Chapter Text
The Red Keep glittered like a jewel above Blackwater Bay, its towers ablaze with torchlight, banners whipping in the night wind. From the highest parapets, the city below looked peaceful, the river reflecting the moon and the stars, but within the castle's stone heart, a storm brewed.
Hundreds of candles illuminated the Great Hall, their flames trembling as servants hurried between the tables with platters of steaming meat and crystal decanters of wine. Musicians played sweet, mournful tunes from the galleries overhead, their melodies almost lost beneath the laughter and chatter of lords and ladies who had come from across the Seven Kingdoms. They wore silks and velvets in every color, the air thick with rich perfumes and the scent of roasting boar. Above them all, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen unfurled proudly from every wall, a reminder of the blood that ruled them.
To any outsider, it looked like a perfect night—a celebration worthy of song.
To Prince Aegon Targaryen, it felt like a prison of glass and fire.
He sat halfway down the royal table, slouched in his chair with a goblet of Arbor Gold in one hand, every muscle aching with boredom and resentment. The weight of his crownless head seemed heavier than the golden circlets worn by his siblings. Around him, voices rose and fell, faces blurred by candlelight and wine.
Nobody paid him much attention. That was hardly unusual.
Aegon watched the servants, their faces blank as they wove between the nobles, carrying platters of lemon cakes and spiced fish. The smell made his stomach twist, though he could not say if it were hunger or something else. At the head of the hall, King Viserys sat enthroned, laughter bursting from him like sunlight after a storm. His eyes never strayed toward Aegon. They lingered, instead, on Rhaenyra.
Again.
Aegon's gaze drifted to his half-sister, radiant in crimson and black, her smile wide and easy as she leaned toward their father. The king listened intently, eyes alight. For a moment, they looked like the perfect father and daughter. The sight twisted something deep inside Aegon—a knot of envy and longing that no amount of wine could loosen.
He drank deeply, but the wine was losing its power to dull his senses. Unfortunately.
"Aegon." His mother's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp as a winter wind.
Queen Alicent sat beside him, every inch the queen—her hair coiled in a jeweled net, her green silks immaculate. Her eyes, however, betrayed her worry. "That is your third cup."
Aegon glanced down, feigning ignorance. "No."
"Aegon."
He sighed. "Fourth."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. Across from them, Aemond smirked, one good eye glinting with amusement. Helaena, lost in her own world, traced the path of a beetle crawling across the tablecloth.
Aegon pointed. "See? Helaena understands me."
Helaena looked up, her voice soft and distant. "The beetle is missing a leg."
"Exactly."
The table fell silent, all eyes on her for a heartbeat. Helaena returned to her study, undisturbed.
Aegon grinned. "There. Someone making sense."
Aemond rolled his eyes, lips twitching."“You are drunk."
"I am festive."
"You are embarrassing."
Aegon's smile widened. "I am a prince."
Aemond's retort was dry. "Those are not mutually exclusive."
Alicent sighed again, the sound weary. Aegon sometimes thought his family remained whole only through his mother's determination to hold them together, like a seamstress mending a fraying tapestry.
Across the hall, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon was surrounded by young nobles—future knights and ladies eager to bask in his light. The heir. The golden grandson. The prince everyone adored. Aegon watched as Jace spoke, his words drawing laughter and smiles, his posture perfect, his confidence unshakable. It was everything Aegon was supposed to be, and everything he had never been allowed to become.
Jace's laughter rang out, and the young ladies at his side leaned closer, eyes shining. Aegon groaned, slumping lower in his seat.
"Gods."
Aemond followed his gaze. "What now?"
"He's doing it again."
"What?"
"The prince thing."
Aemond's brow furrowed. "The prince thing?"
Aegon gestured vaguely. "The standing straight. The smiling. The inspiring confidence."
Aemond regarded him as if he were mad. "That is merely standing."
"No one should stand that confidently."
Aemond shook his head. "You are an idiot."
Aegon raised his goblet in mock salute. "An observant idiot."
At the high table, Viserys lifted his hand, calling Jace forward. Conversation stilled, all eyes turning to the king and his favored grandson. Jace bowed with the perfect grace of a prince, and Viserys placed a hand on his shoulder, pride radiating from him like heat.
"My grandson has excelled in his studies," Viserys proclaimed, his voice carrying through the hall. Murmurs of approval followed from the assembled lords.
"He demonstrates wisdom beyond his years."
Aegon stared into his wine, the words echoing in his mind. He had never heard them spoken about himself, but he had imagined them countless times—when he was younger, when he still believed such praise was possible.
He remembered being six, riding a pony for the first time, looking for his father's approval. Waiting and waiting for a word, a smile, a nod. Viserys had not even looked at him, too busy discussing council matters with Lord Strong. That night, Aegon had cried—only once. Then he had learned better. Hope only led to disappointment.
The feast wore on. Hours passed in a blur of music and wine, yet Aegon could not shake the hollow ache inside him. He belonged here by birth, by name, by duty—but never by affection. Never by choice. Never by love.
His gaze found Viserys again, now speaking with Luke, younger and quieter than Jace, but no less beloved. The king's smile was warm, his laughter genuine. He listened to Luke's worries, his ambitions, as if nothing else in the world mattered.
Did Viserys know anything about Aegon? His favorite food? His favorite color? That the stablemaster, not his father, had taught him to ride? That he hated thunderstorms, preferred flying Sunfyre at dawn, and secretly read histories despite pretending otherwise? The answer, Aegon suspected, was no.
Midnight came and went. The nobles drifted away, servants clearing plates and extinguishing candles. Alicent guided Helaena from the hall, her hand gentle, voice low. Aemond vanished toward the training yard, always seeking perfection in the darkness. Only Aegon remained, alone in the vast, echoing hall.
He stared at the empty goblets, the half-eaten meals, the dying candles. A sadness settled over him—heavier than anger, colder than jealousy. Because despite everything, part of him still wanted something impossible: to be chosen by his father. Not as heir. Not as a prince. But as a son.
Eventually, Aegon rose and wandered the castle's shadowed corridors. The Red Keep was quieter now, haunted by memories—most of them unpleasant. Lessons failed. Expectations unmet. Yet, there were good memories, too: hiding with Helaena, sneaking pastries from the kitchens, flying with Aemond before duty had built walls between them. Back then, the world had seemed simpler.
He passed through silent halls, footsteps echoing. The moonlight cast long shadows, painting the stones silver-blue. As he neared the king's study, voices reached him. The door was ajar, golden light spilling into the corridor.
Aegon paused, recognizing Viserys' voice. "…Jacaerys reminds me of Baelon."
Baelon—the king's father, the man he had idolized. Rhaenyra's laughter drifted through the crack in the door. "He will be honored to hear that."
"He possesses the same strength," Viserys said, pride thick in his voice. "He will make a fine king someday."
Aegon stood frozen, breath shallow. The pride he had craved all his life was being given freely—to someone else. Every instinct screamed at him to leave, but he stayed, rooted by pain.
He listened as they spoke of the future, of hopes and dreams that did not include him. He realized then that it was not his failures, not his drinking, jokes, or disappointments, that had set him apart. Viserys had made his choice long ago—Rhaenyra, Jace, the family he wanted. Aegon was only a shadow on the edges of that vision.
For the first time, Aegon stopped hoping. Without hope, all that remained was emptiness—a slow, terrible emptiness that threatened to swallow him.
He turned from the door, his footsteps silent—no one called after him. No one noticed him leave. Alone, he wandered the castle's sleeping halls, wondering—not for the first time—what it might feel like to disappear simply.
End of Chapter 1,