there is no such thing as a self-made man.

"Why would I send you, little Aegon? " The question was genuine for Jaaehaerys had been fostered among them and their former ruling lords sided with him and his, but there could be some value in sending a Targaryen and not the Targaryen. Send a Prince as a warning that the king would soon arrive if they didn't take heed of his words. But, it could also be perceived as a weakness. People liked to see their King and Queen, the presence of a queen softened men.

"It's more than waiting. The Stormborn could see weakness as men often blame others for their failures and they were shamed by the Dornish. Let enough men through to siege a castle, there are many weaknesses in their storm." These meetings, meetings outside of the council were important to him and they were the most important lessons taught to him by his grandsire and Otto.

his gaze dimmed for a heartbeat, something quieter slipping through the cracks. a weaker part of him wondered if that, too, had been ordained, if the gods had grown tired of fire made flesh, of men who flew too close to divinity. if perhaps this smaller, bloodier power was the punishment left behind.

the prince listened as jaehaerys spoke of weakness and storms, fingers steepled now, thoughtful rather than idle. “they were shamed,” he agreed quietly. “and shame rots if left alone. it turns inward, then outward.” his eyes lifted then, sharp, measuring. “you’re right to go yourself. with the queen. it tells them they are still seen, even if they have dirt and muck amongst their armor.” a pause, then something more honest: “and it reminds them what they stand to lose.”

when the parchment was offered, aegon accepted it without ceremony, weighing it in his hand as if it were a blade rather than ink and seal. “represent house targaryen,” he echoed, almost to himself. “no decisions without you.” his gaze flicked back to his cousin, steady. “that suits me. i never needed a crown to make men listen.” a beat. “just permission.” most of the time.

brianna bracken felt a thrill of unrestrained delight as she stepped into the vibrant swirl of king’s landing that evening, the city itself seeming to pulse beneath the echoes of celebration. the air was fragrant with spiced meats, perfumed courtiers, and the sharp tang of distilled spirits, the kind that made her cheeks warm and her thoughts a little bolder than usual. she had never been among so many people, each moving with their own purpose, their silks and satins reflecting the lantern light like shards of precious gems, and yet she felt utterly at ease, as though she had been meant to be here all along.

her heart danced in her chest as she recalled the parade in honour of king jaehaerys targaryen, the king who was mostly definitely not queer considering she only remembered he had married niamh tully when she saw her again, the trumpets blaring with ceremonial pride, the banners catching the wind like living things. for once, the politics and the endless murmuring of houses beyond her own seemed distant; tonight was hers to savour. she wandered through the gardens, the grass damp beneath her slippers, and found herself caught up in a circle of laughter and clinking glasses, her friends forming a protective ring of familiarity in the midst of the glittering crowd.

minthara estermont, ever composed despite her competitive nature, leaned against a low hedge with a smile that suggested she was enjoying herself more than she would admit, while fiona grafton’s uncontainable grace cracked with each ball she didnt get into the hole, her brother norbert chuckling beside her. then there was the man, who everyone whispered was the hand of this place, his posture stiff, eyes darting nervously like a bird trapped behind glass, yet somehow he had been drawn into their orbit. brianna watched him, intrigued by the way he seemed out of step with the gaiety, and felt a pang of amusement. how curious that someone with such power could be so socially anxious, a contradiction she relished observing.

the evening wore on, and brianna moved from one dance to the next, her movements a fluid blend of youthful exuberance and practiced poise, her gaze catching the lanterns as if to drink in their light. the whispers of noble families and the clink of glasses became a backdrop to her own private symphony of excitement. she did not notice the shadow stretching behind the crowd, nor the subtle tightening of her stomach when a stranger approached too close, for the world was too intoxicating, too alive for caution to settle in her mind.

when the idea of bowls came up, she joined with glee, laughing at the absurdity of it all again, the smooth wood of the balls warm under her fingers, the stakes entirely inconsequential. she rolled her first ball with more force than intended, the whiskey in her system emboldening her aim, and the sphere flew across the lawn like a comet, veering far off course to collide with a cluster of courtiers from new valyria. brianna’s eyes widened, her cheeks blossoming a deeper rose as giggles rocked across the lawn, anything but graceful. she threw her arms wide and bellowed, half waving at the sight of them in the distance as though she were drowning - but she needed her ball back.

“oh seven fuckin' hells, go on and pass it back here will you?” the sound of her laughter carried across the garden, rich and musical, mixing with the shocked murmurs of those she had inadvertently targeted. she felt her chest swell with irrepressible spirit, the thrill of chaos brushing her skin like fire.

violet eyes followed brianna as she moved, the way she claimed the chaos as her own, steps deliberate yet spirited, skirts brushing dew, cheeks flushed from the heat of both exertion and mirth. aegon’s lips twitched, almost a smile, though it never reached the steadiness of his gaze. “recklessness,” he muttered, “that knows its own worth. not many manage that without tipping into foolishness.” he shifted slightly, leaning against the stone railing, hands brushing its cool surface. there was admiration there, though buried beneath layers of measured observation and a mind already cataloguing the scene for its lessons.

he waited, letting her finish her impromptu game amongst her friends, the clinking, the calls, the laughter. and then, as she straightened, bowing with mockery and charm, aegon stepped forward, the sound of his approach soft on the grass. “you handle chaos better than most,” he said, voice calm, dry, carrying a subtle edge of wry amusement. “not something i often say, but… well. it’s worth noting.”

he let a beat pass, giving her space to respond, then added, almost in passing, “though maybe keep an eye on rogue projectiles next time. the court doesn’t always forgive enthusiasm as easily as i do.” there was a faint edge of teasing in the words, but no malice, only the kind of dry humor that came from someone who had watched much and survived more.

