Wylla, they know Rhaenyra better than she knows herself at times. This may very well be one of those times.

"No, Father refuses to do away with the betrothal," She whispers, still shocked. "He plans for Aegon and I to be married in just a few moons. . . Oh, it is terrible, Bertha."

Rhaenyra finds comfort in the others arms as soon as they wrap around her, gently stroking her silver hair. It makes it easier to succumb to her tears and to the anger that is festering to claw its way out. "How could he think to do something so cruel?" Elinda speaks up, her voice shrill in the depths of her ears. It makes Rhaenyra her tears flow quicker from her eyes.

"It's because he has become a fool for his new wife!" She shouts, the blood in her veins beginning to boil. "Soon I will be no more than a memory in his mind…" It is depressing to even think it will get to such a point but Rhaenyra knows it comes to be more probable as time passes by. There is nothing more vicious than what this is 

"Shall we get you something to free your thoughts?" Wylla steps up to ask, her cheeks flushed a light shade of red.

"Wine! The best brandy the kitchens have to offer,” Rhaenyra says without any second thought. “I want to forget this night ever happened, for as long as I am able to.”

Her ladies curtsy and go on their way and Rhaenyra stands once again to hide herself away in her bedchambers as soon as they are gone, deciding in the flurry of her steps to send her cousin, Laena a letter even though she has not spoken to the other in moons. She is perhaps the only one who could truly understand what she was going through without judgement — she was betrothed to a man she did not love yet she managed to escape with the man of her dreams in the end. Rhaenyra wishes she had the strength to do that even if she knows that it would lead to her being disinherited. 

With a sigh the princess folds the letter, no other thought in her mind than to have the maester send it off before anyone had the chance to see it. The guards who stand idle by her door look at her with an confused expression but dares not to comment, 

Rhaenyra is so caught up in her thoughts that she does not notice the voice calling out to her until the feeling of fingers brushing against her shoulder stops her in her tracks.

“I think you may have dropped something, princess,” He raises his hand to hand her a ring that must have fallen from her fingers in the flurry of her spinning it around the soft skin.

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen as she takes it from him. “Oh, thank you good Ser,” She says, her voice no louder than a whisper in the wind. Ser Harwin Strong seems not to notice it as his gaze stares down at her with curtness. “What are you doing out in the halls so late at night?”

It is a simple question and yet Rhaenyra cannot help but to laugh. It is not as if he is her keeper of any sorts but still she indulges in his curiosity. “I had to send a letter off,” She says and he nods.

“I see,” His armour clanking as he raises his arm to hold the pummel of his sword. “Still a woman of your stature should not be alone.”

Rhaenyra raises a sly brow. “Are you suggesting that you may escort me back to my apartments?”

A smile adorns her face as Ser Harwin stumbles over himself to speak. “Only if you wish for me to do so, princess.”

And so the captain of the City Watch walks with Rhaenyra at a slow and steady pace. Whether he does it by accident or on purpose it does not matter, she revels in it all the same. She cannot help but to stare at the body of a man made of strength and endurance, so different from what she is meant to be tied down to.

“Good night, princess,” Ser Harwin says once she is standing at the doors leading back to the cusps of chambers. “Sleep well.”

Rhaenyra giggles. “Good night. . .”

That night, surrounded by her ladies and cups of wine Rhaenyra sleeps better than she has in years.

"Congratulations daughter, we have won the first battle in this war for the throne,” Otto makes his presence known in the queen's solar, practically bursting over to where Alicent sits idly on the intricate divan going over the plans she has for the wedding. It is hard not to strut over and take his daughter into his arms from pure joy, the feeling radiates through his body with no filter.

The wedding that will be of the King's chosen heir, Rhaenyra and Aegon will surely lead to Viserys reconsidering his decision. Once he realizes that Rhaenyra will be Queen either way the succession goes. 

Though, despite his enthusiasm at the prospect, his daughter seems less than thrilled, her hazel eyes furrowed with a tight crease in her brows. “I would hardly call this a victory, Father,” She says. “There is still the matter of Aegon being a simple prince consort to Rhaenyra’s reign.”

“Nonsense, no one will deny the right of a firstborn son over a mere daughter, Viserys would be a fool to allow it to be so,” The Hand of the King is more than sure of the fact. 

“Then you do not know my husband very well,” She says with a scoff, cutting him off with ease. “He cares for his daughter far too much to slight her in such a way - you should have heard him when I asked him about it. The man is as stubborn as a mule.”

Otto has been alive for fifty-eight years. The second son of a lord who commanded nothing less than to respect and obey. The rules were put in place for a reason, the Realm would crumble in an instant without them. 

“He will gain sense with time,” Is all he adds on the matter, dismissive, before moving on. “I assume the necessary preparations are being made in the meantime.”

“Of course they are,” Alicent states. “My ladies and I went over the guest list quite some time ago and just now I was looking over the decorations to be put up,” she turns to the boy next to her. “I had Aegon come help me since it is his wedding we are planning after all.”

Otto raises a brow at the predicament. “Yes? And what do you have to say about it?” He asks, turning directly to his grandson. Silver hair and bright eyes stare directly back, put off by his sudden shift in conversation. “Mother says if I helped I would get something in return,” Aegon says as his fingers twine with the ribbon on the skirts of his mother’s gown. "I want a dragon."

They have been desperately trying for years to hatch a dragon for Aegon, ever since he was a babe in the cradle and yet it never seems to work out in the end. The egg he had since a babe turned cold when he turned three and the ones in the dragon pit had no better outcome in that regard — it seems as if all hope is being slowly lost or rather fast if mentioning it to the king. Viserys would merely let out a guttural laugh while saying that not all Targaryens are meant to fly. ‘No but the greatest ones are,’ Otto thought to himself and his grandson is meant to be king. What is a ruler if does not have a dragon by his side?

Alicent giggles at her son, stroking the top of his head lovingly despite him speaking out of turn."And you will get a dragon, darling, but you must be patient," Her voice is almost teetering on the edge of a coo. "Besides, have we not enough dragon eggs to keep your impulse sated just for a bit?”

Aegon shakes his head. "All the eggs in the pit have gone cold. I want Silverwing, Mother."

