WHEN AEGON HAD been a babe, red-faced and squalling in his cradle, Rhaenyra had adored him. She had carried him upon her hip despite the complaints of her step-mother, pressed kisses to his soft curls, and laughed whenever his tiny fingers tangled themselves in her silver hair. For a time, he followed after her like a duckling, demanding stories and sweets and rides upon Syrax's back when he was old enough to ask for them.
The older Aegon grew, the more poison poured its way into his ears and a thousand cups followed; Lords smiled at him. Maesters bowed to him. Men who scarcely spared Rhaenyra a glance spoke of the importance of sons and succession. One day, to Rhaenyra's astonishment, her little brother looked at her not with affection, but with contempt. Somewhere between his lessons and his first cups of wine, Aegon learned that she was not just his older sister, but a woman and the power a fleshy bit of anatomy between his legs granted him over her. The realization settled over him like a sickness.
After that, they seemed only to sharpen against one another, every meeting ending in some fresh quarrel, hardly able to occupy the same room without burning each other. It is, after all, one of life's oldest sorrows; to watch the baby you once cradled in your arms grow into someone you can scarcely stand.
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