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and so I will wait for the next time you want me / like a dog with a bird at your door
- Phoebe Bridgers, Moon Song
You first hear about him, as a real person, when you are just shy of five, now motherless and fatherful. King Aegon, not your father, but also perhaps your father, takes his meal with attendants, not with the court and he chews around his hunk of bread in a very strange way. His burned face does not scare you, you have seen worse, of course you have, but he seems surprised by this. You are a child, and so even when his tone only softens a touch, you notice. Between bites of wine softened bread, he tells you that you will now be his ward. Alongside his nephew and heir.
“He’s a sullen boy, though even I can hardly blame him. Try and cheer him some. You can cheer, can’t you? Are you funny, boy?”
You think of your mothers, giggling with you over street plays, over bedtime stories, over anything and nothing. Can you still be funny without them?
“Yes, Your Grace,” You reply, remembering how they once addressed you.
“My son Jaehaerys was funny,” the King says, to nobody in particular. It is half bitter, half gentle.
He dismisses you after that.
𐀪𐀪
The first time you make him almost laugh, it isn’t even on purpose. He is trying to catch you up on your letters, because the maester refuses to take you on until you can at least write your own name. You hadn’t even asked him. But he saw the way Jaehaera only blinked back at your question, and decided to take over.
“Now, what does that one say?”
“Ah.. Coss. Tea.”
“Almost. See the H? Together with that T, they make a th sound. What word would that be?”
You think for a minute, cocking your head to the side and for a flicker of a moment, you see your cousin almost smile. “Is it the?”
“That’s it. Now what about the next?”
You know what it must say, the following word spelt and said in near enough the same way. It is easy enough to guess what comes after that. “Acwoss the nawwow sea?”
Suddenly, Aegon breathes out something that might almost be a chuckle. It is so unexpected you laugh too. You are no fool, for you are all of five; you know you struggle with the sounds. Your mother had always sighed, telling you they would need to fix it when you were King and she Lady Esselyn, but she had not enforced it either, so precious had she found it. I can’t say it like them either¸ Sylvenna had whispered back to you, conspiratorially.
“What’s funny?” Jaehaera asks from the window, looking suspicious and almost left out.
“Try it again.”
You want to make him laugh, perhaps properly this time. You are only happy to oblige. “Acwoss the nawwow sea?”
Jaehaera lets out a scoffing laugh, half mocking but half not so unkind. “You sound like a pauper with missing teeth.”
You have never seen Aegon so much as smile before, and if you have seen Jaehaera laugh, it has only ever been on her father’s knee. Right beneath your belly, you can feel the warmth of it, twisting its way up every curling worm within. It is a little like being sick and a little like seeing the sun for the first time.
“Say it after me, across the narrow sea.”
“across the narrow sea,” you say triumphantly. The sounds are correct this time, but you’ve emphasised them to the point of silliness. That warmth you feel, you might almost see it in Aegon’s eyes.
“Try a tongue twister,” Jaehaera says, closing her book but for one finger wedged in the gap. “Rare red rabbits race ‘round rustic ramparts.”
That is how the maester finds you all, you between Aegon and Jaehaera, who has crept her way closer, echoing after them like an empty cave. Neither had laughed after the first much, but they had almost smiled, and perhaps let out more huffs of something. But when the maester shuts the door to, the only smile that remains is your own.
𐀪𐀪
You had far too large a piece of the thick swan stew last night at supper, eyes too greedy for your stomach, and now you feel near hundreds of little eels making themselves comfortable within. By now, you thought you might be used to the diet of a food taster for a king, but it does make it exceedingly difficult to remember how much you should be eating. Today was Aegon’s crowning.
It's nice to see outside of Maegor’s holdfast.
Aegon stands in tall at the dais of the sept, the stained glass casting a thousand colours onto his bright silver hair, same as your own, and the golden band at his brow. When you squint, it looks like how you likely imagine the crown of his mother. It is Jaehaera rather, limply holding Aegon’s hand beside him, who wears her own mother’s crown. It is drooping down towards her eyes.
You are shuffled to the side of all the old men jostling for Aegon’s ear, pressed into a pillar and near hidden but even then you feel it still. Your stomach roiling and twisting, likely as much from dinner as it was from the ceremony. It had happened just the same when you were brought before Aegon and Jaehaera for the first time, the same when they came and dragged you in chains through the gates of the red keep. The smell, you thought, oh the smell, the smell.
