Chapter Text
"Cassandra cut that out! We are almost at the gates. Where did all of your manners go?" Elendra grated under her breath as she slapped Cassandra's hand away from the carriage windows where she was trying to wave down a nearby group of knights, the faint laughter of Floris and Argella drifting past the open window.
Meanwhile, the eldest daughter, Ellyn, sat atop her mare, which some claimed appeared as if it were dipped in ink as a foal, its well-maintained black curls an oddly apt match for his rider, her own curls tied away in a low bun, as an attempt to fight the swiftly arriving summer heat.
Her horse—Storm, she had named him when she was thirteen—moved with a quiet patience she trusted more than most people. His coat drank the sun whole, black curls gleaming like wet ink beneath the heat. She rested one gloved hand at his neck, feeling the steady roll of muscle and bone beneath skin. It calmed her, the simple certainty of his strength.
Ahead, the gates of King's Landing loomed vast and sun-warmed, their red stone bleeding colour into the afternoon light. Gold cloaks clustered thickly at the entrance, spearheads flashing as knights rode in and out beneath the arch. The city smelled of sweat and smoke even from here, a far cry from the clean bite of forest air.
Ellyn's gaze lingered on the men-at-arms, the way their armour caught the light, and on how some sat straighter in their saddles than others. Instinct guided her eyes, the same instinct that taught her how to track a boar through bracken or judge the distance of a shot by breath alone. She measured them without thought, without malice.
The heat pressed in, creeping beneath her leathers, and she shifted slightly, grateful she had bound her dark curls tight at her nape. Courtly ladies would curse the sun and fan themselves with silks; Ellyn welcomed its weight. It reminded her she was alive, present, unlike the version of herself others expected to see.
A horn sounded from the gate, low and reverent. Somewhere within the city, bells answered.
"Gods, more dragons?" Ellyn thought distantly, as subconsciously her unusually brown eyes lifted, scanning the sky by habit, though she saw nothing but blue and drifting clouds. Still, the air felt charged, as if something vast stirred just beyond sight. After all, King's Landing was a place where monsters stepped lightly.
She urged Storm forward a pace as her family's procession slowed, hooves ringing against stone now instead of dirt. The city yawned open before her, loud and glittering and hungry.
"Must this place always fucking reek?" she muttered under her breath as she trotted to a stop by her family's carriage, as she deftly swung down Storm whilst wrinkling her nose at the smell of the central city.
The stableboys hurried forward the moment House Baratheon's stag banners cleared the archway, wide-eyed at the sight of so many fine horses and finer tempers. One reached for Storm's reins too quickly as Storm flattened his ears.
Ellyn's hand was already there, fingers resting lightly against his cheek before the animal could lash out. The boy froze, uncertain whether to retreat or bow. She said nothing to him, only guided the reins into his waiting hands once the horse settled, her touch firm and calm as a winter tide.
"He bites," she told him at last, her voice low and even. "Not often. Only when deserved."
The boy swallowed and nodded vigorously.
Behind her, the carriage door opened with a flourish, and Cassandra spilt out first in a rush of silk and eagerness, nearly tripping upon the step. Floris followed with practised grace, already scanning the courtyard for watching eyes, while Argella laughed at something only she found amusing. Their colours, gold and black, caught the sunlight in bright, fluttering movements, like birds startled into flight.
Ellyn stood apart from them, removing her riding gloves one finger at a time. The air within the city walls felt thicker, heavy with heat, humanity, and something else she could not name. A tension lived here. Not loud like a storm, but waiting, as an arrow held too long on the string.
"Try to smile," Cassandra whispered as she passed her, not unkindly. "You look as though you've come to a funeral."
"We have," Ellyn replied quietly. "We are merely waiting to see whose, sister."
Cassandra frowned, uncertain whether she jested. After a heartbeat, she laughed dismissively and drifted back toward their sisters, where uncertainty could be smothered by noise.
Ellyn watched her go, expression unchanged.
The courtyard churned with motion. Servants darted like minnows between boots and hooves, banners snapped overhead, and steel rang as knights dismounted and adjusted their arms. Somewhere nearby, her father's voice rose in terse command, already negotiating space and status with the practised impatience of a man who despised crowds yet demanded to be seen within them.
Another shadow passed over the stones, larger this time, slower. The air vibrated faintly, a low hum that settled deep in her chest. Conversations faltered. Heads tilted skyward. Even Storm stamped once in the stables beyond, restless.