Silverwing. The old beast was holed down in the pits of Dragonstone, far away from court and far away from the likes of young, naive riders. Aegon cannot lay claim to her, not if he wishes to be seen as an actual threat against Rhaenyra’s claim. A dragon born to him would be even grander than that. "What about Vermithor? I'm sure that a handsome beast such as he would—"

"I don't want him!" Aegon shouts, cutting off his mother and twisting his lips into a petulant frown. "Silverwing is mine, I claimed her!"

Having enough of his grandson’s ill temper Otto lets a wave of anger overcome his being, walking forth to meet him halfway. “Enough, Aegon. An attitude like that will get you nowhere in life, especially not once you marry the princess.”

“I don't want to marry Rhaenyra, I hate her,” He says bluntly. “Why must I be the one to take a whore as a wife? Is it not against the Gods will?” Otto feels his shoulders grow tense and his blood runs hot. Why his grandson must be so disobedient he does not know but he refuses to let this sort of behaviour fester. 

Alicent takes hold of Aegon’s arm to get his attention fully. “Do not say such things. That is your wife you are speaking about and you must learn to hold your tongue once you are married,” Through the thick of her words, Alicent does not even seem to believe them. Her lips are twisted into sort of a half grin and her eyes dart off to the side. “An honourable man has no room for rumours like that anyhow.”

Aegon sits up in his seat, clearly unable to contain the flurry of emotions running through him. “But everyone knows, they speak about it all the time, even Grandsire and you say it.”

“That is not meant for you to repeat to the entire Realm—” Before Otto can finish his tangent he is cut off by Alicent once again playing the peacemaker for the boy. “My darling boy, that will mean nothing once she is absolved of her sins.”

“But—”

“Hush. Once you and Rhaenyra reach the Sept you will both be reborn in the light of the Seven. All your sin will be forgiven as long as you stay true to your vows of husband and wife.”

Aegon does not question his mother after that, slumping back in his seat as the words linger in the air. Otto walks towards the window then, his own mind wandering at the speculation of the future to come.

Dear Laena,

I have forgone sending you letters for some time. I promise it is not out of disinterest but out of the pain that comes with it. Each day that passes a new slight strikes me in my core, stripping me down until I am nothing more than a husk of a woman awaiting for refuge.

I thought with time my Father would come to see the error of his way, see that marrying me to Aegon would put an end to the Targaryen dynasty as a whole and yet I couldn't have been more wrong. Can you believe he would take the side of his wench of a wife and the mutts she bore over me, his own daughter? It is as if he does not truly want me to be Queen, at least not without his precious son by my side. 

I can begin to describe the resentment I feel, Laena. I wish you were here in these trying times, I miss you more than you could ever comprehend.

With all love, Rhaenyra Targaryen 

Laena places the letter down on her vanity with a sigh. In all truth, she does not know what to feel, it has been quite a while since her cousin had sent her a letter and even longer since she heard the latest gossip from across the sea. She quite likes it that way in that regard. When Laena had married Daemon against the say of her parents, the string of vile whispers that spread was enough to send any woman into a spiral of contempt. She was the daughter of the Great Sea Snake and Queen who was promised not some tavern wench biding her time with the Rogue Prince. Though she could find herself caring for long, after a few moons of them being married Laena was blessed with the gift of life growing in her womb.

There was no need to be involved in all that pomp and feigned niceties anyhow. What was Westeros if not a cesspool of rumours and plots against itself veiled with the promise of grandeur? Laena is quite sure that she would have been keeled over sooner if forced to stay trapped there.

"Mother," The sweet melody of her youngest daughter's voice draws Laena's attention back to reality. Rhaena is slumped on a cushion next to the burning hearth, looking at the pink egg that lays still in its incubator, unhatched even five years after her and her sister's birth. A sad smile crosses Laena's face as her gaze drifts from her daughter to the unhatched dragon egg, its smooth surface gleaming like polished opal in the flickering light of the fire. Her delicate hands reach out to Rhaena, gently brushing a strand of silvery hair from her young face.

"You always ask about the egg, my darling," Like Laena, Rhaena is soft and gentle with fine features, silver-white hair, and purple eyes, Laena brushes back the silver tresses of her own hair, each ringlet bouncing back into the wave it came from. They encircle her slender face in its glow bringing attention to the plum shade of her eyes and the pink gloss of her down-turned lips. Tall, slender, and beautiful. That is what most describe Laena as and she cannot find herself disagreeing with them and yet youth only dares to accentuate her daughters as she comes to comfort her. "It will hatch when the time is right and not a moment sooner."

Rhaena looks at her mother with wide pure eyes and a gloomy expression. "But I want to be able to fly a dragon like you and Father." 

Laena chuckles softly, stroking her daughter's hair back softly. "My little darling, you are too young for such a responsibility," She replies gently. "Dragons are not mere pets after all and you know how long it took me to claim Vhagar, I am sure I have told you that story plenty of times. Perhaps the same story will play out for you.”

Rhaena's face brightens at the thought, her small hand reaching out to touch the egg again. "Then it's a promise, Mother?" she asks. 

Laena chuckles again, her heart swelling with such joy that she can barely contain herself. "It is a promise, my darling," She replies lovingly. "But you must be patient, these shells are strong, and the dragon inside will take its time to grow strong enough to hatch."

Her daughter nods solemnly, her little hand still caressing the egg as if to coax the beast within to hatch at her will. She is so young, so innocent, and yet so desperate to grow up and take on the world. 

Laena cannot help the pang of sadness that enters her body mixed with resignation. Even through the midst of her happiness she knows that Rhaena will not remain this innocent for long, despite her best efforts. The world is a harsh place, ready to crush any naïve dreams of childhood.

Before she can offer any more encouragement the doors to her chambers open, revealing the sight of her husband, Daemon Targaryen with their eldest daughter, Baela held high in the crook of his arm. "What is it with the long faces?" Daemon asks with a smirk on his lean face. A picture of the handsomest of warriors come to life, each thread of silver hair billowing in the high wind of Pentos.

"I got a letter from King's Landing," Laena says, watching as her husband's eyes flicker with a distant emotion. She knows how Daemon clings on to the word of Rhaenyra. How he feels the need to fill every silence with the mention of her.

"Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Aegon will be married in four moon turns."

Daemon lets out a chuckle. "Right. And I am to assume that we have been cut from the celebrations. If it remains true Viserys still wishes to punish me. After all the efforts he’d made trying to save face after the incident.”

"We did not get a formal invitation, no. But I think it is high time we visited our homeland don't you think?" Laena asks, lifting a high brow. "Rhaena and Baela should have the chance to meet their cousins and their grandparents, Laenor as well. He is their uncle after all.”

How Laena misses her younger brother dearly.

Baela lets out a tiny giggle as Daemon rocks on his heels, a flicker in his eyes just briefly and his smirk falters for just a moment before his expression flattens. Laena knows better than to pass it over. The mention of returning to King's Landing is always harder than him than any other topic it seems. As every time Laena suggests a visit, Daemon's face darkens. “Home,” the venom of such a word spits out as if it had a bitter taste in his mouth. "That place has never been much of a home to me, you know that. But, I suppose I should have expected as much,” He replies, his tone tinged with disdain. “Fine, we will go — but on one condition.”

Word spreads fast throughout the castle about Crown Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Aegon's soon-to-be wedding even faster than when word spread about their betrothal coming to be. Essie remembers the whisper well, ringing through her ears like a symphony. No one could believe that the King would ever consider the young prince to be a suitable bride for the Realm's Delight. He was a boy of five after all and she, fifteen, surely there were other more viable options for the role of a husband. 

However, Essie supposes that it was inevitable when considering the circumstances. One does not sully their reputation the way Princess Rhaenyra had done, with their own uncle no less. Oh, what the smallfolk say about them behind their backs.

Essie thought there would be nothing more to the tale but she was unable to predict the truth Pressing her back against the stone of the castle walls she overhears the Princess's voice ringing through the stairwell leading to the the small turret, it is hard to miss the feathery sweet words she speaks and the light laughter that comes after. 

"You are a crass man when you want to be," The Princess coos, to what man she speaks of Essie does not know but she may be able to make out the thick of his accent. A Riverlander no doubt nasally, loud, and quick to the ears. He has a large frame as well from what she makes out from the length of his shadow.

"I am a mere man in the presence of a beauty such as yourself," It is so dastardly beguiling, so unpromptedly courteous that Essie must hide a gasp behind her hand. Is it not Prince Aegon who Princess Rhaenyra is marrying? What is she doing entertaining a man in such regard, it is as if she is not worried about the consequences of her actions.

Before Essie has more time to ponder on the matter, the sound of footsteps steadily grows heavier in her wake. With nowhere to go without being seen, the maid stumbles about before mindlessly holding her skirts up, a blush forming on her pale cheeks as both prince and companion make their way into view. 

"What are you doing?!" Princess Rhaenyra is quick to ask, pointing an accusing finger at the maid in question. Essie can barely comprehend her words though, the sight of Ser Harwin Strong much too enthralling to ignore. She had thought of him as a chaste man with high morals like most men of the City Watch. From the times Essie had dared to gaze upon him, he embodied all the qualities and then some, standing guard to the King and his children, even the queen when so asked upon. He had even spoken to Princess Rhaenyra in high regard when able, sending her kind looks and nice smiles and—

Oh. How could she have not guessed? It was so obvious and yet she was blind sighted all the same. Turning her blue eyes back to the princess she twists her lips into a trembling smile. "I-I am sorry, Your Grace! I thought I might remind you of the coming Council Meeting, the King has said your presence was important—"

Princess Rhaenyra is quick to interrupt her tangent. "Yes, I do not need to be reminded," The irritation in her voice is palatable and Essie sinks into herself a bit. "Why do you not leave me be and find something to do with yourself?"

"B-but I should be with you to help you dress," Essie tries to explain. "We would not want you to be late after all."

"I can find my rooms just fine on my own. I have Ser Harwin to help guide me and I do not need you to play guard," The princess scoffs. "Go fetch the other maids to get my bath ready and set out my clothes for the day."

It is a cut-and-dry request, and the relief that she will no longer have to be subjected to the princess’ irrate glare has Essie curtsying so low that it would be impossible not to see the top of her blonde head. "Of course, I'll do that right away," Rising to her steady feet once more. She passes a quick glance at the pair before scurrying away, bounding down the empty halls it is easier to find her train of thought once more, the actuality of it all hitting her at full force. 

"What's wrong with you, girl?" Mathilda asks when she barrages into the servant's rooms. Essie does not even acknowledge her fully until she is sure no one can hear her. 

"I have the most interesting news," She says with a stumbling breath unable to contain the words that are ready to slip from her tongue.

"Truly?" Tillet practically jumps up from her seat unaware of the stillness in the room. "Is it about Prince Aegon? What did he say? Did he bring my name anywhere?"

Her bedmate was always the more vulgar of the two, always quick to put herself in a situation she may not be able to get herself out of. ‘What girl doesn't like a bit of fun,’ she says time and time again and maybe — well maybe this time her words have struck against her favour for another. Essie wishes she were more like her in that way so she may understand the happenings between and women better. "He— well he. . . I have not seen him as of late but I'm sure he has been quite busy with the upcoming wedding.”

Tillet's demeanour shifts and a dark frown takes over at Essie’s confession. "Of course, he is expected to fulfil his duty after all.”

"Tillet!" Mathilda scolds, her eyes two burning embers that cannot be snuffed out with a mere frown. “You need to keep your mind off that boy, messing with a prince will not end up well for either of you.”

Essie shakes her head so much she thinks it may fall off her shoulders. "Nevermind, I don't want to dwell on it any longer besides—" Her gaze shifts. "I have other, more important things to tell you"

"I am sure it's just some tale you fabricated, Essie," The younger girl scoffs and it makes her cheeks flush red. "But It’s not! I saw Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Harwin with my own eyes coming down from the turret together. What else would they be doing up there, alone with each other?"

Mathilda's interest seems to come out in an instant, the passion practically wafting off her being at the mention of the Princess's debauchery. "Huh, that is peculiar," She faintly whispers. "Tell me did you see anything else worth mentioning?"

Essie shakes her head. "Not that I could say with confidence."

"Do not worry dear, we will fill in the gaps where we can," Mathilda says.

