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“Aegon,” said Helaena one night as she rocked Jaehaera to sleep, “have you noticed something about the twins?”
Aegon, half-dazed from the drinks he had downed earlier and about to sneak off to the brothel, didn’t lift his eyes before replying distractedly, “What? Whatever it is, just send in the Maesters to check.”
Helaena shook her head slightly. “No, it’s something else.”
Aegon didn’t respond, so Helaena carried on. “It’s their eyes. The color seems lighter than yours or mine. They look like Aemond’s.”
Aegon tried to shake off the haze of alcohol. After a moment, he blinked and asked, still sounding confused, “Aemond?”
“Yes. Come to think of it, their jawlines are sharper than yours, don’t you think?” continued Helaena, as if this were a normal topic of conversation between the Targaryen king and queen.
Slowly, Aegon’s mind began to clear. He bit out, “You mean to tell me that Aemond fathered my children? Jaehaerys and Jaehaera—they’re not mine?”
Helaena hummed softly as Jaehaera drifted off to sleep. She paused, considered for a moment, then said, “Well, Aemond always said it was his duty to take care of things in your absence.”
A wine cup shattered against the floor. Helaena hurriedly covered Jaehaera’s ears to keep her asleep. In the corner of the chamber, Jaehaerys squirmed at the noise but quickly settled back to sleep.
Aegon stormed over, glaring at his queen and the serene young princess in her arms. For a moment, he considered grabbing Helaena’s wrist and yanking her toward him—but he didn’t.
Despite what many believed, he had never laid a hand on his sister.
He couldn’t explain why. As a man and king who had always taken what he wanted through violence and power, he often found himself helpless, unable to deal with his wife. They had nothing to talk about, barely shared a bed—of course the babes weren’t his.
"What a fool you are, Aegon." He let out a bitter chuckle and steadied himself, his vision blurring for a fleeting moment as he forced back his tears.
Helaena simply stared, head tilted, as if pondering a difficult question. Her indifference stung more than Aegon cared to admit.
This was always meant to be an arranged marriage. He had never wanted to marry his sister, and he knew Helaena felt the same. Still, it struck like a dagger to the heart—swift and merciless.
He looked at Jaehaera’s little face. Not long ago, he had proudly told his Kingsguard that she would make an excellent cupbearer alongside Jaehaerys once they were old enough to attend the small council.
Now, the thought felt like a cruel joke.
Aemond had probably sat at the table, watching as his brother held Jaehaerys on his knee—taunting, laughing at him.
“You’re nothing but a clown wearing a crown. A puppet who doesn’t even realize he’s being manipulated.”
That’s what Aemond would say. Useless. And Aegon knew it.
Despite acting as if he were oblivious to how his grandfather and the small council dismissed him—despite pretending that nothing in this world mattered to him beyond booze and women—he CARED. There simply weren’t many things in this world that were truly his to care for.
His children were. And he had thought Helaena was too—though he refused to admit it. Instead, he ignored her, proclaiming to his mother and grandfather how much he resented being forced into this marriage.
But the truth still cut deep. And what hurt most of all was that Helaena didn’t seem to care if he knew.
Was it because he had been absent, because he had neglected her? Or was it because she truly loved Aemond?
The fine wine from the Reach churned in his stomach. Aegon wanted to scream, to tear his stomach inside out—purge both the wine and the vile thought festering within him.
His gaze snapped to the armor by the door, the sword hanging beside it. I’ll kill him, then, he thought.
But Helaena... would Aemond’s death break her heart?
He shook his head and, slowly, sank onto the cold nursery floor.
It couldn’t be. Not Aemond, that cold bastard. Surely, despite all the history, philosophy, and fuck-knows-what other nonsense he buried himself in, Helaena couldn’t have loved that boring old fuck.
Aegon was far more interesting than him—he just hadn’t been around much, busy with his ventures in Flea Bottom and all that. Had he been around more, he’d have been far better company—easygoing, not some brooding specter who sent chills down everyone’s spine.
And even if Helaena did love Aemond, it would be a problem—but nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d simply order Aemond’s execution for treason, and Helaena would have no choice but to turn to him—her only brother left.
Daeron wasn’t likely to come back from Oldtown and charm his way into her affections. Note to self: don’t summon Daeron for anything. Keep him tethered to the Hightowers, for fuck’s sake.
What is it with this family and their fucking incest inclinations?
Sure, the realm would know. The scandal would disgrace the royal family. But no matter—Helaena would see what he was willing to do to win her back.
Right?
Aegon was so lost in thought—wallowing in self-pity and plotting how to become a proper husband again—that he missed something on Helaena’s face. A gleam flickered in her eyes, subtle and fleeting, so imperceptible that even those closest to her would have overlooked it.
Helaena was not one to tease or jest. Unlike Aegon, who turned everything into a joke to mask his insecurities, she spoke plainly, without malice or mischief. She had no intention of trifling with him. Innocent as she was, she was simply curious—curious about the whispers she had overheard among the maids.
That morning, she had caught them murmuring behind closed doors. Servants speculated about the true father of the newborn twins, whispering how Aegon was always found in the brothels and rarely near the queen’s chambers. And how, in his absence, Aemond had stepped in to fulfill his duties—including, perhaps, the duty of providing heirs to the Iron Throne.
Helaena found the rumor amusing. She had never thought of herself as her younger brother’s type, but she was curious to see how Aegon would react to the gossip she had just overheard. What she didn’t expect, however, was to find him sitting on the floor, quietly sobbing. Aegon, the one who would joke about everything, even when Helaena rarely found his humor funny.
“Aegon?” she spoke softly. “’Tis only a joke. I thought you’d find it amusing.”
Aegon blinked. “A what?” He wiped his face with one hand, looking up at Helaena. She appeared unfazed, as always, though there was a hint of concern in her eyes.
“You’re not lying, are you?” Aegon stood up. No, she wasn’t lying. The look in her eyes was sincere. A strange mix of relief and rage swelled in his chest, and he raised his voice again. “Funny? You think it’s funny, telling me the babes aren’t mine?”
He paced around the room, and Jaehaerys, disturbed by his father’s movements, began to cry.
Helaena tucked Jaehaera into her bed before going to tend to the young prince. Aegon stopped pacing, looking frustrated—but couldn’t help grinning. Stealing his mother’s attention at this crucial moment of their conversation… the boy was so like him. Aegon thought to himself, a strange sense of pride swelling in his chest.
When Jaehaerys was finally calmed, Aegon sighed lightly and took Helaena’s hand, leading her out of the nursery and back to their chambers. “That was a cruel joke, Hel.” He hadn’t realized he was smiling, so his words came out less like a complaint.
“I didn’t expect you to get angry,” Helaena confessed, looking somewhat puzzled. “I just find the idea amusing. That’s all.”
Aegon chuckled helplessly, shaking his head. “You have an odd sense of humor, the enduring mystery that you are. But I love you, nonetheless.”
Helaena looked taken aback by his statement. She had never heard such words from her husband. “Was this a joke too? I didn’t understand it.”
Aegon laughed, pulling her close. “No, my darling, ‘tis not a joke at all.”