A hoard of dragons wheeled above the city, its scales catching the sun in dark, burnished hues. They were not beautiful in the way songs claimed. Not gentle, nor elegant. They were magnificent in the way storms were magnificent: inevitable, uncaring, alive with ruin.
"Must be the Princess and her family then", Elynn hummed under her breath as she tucked her gloves embroidered with golden thread in her riding leathers' pockets, ignoring the stares she received for not matching her sisters and their dresses as she walked back to her family's carriage, her eyes still lingering on the now clear skies.
"Eyes down," Elenda murmured as she came to stand beside her eldest daughter, voice sharp but quiet. "You are not a girl wandering the woods now."
Ellyn lowered her gaze obediently, though her jaw tightened. "I know," she said.
Her mother studied her for a moment longer than usual, as if searching for something familiar and finding none. Then Elenda turned away, already called elsewhere by duty and daughters and the careful performance of court.
Left alone again, Ellyn exhaled through her nose. King's Landing pressed in from all sides—its heat, its noise, its watching eyes. It was a city that devoured the careless and reshaped the unwilling. She could feel it already, testing her edges, probing for weakness.
She squared her shoulders.
Let it try.
Ellyn Baratheon had survived storms harsher than this, and she had never once learned how to bend.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Aegon was having a rather shit morning.
Light stabbed through the silk hangings of his chambers with a cruelty that felt deeply personal. Someone, somewhere in the Red Keep, had decided that morning deserved bells, and every toll struck his skull as if a smith were forging armour inside it.
He groaned into his pillow and dragged it over his head, smelling faintly of wine.
The previous night returned to him in fragments rather than memory—laughter too loud, goblets refilled before empty, a singer whose name he had never learned, and Aemond's disapproving stare lingering somewhere at the edge of it all like an accusation given form. There had been a toast. Several, in fact. At some point, he was quite certain he had stood on a table to give a speech he did not remember finishing.
Or starting.
He rolled onto his back and immediately regretted it as the room tilted in slow, deliberate betrayal. The ceiling above him was painted with dragons, elegant and triumphant, circling a painted sky that did not spin the way the real one currently did.
"Gods," he muttered hoarsely, pressing his forearm over his eyes. "I shall outlaw wine."
The door creaked.
Aegon did not open his eyes. "If you have come to tell me it is morning, I assure you I am aware and already suffering greatly for it."
"It is nearly noon."
He cracked one eye open.
Aemond stood near the door, immaculate as ever, silver hair tied neatly, posture straight enough to shame a spear. Not a crease marked his clothing. Not a hint of fatigue touched his face. The contrast felt intentional.
"You are doing this to spite me," Aegon rasped.
"To wake you," Aemond replied calmly. "You have a duty to attend today. The tourney is in our family's honour, and mother won't accept you embarrassing yourself more than usual."
Aegon groaned again and pushed himself upright with visible effort, bracing his elbows against his knees while the world steadied itself out of courtesy or exhaustion.
"Yes, yes. Knights, banners, cheering crowds, and men eager to break their bones for our amusement." He rubbed his temples. "A delightful spectacle while I am dying."
"You are not dying."
"I feel I ought to be, which is worse."
Aemond said nothing to that, which was somehow more judgmental than speech.
Servants entered shortly after with water and clothing. Aegon seized the goblet and drank too quickly, wincing as life returned painfully to his senses. From the open balcony doors came the distant roar of the city—crowds gathering, hooves striking stone, trumpets sounding bright and ceremonial.
He stood at last and moved toward the balcony, squinting into the daylight, ignoring the maids trying to dress him simultaneously.
The courtyard below swarmed with colour and motion. Noble houses arrived in procession, banners unfurling one after another—greens, reds, golds. The noise rose like surf against the walls.
Then he noticed a darker shape among them. Not a banner, nor a knight displaying himself for admiration.
A lone rider dismounted beside a black horse that seemed carved from shadow itself. The woman beside it moved with quiet certainty, neither hurried nor hesitant, as though the chaos around her did not quite apply to her existence.
She merely stood, observing.
Aegon leaned faintly against the stone railing, headache forgotten for a moment.
"Baratheon," Aemond hummed from behind him, nonchalantly following his gaze. "Borros has brought his daughters."