"Must we?" Asks Tillet, her head dropped over the palm of her hand in boredom. It makes Mathilda scoff, picking up a basket of folded laundry.

"Do you know how much coin we could make with a tale such as this? The Hand would be greatly pleased with knowing what his future granddaughter-in-law is up to in her spare time.”

Essie finds out the answer sooner than she expects, the sight of Larys Strong approaching her during dinner just as she reaches the corner to the steps leading to the kitchens at the pace of a slow crawl, far enough that she notices the racing in her head. The man looks at her with a sort of spark in her eyes that makes it impossible to breathe. “May I help you?” She dares to ask. 

Only the sound of silence fills the air between them.

Rhaenyra walks towards the hall that leads to the royal sept. She has chosen to dress in her nicest gown of red in a square neckline and matched with ermine-lined sleeves. The edges of decorative trim make the weaving of widespread doves and blue birds all that more awestriking to look at. It is a style that she is sure that fits quite well with what she sets out to do on this high evening. Ser Harwin tells her so, his hand coming to brush the side of her waist as he does so, making sure no others can see the act but him.

She can feel her cheeks flush as she stares back at him. “I am not any more beautiful than I am any other day,” Ser Harwin chuckles and places his hand back on the hilt of his sword. “I shall be the judge of that, princess,” He says. “And I say each day your beauty grows with the rise of the sun.”

She finds her cheeks turning a dark shade of pink and her heart begins to beat faster in his wake. The journey before them makes her weak with each step as they reach closer to the doors of the sept until they are walking no more, the knight's voice whispering in her ears a promise just to her. “I must go now but I promise to return — perhaps with a gift or two in my hands.”

As he walks away Rhaenyra cannot help but mourn his departure, hoping that his shift will end soon so they could be together again. No one understands her like Ser Harwin does and no one dares to ever listen to what she has to say — but he does. If Rhaenyra were ever so lucky she would run off and marry him in a village sept with the Gods and themselves to mend the silence. Alas, that reality will never come to be and so she puts to the back of her mind and begins to walk forth. Her eyes look around the sparse crowd that circles around the sept in question, most nobles done with their prayers since morning.

Rhaenyra makes her way over to the line of beautifully crafted urns that are the remains of her ancestors, each one more memorable than the last. She sees her grandfather and grandmother stacked together while their children are placed directly under them. Each name engraved with finely crafted steel and the date of their death. Her finger loops through each one with a gentle tenderness until she reaches the last row.

And then. . . 

Mother is fixed in an urn of cloisonné, it glimmers in the soft light of the room, its brilliant enamel coating catching her eyes. The delicate craftsmanship of the piece shines through from the intricate wires of gold and silver that form an image of a dragon encircling the entire thing with a trail of birds following close behind. It is the entirety of her mother’s image and back again, if Rhaenyra closes her eyes now she just might be able to imagine her standing there with a sweet smile upon her thin face, drawing her into her warm embrace. ‘Mother,’ She would whisper, unable to form the words she wanted to, somewhat fearful of what she may say if she were to look at her now. Rhaenyra has not been the best of women in these coming years and even less of a woman who is meant to rule the seven kingdoms, perhaps her mother is ashamed of her as she sits high above the clouds of the seven heavens. 

For a moment there is silence, leaving nothing but a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. As soon as it comes it goes away, however, the feeling of emptiness taking its place. Rhaenyra opens her eyes once more, staring straight ahead as she stands, she barely notices the sight of silver hair before she collides into it. A soft grunt escapes her lips then and her gaze beats down at the boy in front of her, Aegon staring back with haunting eyes of lilac.

“Why are you here?” Is the first thing to escape Rhaenyra’s lips, irritation replacing the emptiness from before. She can never be left alone can she? 

Rhaenyra wishes he would go away, disappear into a gust of nothingness just as she wishes Alicent and her father would. Maybe then happiness would quell her heart once more. 

Aegon seems to understand her plight, for his demeanour shifts. The graze of his thumb pressed against his lips becomes still and “This is a sept is it not?” He mocks. “You should be well acquainted with it, sister. Our wedding will soon take place in this very structure if we are to be so lucky,” The little fool looks her straight in the eyes as he proclaims his words, his dead eyes beating into her very soul as if trying to light it aflame. It is no wonder why his mother wants to get rid of him so badly. Who could ever deal with a freak like him for longer than they needed to? ‘I bet he doesn’t even have any friends with the way he acts.’

“I would not call it luck anymore than it was circumstance that led us here,” She ends up declaring. “I’m sure no other lady would want to deal with you or your. . . habits for very long,” His eyes flicker off to the side before coming back to meet her smirk. “Now, go and find some animals to talk to, I am sure you will fit right in with them. You practically are one,” She jests.

It takes not a moment longer for her half-brother’s face to turn into a horrid scowl. The edges of his nose wrinkling as he does so.

Rhaenyra merely lifts her shapely brow before going on her way.

Aegon shifts in his seat, staring at the crowd that travelled all the way to Dragonstone to see the betrothed prince and princess for themselves after so many years of waiting. He checks the seat beside him and then checks again, Rhaenyra as stiff as a bored with each ring on her finger being twisted in an absent-minded manner until the skin underneath turns red.

"Stop that,” Mother says by his side, making the steady hum that had overtaken his ears come to an end. Aegon had not even noticed he had started to drift off in his own thoughts before being dragged back to the cold sensation of reality. "And sit up straight, you are a prince, a husband soon enough."

Aegon grunts but does as she says without any more issues. There was no more use in arguing against the inevitable, in the next moon or so he and his half-sister will be standing high in the starry sept as the septon binds them together for all of their natural life — well, that or whenever one of them manages to kill the other from shere pettiness alone. Until then, however, Aegon must deal with that of his family first and foremost.

“What is that you have, cousin?” Bethany Hightower says, her lady mother sits by her side, both of them clad in gowns of orange and pink. They remind him of this dream he had late in the depths of night while riding the waves of the sea. Pink fluttering past the flames of orange and gold, trying to drown him in its endless heat.

The same colours the creature in his hands is. The scaled, winged lizard squirming around, trying to escape his hold and slither back into the grass — Aegon was lucky to catch him when he did, a lizard of this species only came out during the late hours of the night and buried themselves back in the ground come morning. He tells his cousin as he strokes its back with tender care. 

