#aegon

You remembered the first day in the Capital as if it were yesterday; clutched in your hands was a small cloth doll, a parting gift from your mother, as you peered out the carriage window toward the looming castle of Kings Landing.

The sun had dipped below the harbour, setting the walls of the Red Keep ablaze with crimson, and its large turrets and ramparts cast long black shadows across the city like oppressive arms.

You had heard the stories about the palace; how it was rumoured that there were secret passages that you could get lost in and never find the light of day again, and in the darkness of the castle’s bowls, lay a room filled with jaws and skulls of terrible monsters.

The doll fell from your hands in a rumpled pile as you ducked into your father's side, small arms wrapped around his waist as you tried to hide from the approaching fortress. Your eyes squeezed shut, wishing yourself back home, trying to imagine the rolling mountains that surrounded the Eyrie, the waterfalls that cascaded like silver floods down the great carved-falcon rock faces and the great purple sky that gleamed with the light of a million stars.

But all you could see was the Red Keep’s shadows, reaching out to get you.

Unlike you, your sister was pressed against the window, her hair glimmering in the evening light as she beamed at the castle. Alys was three years older than you; her twelfth name-day had passed just a few days prior. Her smile faltered when she saw you cowering into your father's side, and her nose wrinkled. 

“Stop crying.” She whispered, slender fingers plucking the fallen stitched doll off the ground before shoving it onto your lap. “You’re going to crease your dress if you hunch like that!” 

“I don’t care about my stupid dress!” You sniffled, clutching the doll once again. “I want to go home!”

“You just have to spoil everything, don’t you?” Alys tugged at your blue silks, straightening the fabric. “This is our home now. We get to live with the Princes, like in those fairy-tale stories the old Septa would tell us - now stop whining and make yourself pretty!”

9 Years Later

“Y/n? We have arrived.” The gentle voice of your handmaid, Elia, a Dornish girl who had been assigned to you when you first arrived at Kings Landing, by King Daeron, pulled you from your restless slumber. Despite being your handmaid, Elia had grown over the years into one of your closest friends. 

She was only two years older than you, with glossy black hair, olive skin and kind eyes. In private, neither of you used formalities and favoured gossip about the most recent news from the Red Keep. As a serving girl, she heard rumours and news that would otherwise not reach your ears, and you both had spent many nights whispering and giggling into unholy hours. 

“Thank the Gods.” You groan, sitting up with a stretch. Your shoulders ached from slumping against the window of the carriage, and your head pounded from the sweltering sun that blazed through the thin window lace. With bleary eyes, you peer out the window, blinking.

Your carriage rolled through the bustling grounds of Ashwood Meadow, third in the line of royal carriages. In the front, the most intricately carved carriage was Prince Baelor, Prince Maekor, your lord father, and Alys. The second one sat your best friend, Valarr, and his cousin, Prince Aerion, though Daeron, who was supposed to be accompanying them, had gone missing four nights prior, along with Aegon, who was supposed to be riding in your carriage with Elia.

Little Prince Aegon had insisted that the other carriage was too hot and requested to ride with you instead, which you gladly (and always) accepted, as you knew the truth. You knew the real reason why the little prince wanted to accompany you. And that reason had silver hair and was riding in the carriage in front. 

You often feared that reason, too.

“I hope Daeron and Aegon will be alright…” You sigh, voice trailing off as you stare at the colourful silk pavilions popping up from the ground, market stalls being erected and the swarms of bodies setting up the tourney grounds.

You knew Aegon would have been plastered to the window, with wide lavender eyes right now, and you would have mirrored that reaction, but the thought of him missing made your heart heavy. You had grown protective of the little prince over the years. 

“I’m sure they are alright. How many times has Prince Daeron gone missing again? He’s probably passed out with Aegon trying to look after him.” Elia says, nudging your shoulder, trying to lift your spirits.

“I know, I just fear for them.”

Before you could dwell too long in your anxieties, Elia continued, wiggling her dark eyebrows, “In other news, I heard that your pavilion will be right next to Prince Valarr’s.”

“Elia, keep your voice down!” You groan, planting your face in your hands and shot her a glare from between your fingers. 

“Anyways,” Her laugh fills the carriage as you slump against the seat with hot cheeks. “I know you two will be sneaking into each other’s tents like you always do at these events. But by the Seven, this time spare us all the pain and instead of reading your boring books together, just get it over with and ki-”

“Seven Hells!” You clamp a hand over her grinning lips, muffling her voice. “We are just friends. Nothing more.” 

You wait a few moments before removing your hand, shooting her your infamous ‘another word and you're dead,’ look.