Aegon hummed softly, though he scarcely heard the words. Across the yard, the woman lifted her head slightly, and even from this height, he could see the steadiness of her stare. From the servants ' view of the servants, Aegon seemed perfectly content, looking at the guests arriving with his eyes still glazed in sleep. At least until his Hightower blood blue eyes widened when his staring was dominated by the Baratheon eldest’s chocolate eyes, her posture rigid as she stood by her father chatting with his friends, before she slowly looked at his half-dressed state and scoffed, looking back to the nearby lords.
“Strange girl,” he murmured.
His sleepy staring ceased when the doors slammed open once more, his mother storming inside his chambers with frustration evident in the crease of her brow.
“Oh, Aegon, you’re still not prepared to leave?” She said, her voice grating as she stood a length away with her hands resting against one another tiredly, as Aemond walked towards her to leave Aegon to get dressed by the servants.
“Apologies, mother, I had the most wonderful dream and didn’t wish to wake up to all this rubbish”
“You will watch your tongue around the guests. I will not have you dishonour the family at your brother's name-day celebrations of all things”
Aegon scoffed softly, rubbing a hand down his face.
“Dishonour the family?” he echoed, amusement dull and edged with fatigue. “Mother, I am the family disappointment. If I manage not to fall over in front of the lords, I’ll call it a victory.”
“Aegon,” Alicent snapped, her voice sharp with warning now. “You are still a prince of House Targaryen. Whether you care for it or not, eyes will be upon you.”
He shrugged as the servants hovered closer, already reaching for his sleeves. “Let them look. They’ll find nothing worth remembering.”
That, at least, was honest.
Alicent studied him for a moment, something troubled flickering behind her composure — not anger, not quite disappointment, but exhaustion. She opened her mouth as if to say more, then stopped herself. Whatever words she had were swallowed by duty.
“Be decent,” she said at last. “For once.”
Then she turned and left, Aemond following without a glance back.
Aegon stood still for a moment, letting the servants fuss with his formal clothes, his mind drifting unpleasantly clear now that the worst of the wine had burned away. From the balcony beyond came the noise of the city: cheers, hooves, the distant roar of something large and alive.
Dragons.
He moved toward the open doors again, more out of avoidance than interest. The courtyard below had filled further, bright with banners and polished armour. Lords postured. Knights showed off. Ladies smiled as if it were their duty.
He stopped himself before crossing the threshold.
With a quiet curse, Aegon turned away from the doors and let the servants finish their work. Black silk was tugged straight, clasps secured, and boots pressed into his hands. He submitted with the long-suffering patience of a man being dressed for someone else’s celebration, with his golden pale hair, half-tamed for the day. A prince, whether he liked it or not. He grimaced faintly at his reflection, then looked away. Best not to linger, mirrors had a way of asking questions he never wished to answer.
“Done, Your Grace” one of the servants said at last, stepping back.
Aegon nodded and dismissed them with a wave. The moment the door shut behind them, the room felt smaller. Quieter. He exhaled through his nose and rolled his shoulders, as if trying to shake the weight of the day loose before it fully settled.
Duty waited outside.
He left the chamber and fell into step with the stream of courtiers moving through the Red Keep’s corridors. The walls swallowed sound here, muting the chaos into a constant murmur. Voices overlapping, walls whispering, boots striking stone. Lords bowed as he passed, and ladies curtsied. He acknowledged them just enough to avoid comment, his expression set in something passively downcast. It was easier this way. To fade into the expected motions, as he begged the Seven, not that he believed in it, for Rhaenrya and her brood’s swift and anticipated arrival, so all the attention was thoroughly stripped away from him.
They spilt out toward the tourney grounds in stages, the air growing warmer, louder. The scent of dust and manure crept in, carried on the breeze. Somewhere nearby, Aemond’s name was spoken with reverence, with cheers following it like obedient hounds. Celebrations of his participation in this farce all for him, Aegon supposed.
“Just make it to the feast tonight, where at least there’ll be fucking wine” Aegon thought as he not so regally leaned against where the royal tent was set up, unfortunately catching the gaze of his mother, who was standing nearby in her high-neck dress of green. Surely eager to continue her relentless reminders of the available ladies that are acceptable and how a good wife is what he needs to temper his mind. Ugh.