There is so much incense burning that it is no worry today.
𐀪𐀪
Guests slowly filter into the great hall, bowing before Aegon and Jaehaera. When they are all done, the servants bring you the wine jug and the king’s cup. You inspect it, swirl its contents, and pour. With both hands, for the goblet is heavy for your small arms, you lift it towards your mouth and drink deeply. Wine is not what you need, on such a delicate stomach, but it is your honour, your gift. It is a heady red straight from the Arbor, heavy and thick on the tongue and bright as fresh fruit.
Aegon takes it from you, and examines the drink all the same. Most likely, he is thinking of the last cup of wine drunk by a king. Your father had died with red staining his lips. Still, he looks at you and you offer him a small smile. It must give him enough courage to take a sip. You find your seat again, as your sister’s cupbearer does the same. Jaehaera seems to eye it the same, but she takes a long steady drink of it instead. After the tittering is done, and lords are supplied with their own drinks and have found their seats, Aegon stands to address the great hall. Everyone falls silent, and you can see it, the power he holds over them, even though he is littler. You would never hold a room so, small for your age, so young, even your bastards name taken from you. Just the son of a whore, round and silly, raised up beyond belief. You would not think of it often, but they do not let you forget. The glares you get as you sit at Aegon’s right hand tells you that.
“My lords and ladies, I thank you for your attendance today. To many, a coronation is a joyous thing, but I see today not just as this but as a solemn day. Today, we have joined together the two splintered halves of this family, and put the past behind us. Let this signify a new age of peace for our kingdoms.”
Pretty words, but that is what they are. He wants to believe them, but the sentiment does not reach his eyes.
“I wish to raise a toast to those who are no longer with us, to those whose loss is the only reason I stand here before you today.”
Even now, with all his poise, you can see the tears welling in his eyes. But before you can focus on his words, you realise what is about to happen, and that you cannot stop it. And of course, it happens just when Aegon stops for breath. You fart, loudly, and it rings in the quiet hall.
You freeze, waiting to be dragged away, waiting for mockery. But Aegon burst out in laughter, just as loudly. All of the guests look between themselves, confused and hesitant. None have seen his laugh before. It is something holy. Quickly, Aegon downs a sip of wine, and clears his throat.
“And with that, be welcome. Let the feast begin.”
When he sits back down, hall alive with sound once more, he puts a hand on your arm, breathes out a sweet sigh. Under his breath, you hear him whisper thank you. You have never been so glad for a sore stomach in your life.
𐀪𐀪
On the Feast Day of Our Father Above, Aegon’s new hand, Peake, drags you from your rooms. It is getting to be a little like routine here. There is always someone dragging you somewhere, on your first day here and daily as Aegon’s whipping boy. When they finally loose you, it is on the battlements, with one Kingsguard stood heavy behind you. It is not you they want. You are merely the surety. Aegon stands a step away, with one of Peake’s long fingered hands curled around his shoulder.
Despite the years you have spent here, pressed between tapestried walls, you are no stranger to pain. Still, there is something horrifying watching Peak empty the dungeons and punish each prisoner in the eyes of every man, woman and passing bird. Even they fly off, afeared. Once he lets you leave, no stone unturned, no prisoner unpunished, Aegon shuts himself in his room and does not talk or eat. Eventually in the evening, Jaehaera arrives with servants in tow and a jug of honeyed milk. She leaves without saying anything, her frown never letting up, but there are two cups there. You and Aegon finish the whole jug.
𐀪𐀪
An idea you have, considered even before today but sure of now in the face of Unwin’s cruelty, rises again when Aegon’s servants leave.
“Come on, we’re going out.”
“Huh?” Aegon mumbles, the first sound he’s spoken in hours. It’s gotten cold by now; you are shivering but he has made no move to cover himself.
“We’re going out. It’s a feast day and the only celebration has been being forced to watch punishments. I know of better places to have fun.”
“You cannot be serious Gaemon,” he says earnestly now, finally looking away from the window. “I know you are only a child but think of how ridiculous that sounds.”
“All we will need is some clothes like the common folk. There will be some kitchen boys or stable hands we can find something fitting off. Though we’ll have to cover our hair.”
“Absolutely not. It’s too risky. Peake will be furious.”
The name of his hand hangs heavy between them, as it always does, but heavier after today.
