Chapter Text
The Red Keep was still an ugly monstrosity. Still gray and crouched, still with worn stone that clung to ancient glory, and still with cold corridors that drank firelight. Aegon had not walked these halls since he was thirteen, and he wished he never would.
Alas, when a king called, there could only be an answer.
Aegon held his eldest son’s hand as they followed the back of a servant girl. The lack of a scent ruffled his nerves. A beta or perhaps a well contained alpha or omega, it didn’t matter which—it still made his back tense. He was used to Oldtown, where scents moved a bit more freely than here. This Keep favored containment, muteness, and he despised it down to his slippered feet.
Lyonel snuffled and rubbed his nose with his free hand. At six namedays, he was sensitive to change. A sensitivity that maesters promised would fade as he aged and came more into his own alpha. Aegon wasn’t so sure.
Aegon wasn’t sure of much. Except for how much he didn’t want to fucking be here. He wanted to go back to Oldtown. At least the whispers there were honest.
Where the hells was his husband?
Ormund had vanished when they arrived, stolen by Otto Hightower, and he had taken Garmund. Their youngest son was ever his father’s shadow. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and—Ormund, the sap—had given in. The Lord of Oldtown was whipped by a green boy of four namedays.
Martyn, at least, had the good sense to stay with his mother and Lyonel. And Daeron. Martyn clung to his uncle’s neck like a leech. At five namedays, he was beginning to become too heavy to carry comfortably while bones grew denser in alphahood each year, but Daeron never complained.
Aegon swallowed an unladylike snort. The alphas were so whipped by his boys. He would never—
“Mama, my legs are tired.” Lyonel pulled on Aegon’s hand, his nose scrunching. Without breaking stride, Aegon swooped his eldest up onto his hip. Lyonel quickly buried his nose into Aegon’s neck.
A cough next to him made him turn his head slightly. Daeron’s face was bland, perfectly still, but his scent was too warm, too amused. Aegon’s mouth pursed and his eyes squinted in warning.
“Don’t you start.” Aegon quickened his pace, forcing the servant girl in front of them to grasp her skirts and hurry along, her face pale but her scent muted. She made Aegon want to be mean—to push and prod until that careful suppression broke into a thousand pieces. Ormund, however, would be disappointed. Aegon bit the urge back.
“I didn’t say anything, brother dear.” Daeron adjusted Martyn in his arms, the boy giggling softly against his doublet.
Aegon’s steps faltered then stomped harder. His slippers made an insignificant noise but in the quiet of the corridor it was a noticeable slap. Aegon huffed. He allowed his scent to spill free, uncontained and frustrated. Just on the edge of unpleasant, sour.
Lyonel’s face moved away from Aegon’s neck with a grumble. He rested a small hand on Aegon’s face, their violet eyes meeting. “Mama, you stink. Stop.”
“You can blame your uncle and the fu—”
“Language. Lord Ormund won’t be happy to hear his heir cursing like a dockworker when he returns.”
Aegon huffed again but subsided. His scent was still blaring his discomfort and frustration. Too much for this Keep, the capital, and he didn’t want to entirely subdue it. He spent far too long being told to suppress and then Oldtown said to release. At thirteen, angry at the world and drunk, he took Oldtown’s lesson to heart.
Well, they said “moderation” after, but Aegon had never been good at hearing what he didn’t want to hear.
Daeron was better at listening. A quiet child when he was first sent to squire under Lord Ormund Hightower at twelve. He grew into a quiet, solid young man of sixteen namedays, with observant violet eyes.
Those eyes were now glancing at Aegon’s profile. “You need to be more careful. The Red Keep is not like home. You have no power here as the Lady of Oldtown,” Daeron said, his voice low and meant for only them. Martyn and Lyonel had gone quiet, peering out at the corridor, at the tense shoulders of the servant girl who was pretending to not hear.
Aegon’s hands twitched around his son, and Lyonel wordlessly patted his shoulder.
“I’m an omega,” Aegon bit out from between tightly clenched teeth, a flush of red rising high on his cheeks. “I don’t have power anywhere.”
Daeron sighed. An old argument where both knew if they tried, they’d both end up frustrated and nowhere.
The servant girl rounded a corner with the sharp movements of a mouse. Aegon spotted her eyes—wide and panicked—like dark coal against her pale face. She wanted to finish her task. Deliver them to their chambers and then run. Aegon sneered at her. She snapped back around, her knuckles whitening on her skirts.