“Aegon! Come, this is Lord Borros Baratheon” Alicent called, her face perfectly polite in public, but Aegon recognised her eyes, and a shiver ran up his spine as she stared him down, so he sluggishly moved towards her and away from his hiding spot.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
"M'lady, we hope these chambers are sufficient. The Queen wished for you to have a view of the forest, as your mother informed her of your love of nature" One of her handmaidens shared with her sisters across the hall bowed, before scurrying out of the dimly lit chambers after Ellyn nodded for them to be dismissed.
The chambers granted to House Baratheon lie within one of the Red Keep's outer towers, high enough to catch wind from the bay yet distant from the royal apartments, a quiet reminder that her family, among the other noble houses visiting, are guests. The corridors here are calmer than the inner keep. Guards pass, servants murmur, but the constant courtly noise never fully reaches this place. Ellyn couldn't help but thank the Seven for some peace and quiet after such a long journey with her family.
Her room is narrow and long, shaped more by stone than comfort. The walls are thick and pale, veined faintly darker, holding the day's warmth and releasing it slowly as evening settles. The hearth stands unused. Summer has already taken the castle, and the chamber keeps a dim coolness that she finds easier to breathe in than the perfumed, humid halls below.
Only one window breaks the monotony. Tall and arched, its shutters remain open from the moment she arrived. The light that enters is plain and bright, yet never reaches the far side of the room. By noon, the room is already half-shadowed, and by afternoon, the hearth would provide most of the light.
The furnishings are simple for a noble daughter. A bed of dark wood rests against the inner wall, its hangings black and gold but undecorated. A travel chest sits at its foot, unpacked earlier by the servant. Without waiting for her handmaidens to return, Ellyn swiftly slid out of her riding leathers and grabbed one of her more golden than black dresses, with sleeves nearly trailing the ground and a braided cord tied around her waist.*
A narrow mahogany table holds a pitcher of water, one goblet, and her longbow. Her mother had protested bringing it indoors, but she ignored her. There is little else. No perfumes, no ribbons, no idle embroidery abandoned midway. The maids had come and gone quickly because there was almost nothing to arrange. The room returns to stillness almost as soon as they leave, as Ellyn moved to stand by the window.
From here, the city does not demand her attention. Rooftops and smoke lie below, but her bronze eyes pass over them. Beyond the outer walls, past the clutter of King's Landing, the land deepens into green, the Kingswood stretches along the horizon, dark and quiet.
"Lyn!! Stop moping about and come on, the jousting is starting soon, and Prince Aemond will be fighting! Floris squealed as she and Argella ran into her chambers, in a flurry of gold silks as though the sun itself had burst inside her chambers.
Ellyn turned from the window slowly. “I am not moping.”
“You are standing in the dark staring at trees,” Argella said. “That is the very image of moping.”
Ellyn reached for her black lace gloves. “Then I am doing it quietly.”
Floris groaned and seized her wrist, tugging her toward the door. “Come. If we are late, Cassandra will never forgive us, and Mother will say it is our fault for waiting on you.”
Ellyn allowed herself to be pulled along, accepting she would never win against her far too energised younger sisters. The corridors filled as they descended, the keep waking into celebration. Silks brushed stone, boisterous laughter carried ahead of them, and from beyond the walls came the rising thunder of a crowd gathering around the lists.
The temporary tourney grounds were already alive when they arrived. Banners of noble houses rippled in the heat, bright against the pale sky. Horses stamped and tossed their heads, steel armour flashed in the midday sun, and the stands trembled vigorously with cheering. Floris gasped in delight and hurried forward at once, Cassandra already waving them over with impatient enthusiasm, with their Mother in conversation with some nameless ladies Ellyn couldn’t care to recollect.
Ellyn followed behind her sisters more slowly, as she spotted her father before she reached the wooden stairs to the stands. Lord Borros stood near the railing speaking with a grey-bearded man she did not recognise, though his rings and layered red and blue velvet made his wealth obvious. The lord’s eyes moved across the crowd, then settled on her.
They did not move away, as much as Ellyn willed it so. Borros gestured in her direction. The old man leaned closer, peering openly. Ellyn felt it like a hand placed where it did not belong.
“A fine height,” the man said, voice carrying just enough for her to hear as she approached, knowing she was not meant to. “Strong hips as well. A Baratheon girl should bear sons without trouble.”
Borros gave a short grunt of approval. “She is the eldest. However, she will be twenty in a few moons, hopefully not too old Cedric.”