“Exactly,” is the only acknowledgment you give. “Shouldn’t a king know his people? Fat chance of that stuck up in this holdfast. Trust me, the feast day is better out there.”
“I do not want to go. Today was awful.” Aegon’s voice catches on the word awful.
There is an urge in you, to be honest, to remind him that it was not him who was punished today. Or if it was it was both of them. But you hold your tongue. You cannot blame him for his sadness, not after what you both saw, and you have learnt quickly in this place, that it is not good to say what you think. Some men die for the words they say.
“Then we should make it better.”
𐀪𐀪
“This is a little loose, Gaemon,” Aegon mutters, tugging at his shirt as they sneak their way out of the kitchen exit. With hats covering your bright hair, no servant or guard had glanced twice at you both. Aegon had learned to make himself invisible since the war began, and this is second nature for you.
“Good, it’ll hide your silly posture.”
The streets are rammed, but even the city watch seem to be more relaxed than you have ever seen them. Even all these years later, you remember the way like the back of your hand and before long you and Aegon have arrived in front of a puppet play. Last moon, you had both watched some play chosen by Peake and it had bored you witless. There were good plays to be found in court, you suppose, but none can make you laugh like one from the streets of Kings Landing. This one is some kind of great misunderstanding, bawdy and bold. When one of the puppets farts in the others face, Aegon pokes him in the side and with a devious glint in his eyes, mutters that one’s you. You might be offended if it wasn’t something you felt strangely proud of, bringing Aegon out of his misery for a moment, even unintentionally. But you don’t want to be the fool forever.
After the play is finished, and the players are resetting the stage, you drag him away to go and buy some hot sheep’s feet with the little money you had managed to scrounge from the clothes you wear. Eventually you both end up sat on a low wall, watching people get drunker, and the lights get brighter against the darker sky, sharing the bag of sheep’s feet between you. If only it could forever last like this, Aegon maybe not happier but more at peace than you have ever seen him.
𐀪𐀪
The day Jaehaera dies, you both sit up the entire night together. There is nothing to say, only the memory of her agonised face for that brief half hour that she lived. The fire burns down to nothing.
𐀪𐀪
Daenaera chatters away while the servants spread the tarts out before them. Aegon watches quietly, as you laugh away with her. After Viserys’ return, you became fierce friends. You are almost of an age, and in truth, she is a better conversationalist than Aegon is, love him though you do. You look toward Aegon to see if he wants something sweet, because he often abstains. He shakes his head, and so you go ahead and take a bite. It is delicious; flaky layered pastry bursting with butter and apples softened over a fire, spiced.
“I love apples,” Daenaera says, between a mouthful of tart. Though she was raised as nobly as her husband, she has a penchant for dropping those manners when they are alone. You eat another.
You feel it creep up fairly quickly. At first, it seems like your stomach pains again, but you cannot fathom the cause. You are relaxed. Aegon is back beside you. Only when you go to stand to use the chamber pot do you collapse, wracked with pain. While Aegon shouts orders, Daenaera also slides back into her chair, sweating and pink faced. This is a pain you have never known the like of, cramping so fierce it feels like a knife is lodged in your stomach instead. Is this how Jaehaera felt, you frantically think, between pants, between cries.
Aegon looks torn as the Grand Maester sweeps into the room, but as he is busy feeding Daenaera something, he seems to decide to come to your side while you wait. You can smell vomit, though you do not remember throwing up. You can smell shit too, but you haven’t got the energy to care. It hurts too much. Aegon holds your clammy hand, whispers words of encouragement.
“You will be fine, Gaemon. The Grand Maester is here. You will be fine.”
“On the bright side, that was a delicious tart.” You joke, between writhing. It’s all you know how to do. Even now.
“Gaemon, stop it,” Aegon says, lifting your head into his lap and poking a finger down your throat to try and get you to throw up. You try, but nothing comes out but bile, dribbling over Aegon’s hands.
“Honestly Aegon, you should have said if you wanted a tart. You don’t need to get me to regurgitate mine.”
It’s a new word you have learnt, and he was the one who taught it to you.
“Gaemon,” he says again, tears in his eyes but even then he almost chokes on a laugh.
Eventually you cannot make anymore, because the pain is too much. You feel his hands though, cool against the back of your neck. There is talk, arguing, but you no longer understand the common tongue. By the time the Maester makes his way to you, you are dead.