“Well, I did plan to come and here I am,” she added after a beat, a gentle smile gracing her lips, looking at the Tragaryen prince with care and curiosity. “After it all, I still believe beauty and knowledge deserve to be seen, recognized”. Her smile was subtle but genuine. The Queen of the Riverlands hoped he might share more about his presence here, or even what had transpired in his life since she last crossed paths with him, but she didn't try to coax more from him than what he would freely give. “I am marveled by what people can create,” she added, sharing the simple truth that she had decided to come not just out of duty, but curiosity and wonder. In her voice was the faintest echo of the bright-eyed girl she had been before the dragons flew over the Riverlands.

he straightened slightly, hands clasped loosely behind his back, and let his gaze wander across the concord’s pavilions, catching the way sunlight glinted off glass and steel. “i suppose that’s why we come here,” he added, a hint of acknowledgment in his voice. “to see what endures. to see what others build that can’t be broken as easily as...” his glance flicked back to the contraption, “…well, as fragile as some things we try to hold together.” there was no bitterness in his words, only the quiet note of someone who measured beauty against consequence, admiration against practicality.

then he turned toward her, eyes steady, lilac catching the light, the shadow of that old familiarity settling between them. “i’ll walk,” he said, almost matter-of-fact, but the edges of his tone softened enough to signal he meant it. “and i’ll try not to destroy anything else in the process. though no promises about what my thoughts might do to the rest of this event.” the faintest smile tugged at his lips as he inclined his head and we to fall into step beside her.

"Little Aegon." He greeted without mock, just a man unable to let go of those names from years ago. Perhaps meant to irk his grandmother but she was dead just like everyone else who used them to wage their wars.

"Yes. It is the fate a dragon deserves. Perhaps too many riders too late." Beyond the fighting, the squabbles that turned to blood feud Targaryens understood the pain of a dragon without it's rider and a rider without their dragon. Once again the rider had been robbed of his true death because he did what no rider should do, dismounted and let his dragon die.

When he was a boy he admired Aegon's father. Thought the man was wild and untamed but powerful, strong and confident. Everything his grandsire and father were not. Even Aemond lacked what made Daemon the Prince of Flea Bottom, the smallfolk. As he watched his cousin he thought it was the best choice for his empire, for the realm that Aegon was his heir. Because if Jaehaerys died then the Targaryen line would need to continue above all else. They shared something. They were the last true sons of a great house.

"They will keep it for now. I wish for them to grow comfortable and for the Stormlords to get angry. Soon, when none are looking, we will use their ways against them." Jaehaerys stared at the fire, his mind still reeling from the cries of Silverwing drown out the cries from men cooked by her blood.

"Stone by stone." Prone to rage, it was silence that made the spoiled prince turned King dangerous. He was not good when it came to courtly matters. It was in war where he thrived. Domination was his bread and butter, he could bend any to his will through sheer might. That wasn't learned from a single Targaryen. No. It was a Stormlander who taught him the power of power itself.

the candle between them flickered low, its flame long and bent, casting warping shadows against maps that spanned the southern reach. aegon’s gaze lingered there, drawn not to the ink but to the scorched edge where wax had once dripped too close. that was how it always went. borders drawn, only to be burned through. he breathed in slow, exhaled slower.

“anger,” he said, letting the word hang. “that’s smart. turn their outrage into aim.” his brow arched, one hand lifting lazily to gesture. “but we should be careful. stormlanders, they hold their grudges tight. even the old ones, handed down like swords. loyalty’s worth something, aye. but trust? that’s a rarer coin.” he smirked faintly, as if amused by his own sudden philosophy. “and you never know when one of them will decide the crown’s grown too quiet for their liking.”

“Perhaps there should be 'Do not touch' signs from now on, no?” the redhead remarked as Aegon turned, leaving behind the wobbly model of the invention. Her greeting carried no fanfare, just a polite tilt of her head. Once, they had been closer than they were now. Back when Daemon Targaryen sought support in the Riverlands, and his son was welcomed in Riverrun. Time and distance were carved following the Dance of Dragons, and yet, Aegon remained familiar in some way. “You may have just crushed that man's hope of finding a patron to support his work,” she added with a pointed look, glancing toward the dismayed inventor Aegon turned away from. One could only hope he could repair his piece and continue to properly display it for the remainder of the Verdant Concord.

“if hope can’t survive a soldier’s fingers,” he said, glancing sidelong at the wounded model behind him, “it was never fit for the field.” his tone was dry, but not unkind. his hands came behind him, clasped behind his back, curled briefly. he didn’t speak of riverrun, or of the war. not directly. but there was weight between his words, the past never needed to be named to be felt.

“i wasn't sure if you’d come either,” he admitted. “too many talking heads and gilded promises. the realm’s full of them lately. i'm sure you've better things to do back home.” he looked out through the glass wall where distant voices drifted from the debate forums. “but you’re right. seeing a familiar face, it cuts through the noise.”

he tilted his head toward the broken mechanism behind him. “besides, someone has to test the strength of all this new reach-born brilliance.” finally, he looked back at her, eyes steady. “i’m not made for salons and epilogues. but maybe... i can stomach the in-between.”