The lord smiled, slow and considering. “Pretty in a severe way. No worries, that type softens after the first child. They always do.”
Ellyn stopped walking. Her stomach tightened sharply. For a moment, the sounds of the crowd blurred into a dull roar in her ears, her hand tightening into such a tight grip by her sunlit skirt that she had to take care not to pierce her skin.
She dipped her head just enough to avoid notice yet remain polite and moved past them without greeting, slipping between clustered, drunk nobles and climbing the steps to the stands before either man could call her to join their conversation. Only when she reached her sisters did she finally take a breath.
“Lyn, look!” Cassandra cried, pointing eagerly as two knights rode into the lists. “That one in green has already won twice! I believe he fights for House Tyrell”
Ellyn sat beside them, hands folded tightly in her lap.
The crowd cheered as lances struck and shattered. Floris clapped with delight. Argella shouted encouragements to men who could not possibly hear her from where her family sat in the stands. Cassandra laughed at every near fall.
Ellyn saw none of it. Each crack of splintering wood made her flinch. Her stomach churned, the old lord’s gaze replaying with unwelcome clarity. She imagined his hand at her back, his voice close to her ear, the weight of expectation pressing until breathing felt difficult, much like he would lie atop her every night until a son was brought into the world.
“Are you unwell?” Floris asked, glancing at her briefly.
“I am fine,” Ellyn replied, too quickly. When it became polite to leave between rounds, she rose at once. “Apologies, I need air.”
None stopped her. Her mother passively waved her away as they were already leaning forward again as the next pair of knights entered the lists.
She walked until the noise softened, until the cheers became distant enough to resemble white noise rather than thunder. The outer grounds of the Red Keep lay quieter, the paths less crowded. Gravel crunched beneath her ebony shoes, and for the first time since morning, she could hear her own thoughts, unfortunately.
Eventually, the path narrowed and curved behind a low wall into a small, forgotten garden. No banners, no courtiers. Just a patch of green tucked away from the ceremony. An amber-leaved tree stood at its centre, its thin branches whispering softly in the wind.
Ellyn reached it and sank down beside the trunk.
The sickness she had held back rose without warning. She turned aside and retched into the grass, breath breaking as though she had run miles. When it passed, she pressed her forehead to the cool bark, eyes shut tight.
“I will not,” she whispered hoarsely. “I will not bear children for a man older than my father.”
A soft, uneven sound came from nearby. Not the wind. Not the rustle of leaves. A laugh. Low and unsteady. Ellyn stiffened, wiping her mouth quickly with the back of her hand before turning her head.
There, half-shadowed beneath the curve of the garden wall, a stone bench sat tucked behind creeping ivy. Upon it lounged a figure in black and red, one leg stretched out carelessly, the other bent at an indolent angle. A carafe of wine dangled loosely from his fingers, tilting dangerously with each lazy shift of his wrist. “Well,” he said after a moment, voice roughened by drink and amusement, “that is not the reaction I typically inspire, but I cannot say I object to originality.”
Pale hair caught the amber light filtering through the leaves. Ocean blue eyes regarded her with open, undisguised curiosity. Ellyn stiffened and turned.
Ellyn could only stare, her mouth hanging open in horror. Up close, he looks less composed than she would have presumed. His tunic sits slightly crooked at the shoulder. His expression is neither princely nor a drunken mess. There is a looseness to him, as though he has unfastened himself from expectation for the afternoon.
He lifted the half-empty carafe slightly in greeting. “Prince Aegon Targaryen,” he said. “Though I suspect you already knew that. People rarely vomit in front of total strangers. Or royalty now that I think about it”
Ellyn wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I did not see you, my apologies. I did not realise this garden was occupied,” she said evenly.
“It was not,” he replied casually, his posture slackening. “Not in any meaningful way. I am hiding.”
She studied him, then stepped forward and took the carafe from his hand before he could protest. She drank deeply, uncaring of propriety or consequence. The wine burned, but it steadied the shaking in her chest.
Aegon blinked, bemused. “Well. That is mine.”
“It was,” she said, lowering it. Heat rose in her neck, anger quickly overtaking embarrassment. The image of the old lord’s eyes returns with unwanted clarity. Her father’s approving grunt. The casual assessment of her body as though she were livestock. “Men discuss my hips as though they are a matter of state,” she said flatly. “Forgive me if I am not in the mood for ceremony, my prince.”