Aegon felt the disapproving look from his youngest brother. It ruined that small spark of pleasure building in his chest, and he finally reined in his scent. A faint bitter smell of burning was left behind. “Don’t start,” Aegon said, his jaw tight while his arms remained gentle around Lyonel.
They were quiet until they were shown their chambers. Aegon’s and Ormund’s with a small nursery attached where the nursemaids they brought with them from Oldtown were already settling the space for their three small charges. Daeron’s was next to theirs. It didn’t escape Aegon’s notice that they’d been positioned away from Rhaenyra and her brood. Mother’s doing, no doubt.
Daeron waited until they were in Aegon’s and Ormund’s chambers, until he put Martyn down, until the servant girl was dismissed and left to flee. Aegon took his time to put down Lyonel. He brushed Lyonel’s auburn curls with his fingers, readjusted Martyn’s ruffled little doublet, smoothed the little boy’s silver-gold curls. Aegon didn’t look at Daeron.
His brother was patient and didn’t need to be looked at to speak.
“That was terrible of you.”
“She’s a servant,” Aegon shot back, defensive.
“You don’t treat the servants in the Hightower like that.”
Before Aegon could respond—and he had no idea what he would have muttered—Martyn pulled on Aegon’s skirts. The five-year-old boy hadn’t learned yet to soften his voice and he bellowed, “I’m hungry!” He bounced on his feet, silver-gold curls swaying, his green eyes peering up at Aegon before switching to Daeron, obviously expecting something to fix it.
Aegon kneeled in front of his son, putting his hands on Martyn’s shoulders to stop the bouncing, his stomach rolling from the mere sight of the repetitive motion. “Soon, little dove, soon.” Aegon’s voice was softer now, almost like every bitter and snide inclination had flown away, and Daeron’s shoulders relaxed. “We are to have supper when your papa and Garmund return. And guess what?”
Martyn blinked, opened his mouth. “What?” Lyonel interrupted, coming up on Aegon’s other side.
“I was gonna ask!” Martyn’s lower lip trembled.
“You’re too slow.” Lyonel didn’t raise his voice or change his tone, but his mouth quirked to one side, and his violet eyes were gleaming with mirth.
Martyn sucked in a breath.
Aegon acted, knowing from newfound motherly experience just how quickly a brotherly spat could escalate to name-calling and hair-pulling and once, during a terrifying moment that resulted in Lyonel needing stitches, biting. “We are to eat supper with the king.”
Lyonel and Martyn blinked.
“The king?” Martyn asked, uncertain.
At the same time Lyonel asked, “The walking corpse?”
Daeron couldn’t suppress the choke or the sudden burst of amusement from his scent. Sandalwood and musky old parchment lingered with the distinctive smell of a burning candle. Aegon had never been able to properly describe what that smell was—it was warm and only seemed to exist when Daeron was amused. And Daeron was amused. He hid his mouth behind his hand, bending over with his free arm wrapped around his stomach, his shoulders shaking. It wasn’t able to hide the very unprincely snort-laugh.
Lyonel, the little troublemaker, grinned. Martyn, face scrunched and eyes cautiously curious, wandered over to their uncle and was trying to peer up at Daeron’s face. “What’s wrong with Uncle Dae-Dae? Is he broken?” Martyn then turned those green eyes on Lyonel, pointing a small accusing finger at his eldest brother. “Lyonel broke him!”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Daeron struggled to say in between his gasping breaths, “I just, I was not—where did you hear that?”
“Mama,” Lyonel answered quickly.
“I never—”
“You said it to papa when you told him you didn’t want to come to the Red Keep. After that letter came, remember?” Lyonel’s question was aimed at Martyn who shrugged, seemingly back to content after Daeron said he was fine.
Aegon remembered that. He also remembered calling Aemond a cunt and Rhaenyra a whore who couldn’t fuck someone with Valyrian coloring to save her tits. He looked at Lyonel, trying to see any kind of indication that his eldest child heard all of that, but there was nothing. Lyonel had learned how to not show anything to get out of being disciplined. Mostly because he tended to con extra sweets from the cooks by claiming it was for his little brothers who never saw those sweets. His scent also gave nothing away; it remained the same with his cinnamon and pine only now carrying that satisfied note of warmth that reminded Aegon of the sun. Underneath, he still had the faint smell of warm milk. It had been fading as he grew older, and a part of Aegon mourned the slow death of it.