His aunt smiles sweetly or perhaps more so a  grimace, Aegon can never truly tell the difference. However, he can see the way her body jerks away at the admission. “How can you tell the difference?”

“He has a relatively flat body with a rougher, granular type of skin and his head is covered by large, smooth plates,” Aegon’s finger slips into the lizard's mouth for a split second and his dead eyes stare back at Aegon’s own. “Their eyes are covered by immoveable, transparent membranes. . . like their eyelids of sorts.”

A distant hum comes from their lips, his aunt clasping her hands together in some form of joy. “Quite the astute little prince you are! My own son–” 

"I'm not done," Aegon says, turning back to meet their eyes for the first time since the conversation began. “He also has wings, like a dragon.” 

“Isn’t that great, sweetling?” Mother chimes in as she addresses the other woman. “He is quite intelligent in that regard, I only hope that he will continue on the path,” The feeling of her hand touching his shoulder makes him jerk away if only for a moment, it barely has the time to settle before being put to rest. Although, Aegon can hear the aftermath of his deed — the laugh that slips from his mothers lips, short and sparse of any joy and his grandfather finally speaks

"Put your hands down when you speak and look them in the eye," He says, the frown on his ageing face making him look like a lizard himself. "Do you wish to be rude?"

“Be easy on him, Father. He’s still learning,” Mother’s words do nothing to change the scowl that resides, meant for Aegon to take in and learn from. 

All turns quiet then and the prince is left to his own devices once more, his mother entertaining their family and the nobles around them much to focused on their own groupings to pay any attention to him and so Aegon continues to study the lizard until it manages to slip from his grasp, gone into the mass of people and back to its home.

He stands then, finds that his feet are quick to lead him towards the exit of the gardens. The servants pass by him without a second thought as he winds his way through halls and gates that lead to gravel pathways until he is face to face with the enormous volcanic structure.

The journey up the volcano to the pit in question is a strenuous one and Aegon finds himself stopping once or twice on the rocky path until he slips his body through a tunnel of its core, letting smoking steam come up as he descends down the eastern slopes of it. His voice rings through the rumbling.

Maybe a dragon will hear his song. Silverwing if he were to be so lucky.

Solemnly sitting, a mountain peaks above,

In the shadows they sit, dragons of stone,

Watching, waiting, guarding what's below,

A hoard of tales, of fire and gold,

Aegon stops in his tracks once he spots the head of the silvery she-dragon poking out to see the disturbance. Her white pearl eyes examine him as he starts to crawl closer to her, she will be his he knows it, Aegon has wanted this since the first time he ever heard of her and now his wants will finally come true. He raises his hand to gently caress her scales, however, before he can even lay a finger on her she turns away from him at the last second, descending back into her hole to be rid of him.

It is the greatest shame Aegon has ever felt. 

From the corner of Aegon's eye, he can spot a flicker of gold peeking out from the shadows, the soft rays of light bouncing off and creating a luminous glow that bounces off the scales of the large beast that passes by. There is no doubt that it is a dragon and he slinks back near the edge of some scattered rocks, watching as the beast sniffs out the area, seemingly attempting to find the scent of an unwanted presence. Aegon holds his breath and prays that the beast does not find him, finding that his nerve had dwindled since Silverwing rejected him. ‘Mayhap i was not made to have a dragon of my own,’ his thought comes to a halt when a thick huff of fog is blown into his face and he is forced to open his eyes.

Several sharp teeth poke out from the side of the beast's mouth, revealing only a fraction of the terror hiding inside. The length of his horns, sharp and bent back like arrows, a true menace and still he found his way to Aegon out of all. A high grumbling sound comes from his throat as the pink flap of skin below his jaw pushes forward and 'puff up' urging Aegon to continue and so he does.

So many legends, so many myths,

Yet it watches, it waits for the day to come,

A creature of peace, a creature of love,

Just guarding and watching, waiting to soar to the sky above,

The beast spreads its wings out as far as they can go, his head tilting side to side in some sort of rhythmic trance at the sound of Aegon's voice. The boy clenches his hands together and suppresses the urge to flutter his fingers about as if a beast of such a fearful presence would make fun of him for it as his brother and some others do.

Though it is not as if the dragon is paying much mind to that fact as he draws ever closer, a faint hissing sound comes from its nostrils. Marble-coloured eyes focus on something Aegon cannot make out until its snout lays rest against the middle of his chest and a soft purring makes itself known. 

"Naejot Māzīs, my pet," Aegon should not claim his declaration so boldly, he should not be so confident that he will finally have a dragon of his own and yet he cannot stop himself, bouncing off the tips of his feet as he watches the golden beast stares at him, his molten eyes, stalking, waiting as if he could make out Aegon's intentions with him before kneeling down. It is an invitation and the prince does not pass on, lifting himself up to his feet to climb atop his back with ease.

It feels strange at first but the warmth emanating from his scales brings comfort, the golden hue searing its place in his retinas and marking the dragon as his. . .  

Sunfyre.

"Three cheers for the future king!" The sound of Aegon's uncle's merriment can be heard from even the faintest of ears hauled up in the establishment as the group makes their way inside. Leyton's arm grips Aegon's shoulder in a tight vice that makes it impossible to break away from no matter how hard he clenches in on himself. The eyes of peasants and whores alike beat down into his very being until his stomach roils for refuge, there is a brief moment of respite when the slink towards the back where not many could be seen.

"Rhaenyra will be queen and I no more than a consort," Just the words brushing off his tongue sound horrid in every way and yet it is better than the other possibility. At least with his half-sister ruling Aegon would not have to be caught up in the web of politics and playing nice with nobles he cared little for and even less about their insignificant problems. 

Another man, Ser Edric, laughs by their side as he sinks back into his seat with a light smirk, his eyes shifting around the pretty women that pass by. "Don't sell yourself short. I'm sure with the wits of a woman on the throne your presence would be doubled compared to that of any other consort!"

Many of the patrons laugh at his bold claim, Aegon seldom smiling along. The euphoria hangs heavy over them and the drinks with it though the prince never touches a sip, not until his uncle staggers back over with a wench close to his side. A cup of wine gets quickly passed over to him then. "To you, my boy!"