Aegon blinked once, then huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes,” he said, shifting slightly against the bench. “That does sound tedious.”
She studied him, suspicion flickering behind her steady expression. “You find it amusing?”
“No,” he said, more sharply than before. “I find it predictable.” Silence settled between them. The leaves overhead whisper softly.
He tilts his head, studying her as though she were a puzzle he had not expected to encounter in his hideaway excursion from his mother.
“You do realise,” he says slowly, “that most ladies would at least curtsy before stealing my wine from me.”
“I am not most ladies.”
That, at least, earns a real smile. Crooked. Unpracticed. “No,” Aegon agrees softly. “You are not.”
She hands the carafe back, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You will forget this”, She answered, handing the carafe back, “Hopefully, you are too drunk to remember this conversation.”
He considered her a moment longer, then gave a faint, crooked smile. “Unlikely,” he replies. “I am far more sober than I appear.”
Her stomach drops faintly at that.
“Do not concern yourself,” he adds lazily, leaning his head back against the stone. “I have no interest in reporting you. I am hiding from my own obligations. It would be hypocritical.”
She hesitates, then sinks against the amber-leaved tree once more, keeping distance between them but no longer fleeing.
“For what it is worth,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now, “if they do marry you off to some ancient relic, you may always poison him. There’s always a backup plan.”
Despite herself, a breath escapes her that is almost a laugh.
He hears it. And he looks at her as though he has just witnessed something rare.
“You are odd, Aegon Targaryen” Ellyn hummed as she finally sat down on the bench beside him, her golden-speckled eyes tracing the outlines of the trees, as the unperturbed Prince lay beside her, draining the final dregs of his wine. The garden grows quieter as the afternoon wears on. The distant roar of the tourney drifts in waves over the walls, sometimes loud enough to carry a cheer, sometimes fading until only the wind remains. Leaves tremble overhead, amber and gold against a paling sky.
For a while, neither of them speaks.
Aegon lets his head rest back against the ivy-covered wall, the carafe balanced loosely in his hands again. Ellyn sits with her shoulder relaxed, knees drawn slightly in, the sickness in her stomach settling into a dull, lingering weight. The air smells faintly of earth and crushed grass.
“You should be watching your brother win glory,” she says at last, eyes fixed on the shifting light between the branches.
“I have watched Aemond pursue glory my entire life,” Aegon scoffs. “He does not require my supervision, nor praise.”
“And you?”
He considers that, rolling the carafe gently between his palms. “I am far past begging my family for praise” He says.
She glances toward him. “You are a prince.”
“Yes,” he says, not looking at her. “That is precisely the difficulty, fucking expectations”
The simplicity of the answer quiets her. There is no performance in it, no bitterness sharpened for dramatic effect. Only truth, spoken like an inconvenience he has long since accepted.
For the first time since arriving in King’s Landing, the tightness in her chest eases.
“I would rather hunt,” she admits.
He snorts softly. “I would rather be almost anywhere else.”
They fall into silence again, but it is no longer strained. Somewhere beyond the walls, a trumpet sounds, followed by a roar of approval from the crowd. Aegon does not move. Neither does she.
Eventually, he sits forward, pressing his palms against his knees as though remembering gravity exists. “If we remain absent much longer, they will come searching.”
“They will search for you,” she says. “They will assume I am with my sisters.”
“Then we both benefit from your reputation,” he replies.
She rises first, brushing stray grass from her yellow skirts. The light has shifted; afternoon approaches. For a moment, she hesitates, unsure why she lingers. “You will forget this,” she repeats from earlier, though the certainty in her sombre voice is weaker now.
Aegon stands, much less steady than he hoped, and studies her with that same bemused expression, his messy argent hair hiding some of his glazed-over eyes.
“I do not think I will, Lady…?”. he says.
She does not answer immediately. Instead, she turns toward the garden path, pausing only once at its edge. “Ellyn Baratheon, Your Grace.”
He watches her go, brow faintly creased. “I am not the king, you don’t need to call me that” he calls after her.
She stops, glances back just briefly. The smallest shift touches her expression, not quite a smile.
“No,” Ellyn says. “You are not.”
Then she disappears beyond the hedges, footsteps fading into the quiet corridors beyond. Aegon remains where he stands for a long moment, the sounds of the tourney returning slowly to his ears, along with his headache from this morning, as he watched her figure disappear from his sight.