“And did you…hear anything else?” Aegon’s voice broke and was too high. Daeron snorted again.
Lyonel fluttered his eyelashes innocently. “Like what, mama?”
The little shit certainly heard all of it. Aegon groaned, finally standing up to his full height, and walked to the window. Aegon focused on breathing before turning back around and smiling tightly. “Little sunlight, there are things that we—that adults say in the privacy of our household that are not exactly…proper for other people and things and—” He cut himself off, his violet eyes quickly catching Daeron’s. He gestured to Lyonel, a quick and jerky movement.
Daeron finally managed to stop laughing. He kneeled, bringing himself down to Lyonel’s level. Waving over a confused Martyn, he rested both hands on his nephews, one on Lyonel’s shoulder and one on Martyn’s. “Like your mother said, there are things we say to people in confidence that are not exactly kind and should never be repeated outside of that confidence,” Daeron said, ensuring both boys were paying attention, “King Viserys is very sick. What your mother said was because he’s…frustrated about being back here. The king is his father and mine. Would you call your father a walking corpse to his face?”
Martyn’s lip wobbled, his green eyes watering, and he quickly shook his head. His scent carried a bitter and sharp undertone of lemon. It threaded with his usual scent of fresh sea air and some herb Aegon didn’t know the name of but that was sweet, peppery, and earthy.
“I would if he was one.” Lyonel continued before Daeron could lecture, trying to show his six-year-old reasoning, “Papa likes truth. If he looked like one, he’d want you to say it and not say he looks hale.”
“Your father isn’t the king. It has a place, but that place is not here and not right now,” Daeron said, patting both boys before standing up. His hair, the silver-gold of their father’s House, was mussed from his earlier laughter, several strands having escaped his tie.
Martyn immediately went to Aegon by the window. Aegon sat on the window seat and pulled Martyn to his side. “It’s all right, little dove. No one is calling papa a corpse.” Aegon noticed with a twinge that the warm milk scent was also beginning to fade on him. It made Aegon tighten his grip some and bury his nose against Martyn’s curls, chasing after that fading scent. They were growing up too fast. His boys.
The door opened right as Daeron was tidying his hair. Ormund walked in, his jaw tight and scent subdued, but his hand was gentle as he guided little four-year-old Garmund. Garmund preferred to walk by himself, despite his short legs and his balance not being as good as his big brothers.
Garmund wobbled to Aegon, pulling at his skirts until he provided a hand. Garmund used Aegon’s hand to climb up onto the window seat. Once up, he leaned his head—curly and auburn and wild—against Aegon’s side, blinking slowly and yawning. His mismatched eyes of violet and green watered, tears clutching onto his eyelashes before a small fist rubbed them away. That warm and earthy scent of watered earth and aged clay was somewhat muted out of exhaustion. As the youngest, the warm milk of early childhood still clung strongly to his hair and skin. Aegon jealously hoarded it while he still could.
“Big day, my little star?”
“Uh huh. Lots of talking,” Garmund said and then, after a brief silence, continued, “I’m hungry.”
Martyn made an agreeing sound now that he’s been reminded of his earlier demand for food.
“Like I told Martyn, we’re going to have supper soon. It’s a big dinner, so you boys will need to be on your best behavior, which means no throwing food, no kicking, no spontaneous music.” Aegon tried to sound stern, but his eyes were soft and his mouth was already pulling up into a smile at the mere memory his own words produced.
Martyn made a loud, disappointed noise at that, his little legs kicking out. “But mama—”
“No, listen to your mother,” Ormund interjected. He was far better at sounding stern. Their boys would always straighten, especially Garmund, and listen. Aegon found himself jealous of his husband, at that confidence of his that Aegon could never seem to find. He said it was because Ormund was an alpha, Ormund disagreed. Another old argument but, unlike Daeron, Ormund never backed down and would argue with Aegon until Aegon huffed and grew tired of arguing.
Aegon’s husband was a stubborn mule.
Ormund gestured at the three nursemaids from their household. “Get them ready for the dinner. Do not let them have any sweets. Lyonel has been conning the cooks again and I don’t trust him enough to not try it even here.”