Aegon stares down at the cup in his hands, the wisps of thick ale marking their claim to his nose and staining his sense of smell. He had never been permitted to drink more than a sip of wine from his father's own cup before even on his earliest of namedays, his mother thought it would impair his senses much more than a young boy should need.

Clenching the cup in his hands now he cannot help but wonder what it must taste like, its properties calling to him like a hymn to the Gods egged on by the group of men who chant for him to take a sip. A fist bangs down on the table and then another and another, the pace of his heart matches its threatening barrage of assault on his ears and then. . . 

"Good lad! Shouts his uncle. "Bet you never had that before have you?"

Aegon shakes his head and brings his free thumb to the crest of his lips, holding back the urge to hum at the burn that comes up from the back of his throat. Luckily, he is distracted by an arm coming across his shoulder to notice it longer than he has to.

"So, which one have you taken a liken to?" Ser Erryk whispers in his ears and Aegon has to follow his drunken gaze to understand what he means exactly. The brothel is rather sparse on this night and the bodies of women hang out on the balconies and in the company of men who hang them over their laps in pride.

Soon, Aegon's eyes find that of a large-breasted redheaded woman. Her laughter can be heard from the depths of the establishment and her blue eyes twinkle with mirth with every patron she passes by, her eyes come to their table a few times making it easier to see the stark lines of age that do well to mark her maturity — she is probably the least scariest thing to look at here. "That one."

Ser Erryk whistles. "Ah, Tansy! Good choice, she's a naturalist!"

"And foreign!" Uncle Leyton shouts, throwing his cup down on the table. He is quick to wave over the wench who is quick to take in the request with no questions asked. Her bright eyes beat into Aegon as she lets out a throaty chuckle. "I got something special just for you," His ears perk up for a moment and he tugs on the bones of his fingers at what gift could be offered for him. Well, that is before the table goes wild and then he finally registers the implication, "A whore a of your very own pleasure!"

Aegon turns a dark shade of red as he sinks deeper into his chair. "I don't want–"

The whore, Tansy laughs, cutting him off in turn. "Don't be shy, my prince!" She says, teasing the knot holding the laces of his doublet in place. "What will you do once you begin sharing your wife's bed?!"

His uncle nods along with her, pinching the thigh of another woman as she passes by. "If you wish to bed every girl and tavern worker in the city, you should just do it. It is in your right."

Aegon swallows down a thick glob of saliva and nods his hand as he stands, allowing himself to be led towards the thinly veiled room near the steps of the stairwell, close enough to hear the patrons and all of their drunken enjoyment. However it all ceases to exist once Aegon is seated on the plush bed, his back against the stone wall, allowing himself to take in the sight of the woman before him.

"Relax," She says as if a simple command could make the weight in his chest disappear in an instant. Even as her hands massage his shoulders it feels as if he wants to tear his skin off to be free from the prickling sensation.

"I'll make you feel good. . ." A flicker, a spark. "My touch. . ." A flame starts in the deepest pits of his being. "My hold. . ." The smoke feels as if it is suffocating him. He has no other choice but to the voices outside, for a small gust of air to enter his lungs.

"Gwayne!" A shot shoots down Aegon's spine, his breathing becoming heavier as if he had been suddenly allowed to breathe. "You came just in time, watch as our nephew finally becomes a man!"

The wench giggles at the proclamation, she will be the one who will make Aegon a man, that fact sticking to her like a thick glob of honey stuck to a tree — the same feeling that shoots through him, though for different reasons.

He is supposed to enjoy this and it. . . Why can't he?

His body responds in the ways it's supposed to, a sharp gasp leaves his lips and his hands find themselves grasping the bedding. Even though it was happening all so fast, far too fast for his mind to keep up and understand it all this was meant to happen. It is difficult to even form a single coherent thought, each sense of his overwhelmed as she continues to come close to him, nearly on top of him and he is able to feel every breath upon his neck and her body heat radiating from her skin. His head is spinning, and he can feel a cold sweat running down his face but the joy is absent, the heat is absent, the satisfaction is absent.

He wants to be a man.

"A man, huh?" Gwayne asks. "And tell me what could he offer any woman?"

A pair of hands reach down to the buckle of his belt, teasing the notion of going further than whatever this is and he lets it for he is incapable of forming the right words to put it to an end, the notion that he had failed the test set out for him.

"You're drunk, Leyton."

And suddenly. . . He goes rigid. A deep sense of forlorn hangs over him like a blanket and swallows him in the depths of darkness before he can even take his next breath. The hands that once seared his skin come to a stop and the mocking voice along with it. Instead, piercing blue eyes look down at him, blue like the skies of morning where he is free to roam the skies with Sunfyre, where birds roam in search of a place to rest, circling the distance and back again free from it all. He thinks of them fearing he may crumble into dust if he lets his thoughts take over even for a mere second. 

Aegon does not know what is right or wrong, the glimpses of sight that come about through the mist of fog feeling like a memory more so than it is the truth. Unease coils through his being before a hand touches his thigh, the warm feeling of a body so well known to him and yet distant all the same draws him in despite fearing the worst is coming. No rough grip or heavy weight is pressing against him like there was before. It quells his spirit like no other and when the faint wisps of a voice peak through the noise he cannot help but put his mind to rest.

"Don't worry, nephew, it happens to every boy."

Aegon wakes up the next morning with the same fog hanging over him from the night before. Somehow it's thicker, choking him in its tight embrace. There is a brief moment where he dares to peek from under his sheets and eye the sun beating through his window before letting out a tired groan. If he could stay in bed all day he would forget everything that transpired.

"You must get up, my prince," Says. . . Someone, his head feels too heavy to make sense of it leaving it up to a whine to placid the growing headache overcoming his thoughts. 

"Are you half asleep?" She asks. "Are you. . . I told Leyton not to take you down there. . . He never listens," The grip on his arm tightens as he is pulled closer to her chest. Aegon hates the dread that strikes through him then, as if for a moment he may find himself trapped in that room again. "My son –  hungover on his own wedding day."