“Does Valarr know that?” 

“Elia!”

After an hour of unpacking, you flop onto your soft bed with a sigh. Your royal tent was spacious, the material a spun silk of light blue with white trimmings - House Arryn’s colours. Despite living most of your life among the Targareyns in Kings-Landing, you always made sure to bear the colours and sigils of your family.

Inside, you had a comfortable bed of fur, a sturdy elm-wood chest for your clothes, and a table already littered with books and maps. Beside your bed was a smaller table, on which lay a plate of half-eaten lemon tarts, perfume oils and a small blade - Valyrian steel - though the handle had been re-forged into the head and wings of a Falcon, the sigil of your house. A lady had to be prepared after all.

“Going to sleep before our dear Valarr’s tournament? How… rude.” A familiar voice says - aloof and mocking,  jolting you upright. 

Silhouetted against the night sky as he held the tent flap open, stood Aerion. Though it was too dark to see his eyes, you could feel the freezing weight of his gaze. Your skin prickled.

“No, I was just resting.” You mutter, not meeting his gaze as you push yourself off the bed. Your once cozy space felt a little colder now as you made your way across the tent. “And I believe the rudeness lies with you, by not announcing yourself before entering a ladies' tent!”

“Come now, I thought we were friends.” Aerion’s lips twitch into a smirk. He didn’t miss the way your gaze darted everywhere but him, or the way you hovered a touch too close to the small table holding your blade. “Besides, my uncle Baelor told me to come fetch you. We are heading to the royal box.”

“I can make my way there, myself.” You say, fastening the cloak around your shoulders. Your mind races, By the Seven, don’t let him come closer. Don’t let him in. Don’t let him near me.

“Suit yourself, just leave your Dornish-whore handmaid here.” Aerion says, though his smirk seemed a little tighter than usual.

Your jaw twitched. If it were anyone else, you would have slapped them for insulting your friend. But you knew better than to strike him - you still bore the scar from when you were fourteen. As he turned to leave, you let out a breath.

Suddenly, he paused in his tracks.

“... Did you need something else?” You say tentatively, eyes trained on the back of his silver head. Please say no. He stands in silence for a few moments longer, his shoulders tense. 

“No, that was all…” Another long, long pause. “Be quick about getting ready.”

And he was gone.

The tourney ground was mobbed.

From your seat in the royal box, you could see the swarms, like a raging sea of bodies below you, roaring and wild. You sat beside your sister, Alys, watching as the great torches were lit and the horns called the riders to the field. You loved tourneys. Even as a child, you had liked to imagine yourself as a contestant, riding one of the horses as your spear splintered against the armour of your opponent. 

As your eyes scanned the crowds, you couldn’t help but smile at the boisterous singing and antics of the common folk as they cheered and laughed below. In a way, you envied their freedom. Just when you turned to say something to your sister, two figures in the crowd on the opposite side of the field caught your eye.

Pressed against the bannister at the front stood the tallest man you had ever seen in your life, and on his shoulders was perched a young boy. 

“Is that..” You whisper in disbelief as you squint your eyes at the small figure on the large man's shoulders. But before you could make out any more detail, a horn echoes through the night air, sending the crowd into frenzied roars, and the boy jumped off the man's shoulders, disappearing into the sea of people. No, it couldn’t have been…

“They are asking for favours!” Alys whispers, shaking you out of your daze. “I hope that Tyrell Knight asks for mine!”

But your gaze had already fixed on him - cantering around the tourney field, kicking up plumes of dust, was your best friend. Valarr was sitting on a great black horse, his dark-scaled armour glinting under the torchlight as he rounded another corner, waving at the roaring crowds.

Your breath catches as he turned, shooting a crooked grin up to the royal seat in which you sat, before pulling his helm over his silver-streaked brown hair. Idiot. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his display - you were so going to tease him about it afterwards. You always did. Yet, as you watched him trot past the cheering crowd, you couldn’t help but fidget with the friendship bracelet he had given you when you were thirteen. 

Your fingers squeezed around the charm bracelet each time he slowed near a box of ladies or highborn princesses. It was silly, you knew, yet you couldn’t help but feel your chest tighten as you watched him circle the crowds…

Get a grip, he is just your friend, nothing more, you scolded yourself silently. You sigh and force yourself to tear your gaze away and focus on the other riders asking ladies for favours, and bite back a laugh as Alys all but curses Tyrell’s name when he asks another maiden for her favour. 

“And for my favour… Lady Y/n?” A voice calls up to you from below.

Want tagged? Comment below! Apologies for mistakes, I edited this while battling food poisoning.

Thank you for reading 🤍

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