Lyonel huffed. A sound that made Daeron cough before he finally ducked out of the room to go to his own assigned chambers. Ormund merely stared at Lyonel until he went with the nursemaids and his little brothers into the attached nursery, the door closing and leaving Aegon and Ormund alone.
Aegon stood and walked to the wardrobe where his dresses and gowns had already been hung up. He peered at them in suspicion, hands quickly sorting through them, checking through the rich fabrics. “What did the old goat want? He had you and Garmund for a long time.”
A warm chest pressed to Aegon’s back and the tension he had been carrying since arriving began to ease. Ormund kissed his cheek, the slight scratch of growing facial hair rubbing against the sensitive skin. The sharp scent of pine and leather and aged clay caressed Aegon’s nose. Ormund reached around Aegon to briefly touch a gown. “Otto told me that Vaemond Velaryon had lost his head before we arrived. Prince Daemon’s response to him calling Rhaenyra’s sons bastards and her a whore.”
“And we missed all of that excitement? What did Otto have to say to you?” Aegon’s hands shook while he took out the gown Ormund pointed to. It was a pretty thing with heavy skirts, high neck, and long sleeves. It would cover Aegon entirely and that woke up something hideous in his chest. Making a dismissing noise, he put it back into the wardrobe. Ormund chuckled against his cheek, a soft puff of warm breath that made Aegon shudder even as he elbowed his husband lightly.
“Otto,” Ormund began, this time reaching for a different gown, something lighter, more youthful and a lovely rich purple, “wants to ensure they will have the Hightower when King Viserys finally dies. He made certain to point out that I married a Targaryen omega prince and that my line now has royal blood.”
Aegon turned in Ormund’s arms. “He threatened you?” Aegon’s voice had gone dangerously soft.
“He reminded me,” Ormund corrected. “And of the loyalty to our house. Your brother is half-Hightower just like you and Daeron.”
Aegon squinted up at his husband, taking in those auburn curls and green eyes, and he heard what Ormund wasn’t quite saying. “Rhaenyra has nothing to fear from me. I’m an omega, I was never even in the running for that fucking pointy chair. Daeron is an alpha, but who would look at that and hear danger? The boy snorts when he laughs, for the gods' sake, hardly a rival. Aemond…” Aegon trailed off.
Aemond was dangerous to Rhaenyra’s claim. He wanted it for the mere principle of it.
“Aemond is the firstborn alpha son of King Viserys. Rhaenyra is the firstborn alpha daughter of King Viserys. Either way, they will not accept the other taking the throne.”
“Father wants Rhaenyra. He’s never even looked at us or Helaena.” Aegon finally pulled away, grabbing the purple gown with more force than necessary.
“What a man wants, even a king, tends to matter far less when that man is dead.” Ormund’s tone wasn’t brutal, but Aegon still flinched from the words, a complicated knot in his stomach. His father was dying, everyone with eyes could see it. He even called King Viserys a walking corpse when he thought he was fully alone with his husband and the frustration of his birth overfilled to bursting.
But Aegon still remembered when King Viserys had tried. It had been imperfect, awkward, a strange balancing act Aegon had never consented to. Had told himself he didn’t want even when that hollow ache made him reach for the wine.
Ormund’s hands reached for the laces of Aegon’s traveling dress, loosening them, and he allowed it. His husband seemed to sense he didn’t want wandering hands, keeping his touch intimate and not heated. His mind was drifting even though he didn’t want it to. Viserys had come to his sickbed when he was six and had a fever. That memory had stuck to Aegon’s insides like a tumor. It was terrible and it was beautiful and he wished he could forget it now. Wished he could tear his skin open and scrub his insides of it.
Because where was he when Aegon was eleven, twelve, and drinking, drinking, and drinking to forget he was an omega?
Where was he when Aegon was thirteen and married and shipped off to Oldtown to a man he didn’t know and a brother he didn’t know?
Did he even remember Lyonel’s, Martyn’s, and Garmund’s names?
That last thought shocked Aegon out of his minor daze. He shook his head, clearing his throat against a sudden dryness that desired wine. It didn’t fucking matter now. His boys were smart, beautiful, loud, and messy. And his.
Woe to any who threatened that.
Even a dying corpse of a man with delusions of a happy family.