She doesn't know the whole story and for that, Aegon is at least a bit grateful but her words beat into his head all the same. The disappointment seeped through the thick of anxious tone.

Before Aegon knows it he is dressed in his wedding garbs — dark breeches and an embroidered green doublet with slashed sleeves that reveal the red undershirt underneath. His black cloak falling down his back with the House Targaryen stitched on the other side. Around his head, there is a simple golden band, and his hair is tied and looks freshly washed. 

It feels as if he is staring through a reflection, the person in front of him no different from a stranger he may pass in the halls. 

Outside is even worse, the mass of peasants hounding each side of the royal palanquin with a fervour that is saved for only the most lavish of occasions, the wedding of the crown princess and first son no exception to that claim. The noise is overwhelming amongst the buzzing in his head and his peripheral vision turns blurry, he can only focus on a small direct tunnel in front of him.

Aegon wants to be with Sunfyre, the dragon probably lonely all by himself in the pits. He is rather new after all and the other dragons have not yet had the chance to get acquainted with him, they are the same in that regard — Aegon can just imagine the sound of his cries as awaits for him to comfort him once more.

"Fix your face, 'tis a wedding" Father steps forth from his side, whispering close to his ear so no others may hear. How long Aegon has been lost in his own thoughts is a great mystery to even himself. "The Realm must see us as a united front."

Aegon rolls his eyes. "Does it matter?" He asks. "This celebration is merely a hoax."

He Can feel the very moment in which his father's demeanour turns heavy though he cannot bring himself to care, he half had years to be acquainted with this side of him. 'I may be a son but I will never have my father's heart. Always second to Rhaenyra.'

Stood atop the altar Aegon looks towards the window reflecting the sights of the city before him, leading all the way up the Red Keep itself. This place was the start of the existence of their prominence, where the conqueror bid his duty as sovereign of all things past and before these great walls. A place of lively colours of pinks, purple, greens, browns, and greys. Brown buildings and green pastures, grey stone lining the monuments of victory and pink and purple skies once the sun sets into the sea beside them. Aegon knows all there is to be a Targaryen. He is named after the Conqueror, after all,  made to follow in his footsteps. He knows pieces of what came before him and what came after. What he did not know he did his best to learn, from the most ancient of textbooks to the earliest known knowledge able to be taken from the maesters. He makes sure to keep the Gods close to his heart and never forget their wishes and yet. . . 

The door opens in his wake of mourning, the sight of Rhaenyra is the first thing he sees once he turns. Ever the beauty she is, clad in the most chaste of white gowns with a glow hailed over by the Gods themselves on this blessed day. The Maiden's daughter comes to life. Every gaze turns to her in reverence.

Aegon hears the whispers before they even come to be. How lucky is it that he managed to marry a woman like her? A foolish match with dire consequences. Only a fool would choose to be stuck with his husband. For them, Aegon is always the disregarded heir.

The Realm’s Delight. The forgotten son. 

He tilts his head down and lets the first stray of tears stain his cheeks like a lover's kiss in the calmest of mornings, slivering between the crest of his lips and staining his tongue. The taste of salt. The taste of yearnings, wanting. The taste of ash. 

Rhaenyra dares to look at herself in the reflection of the golden edging of the doors leading into the Sept as her lady, Lysa Bettley fixes the train of her wedding gown. It is an ugly thing with a wide shape that makes her look more like a sack of potatoes than the beautiful and regal princess that she is. Her long, wide sleeves drag across the carpeted floors. It is hard to hide her disappointment in her face. 'Is my wedding dress meant to conceal me so that Alicent may shame me for my disobedience?' She muses bitterly.

At the very least colouring is respectable, white as all maidenly gowns are with fine stitching of black the curves into the shape of coiled dragons studded with rubies. If Rhaenyra is lucky no one will make a comment on it, perhaps focus on her hair instead — the maids have done a fine job with it, silver and gold braids twisted into a high updo with threads of white bears hanging down.

Lady Lysa comes up from behind her and places both hands on her shoulders. She smiles nicely at the sight of her face. "You look beautiful, my princess," She says with a soft-spoken tone. "It's a dress fit for a queen, I dare say."

Rhaenyra hums. It does not matter how much everyone tries to cast away her anger it only makes it harder to manage. Father gave her the same spiel this morning just before he hurried off to the sept. Alas, she thinks no more of it for now her white knight has made himself known though with a hardened look on his tanned face.

“What is wrong, Ser?”

"You should try to. . . mend the ties between you and prince Aegon," He tells her, a green eye fixed on the space below her neck as if he is afraid of looking her in the eye with his proclamation. ‘As he should’ Rhaenyra thinks to herself. Who does he think he is to speak about her relationship, much less think he may have a say so?’

"Who are you to tell me what to do?"

"It is merely a bit of council," Ser Criston says. "I would not want either of you to fall victim to temptations no matter how hard it becomes.”

Rhaneyra sniggers a bit under her breath. "I bet you are merely jealous of all the attention I have come to receive.”

"You must be mistaken, princess, what would I be jealous of?" He hands grip the pommel of his sword as he turns around fully, Fear eludes him now as does the respect. "I have done  without the need of the crown's attention and much less from a naive girl who thinks herself smart enough to know the ways of men."

Rhaenyra can barely contain her shock. Never has Ser Criston spoken out of turn like this, to be so brazen with the happenings of her life that was more for a simple man like him to understand. He was of no great importance, merely a steward from the Dornish Marches. "How dare you speak to me in such a way! I should have your cloak removed as soon as I tell my father!”

"I ask that you tell your father of Ser Strong's transgressions as well," His words are like poison on her skin. "I am sure the king would be delighted to know how a man of his station preys on those so close to him for a sense of power.”

Rhaenyra scowls. "I'll have you know that Ser Harwin is a better man than you will ever be, he would not dare speak to me as if i were his equal less of below him. He knows how to treat a maiden.”

"Just as Prince Daemon did? Trust I will not tremble to a man who throws honour to the wind so carelessly.”

Rhaenyra scoffs at the offence. "Go away!" She yells so loud that she can hear her voice bounce off the high walls. "I don't want to hear from you anymore!" Just looking at him makes her blood heat up in her veins. "A snake in the disguise of a man! I am sure you and my step-family will get along well in that regard! Go play the fool for them and pray that you do not meet your fall!"

Father's voice stops the argument from going any further, his presence bursting through the doors at the sight of her. As if he had not gotten a better look of her in the early hours of the morning.

"Rhaenyra are you well?" A moment of silence clouds the hall with its presence, each gaze becoming more penetrating than the other. The princess merely huffs and takes his arm in her hands, ignoring Ser Criston in favour of never having to see him again.

The Sept is awash with the sounds of the bards' harps and lutes, playing a sweet melody that seems to echo through the walls of the great Sept of King's Landing. The air is thick with the scent of incense, and the light of hundreds of candles and lamps flickers warmly against the stained glass windows. The assembled lords and ladies are dressed in their finest apparel, and the Sept is filled with the rustle and whispers of their rich fabrics. 

By the left of the High Septon, Aegon manages to catch her line of sight first. He somehow manages to make a decent groom when he dares to dress the part of one. He lifts his eyes to meet Rhaenyra’s gaze, beginning to fiddle with the clasp of his cloak before straightening his posture and lowering his head in some form of rejection. It is clear to tell that he is nervously waiting for this all to be over, but Rhaenyra has little cause to care for any of his slights against her.

Rhaenyra has every cause to be nervous herself for there is not a soul here who is not watching their union take place. Despite the commotion surrounding the events of it happening and the whispers of it being called off no lord or lady, nor any of the smallfolk, chooses to skip the ceremony. In fact, the Sept is filled to the brim with guests, the peasants outnumbering the the midst of the nobles here by a large margin, and crowds of people spill out onto the streets, crammed as far back as the eye can see, blocking the roads beyond the city walls of King's Landing. 

The Hightowers, especially, are present in all their glory. As Rhaenyra looks upon the throng of them, it is apparent that they are a formidable force indeed. The sheer number of them alone  seem to tower over even the greatest of the grander Houses, casting a long shadow on the proceedings. And yet, despite their obvious pride and strength, Rhaenyra cannot discern whether the Hightowers are delighted or outraged by the happenings before them. Their faces, high with unremarkable sullenness, are as unreadable as the skies of which her ancestors have ruled for centuries. 

Queen Alicent and Ser Otto stand the most prevalent of them all in vibrant shades of green with small smiles on their petulant lips, her stepmother’s stands more as a grimace than anything close to true joy. Rhaenyra finds it quite confusing — she is the one who wanted this whole ordeal to come about and still she mourns. The other three of Alicent's children all stand lined up between the two, the claws of their mother digging into them with a vice grip. 

Helaena, her sickeningly sweet sister is the most joyous out of everyone, smiling as wide as her pink cheeks will allow. Aemond however stares at the altar with an absent look glazed over his eyes. There is little he cares about more than frivolous things such as parties — weddings especially. The youngest out of all her brothers, Daeron, no older than one is the most confused about the whole affair. He trails his pale eyes across the Sept looking for answers while his mother chides him for pulling on the hem of her gown.

Her father is slow to lead her up the steps of the podium as if he is regretting bringing this wedding to existence. It is a slow but catching scene as the crowd stares with bated breath waiting until finally she and Aegon are finally facing each other.

"Today we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever." 

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. May the Father grant them protection and justice to all they may need until called back in the seven heavens above, May the Mother grant them many children and protect them under her watchful eye."

As the High Septon speaks, the guests rise to their feet, their heads held high as the Septas light the candles. "May the Warrior grant Prince Aegon the courage to protect his wife, May the Smith grant them strength from all harm, May the Maiden grant them the purity to remain good chaste and loyal to one another, May the Crone grant them wisdom through the darkness, and may the Stranger stray far from their path."

After the dragged on monotonous voice of the Septon ceases Seven vows are made, and seven promises are exchanged between the two. 

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes particularly when she is to speak his seventh promise to Aegon. "I promise to keep your bed warm every night,” A grand jest that makes his pale face turn as red as the cloak on his back.

The wedding song is sung with all the majesty and grandeur one would expect from such a union. The voices rise and fall, the notes flowing smoothly and effortlessly, filling the hall with the sound of euphoria making the final chance for anyone to raise concerns or objections to the union all the more nerve-racking.

The hall goes quiet for a moment, the crowd holding their breath. And then, after a few moments, it becomes clear that there are no objections that will be made. 'Damn you all!' Rhaenyra says silently, tears prickling in the corner of her eyes from frustration.

Aegon is handed a cloak with the Targaryen colours by an attendant. He looks at Rhaenyra, his eyes staring through her as he comes forth without a second thought. She stands taller than him and must bend down to allow her cloak to be unclasped by his unsteady hands. He gently drapes the Targaryen cloak over Rhaenyra's shoulders. It's heavy and warm and fits her shoulders comfortably. From where she stands the smell of her brother washes over her and it feels like the end of her. It is a pitiful display and as soon as it is over Rhaenyra pulls herself away, creating a distance between them once more.

"Now, Look upon one another and say the words." The Septon proclaims, binding their hands together with a ribbon. 

The blood begins to rush to her ears. Rhaenyra is scarcely in the right state of mind to utter the words she is meant to say aloud even though she has practised them over a hundred times and back again. Yet she has no choice, her voice trembling as she and Aegon finalize their ceremony. 

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger."

"I am his and he is mine," Rhaenyra grits through the clench of her teeth. "From this day until the end of my days. With this kiss, I pledge my love."

For a moment all is still, the entirety of the realm waiting for the future of the Targaryen dynasty to be tied together before them. Rhaenyra clenches her fingers together, almost drawing blood from its core.

Rhaenyra places a kiss on her half-brother’s dry ones, a strip of salt touching her own as she back away licks the feeling away. This is nothing she dreamt about, nor was it as it was fulfilling as she had hoped from a future husband. When Rhaenyra zeroes in on the sight before her it is hard to ignore the glazed-over look in her brother's eyes, his body a stiff mass of rigged tension that refuses to free itself from its container and yet she cannot bring herself to care. 

"Let it be known that Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Aegon of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." The sound reverberates along the walls of the Sept sending shockwaves through her bones.

They are meant to be dragons – born of fire and blood and she cannot help but feel as if her spirit has been turned into ash.