#aegon

“The king’s health has taken a turn for the worst, my dear,” Alicent explained, reaching to take your hands in hers—they were cold and brought a shiver down your spine, as well as her words. “I am afraid that it won’t be long now, before he passes into the Gods’ mercy.”

“Oh,” you breathed, your irritation leaving you, replaced instead by a profound sorrow. 

“There is one thing you and Aegon need to do now, and that is to marry before he does pass,” Alicent said, taking you aback. “Surely you know that the realm will suffer some unrest when he does, and that the only way to prevent it is what the king set out to do when he betrothed you and Aegon.”

Understanding dawned on you, and you knew the dowager queen to be right. While your mother had been named heir over two decades prior, there were still lords in the realm who would prefer Aegon to succeed Viserys. However with this marriage, an alliance like was done across many houses in the realm, it united the two branches of House Targaryen, and you knew your mother’s reign would be stronger for it.

“We shall send a letter to mother then, beseech her to return,” you replied.

“There is no time for this, my dear. It needs to happen today” Alicent said tearily, and her grief made your own throat tight. “We cannot wait any longer. It will be safer for the realm for the family to be united before the king passes.”

Duty had always mattered to you, and you prided yourself in knowing your place and your role. Aegon and you had been young when the king had betrothed you, right on the morrow following the funeral of Lady Laena, declaring that his own flesh and blood would not leave Driftmark without having reconciled. While your mother had vehemently protested she had not won, as the king had judged it appropriate for your hand to be given in marriage in exchange for the eye your brother had taken from Aemond. 

In a strange way, Aegon and you had found yourselves at the center of an exchange meant to put an end to a fight neither of you had been part of, and such had been the first private conversation you had had once betrothed. Little by little, over months and years you then spent between Dragonstone and the Red Keep, a bond of trust and understanding had been built atop this moment of mutual recognition.

Now on this grim day that seemingly preceded tragedy, you would have to obey the king’s will for the good of his legacy once again, and the idea filled you with pride. “I understand,” you agreed, and Alicent seemed relieved.

“Very well. The Septon has been called for, and the seamstress as well,” she explained. “The ceremony shall take place at dusk, in private. Naturally, you shall have the celebration and banquet you wished, once it is permitted.”

Nodding without a word, needed no further explanations, as you knew of the protocols regarding the passing of a monarch and the period of mourning that followed. “A private ceremony will do well,” you assured Alicent.

“Very well,” she said again, and you did not know then that those were sealing your fate. 

While it went against every instinct in his bones, Aegon had no choice but to comply with his mother and grandsire’s plan, once it was presented to him. It had not been dawn yet when he had been woken and informed that his father had passed. 

He had barely had the time to understand the weight of what had fallen on his shoulders that a plan was set in motion, a plan years in the making, with him at the center while he lived his life clueless to it. The thought was frightening and made him feel as though the floor was collapsing under his feet, crumbling to dust and ash while he scrambled to catch himself.

The only anchor he could find in this was you, knowing that no matter what fate awaited him, you would be at his side as his wife, but he was not permitted to see you until he vowed that none of it would be spoken in your presence. 

“It is a lie!” Aegon exclaimed as he was told what had been announced to you—that the king was still alive and breathing, and that in taking him to husband, you were doing your duty by him, and not taking part in claiming the throne in his favor.

“Only to protect her,” Ser Otto reminded him in his falsely paternal tone. “She must not know of the full truth for her own sanity, but the fact that your marriage will keep this family intact is not a lie.”

Aegon hesitated then, unsure what argument he could conjure in this moment to counter a plan years in the making. “Rhaenyra will likely accept your terms once her daughter is wed to you, and you know it, just as you know the truth of what she would have to do if she—” he continued.

“She would have to put me and my brothers to the sword if she claimed the throne, yes!” Aegon cried out in distress. “This has been told to me time and time again, I have not forgotten it!”

For a moment Otto remained silent, watching him with eyes that would be perceived as kind by anyone who did not know him intimately, but Aegon could see beyond the facade, and recognized his gaze as one of pity. At Aegon’s side, his mother sighed and put her hand on his arm.

“It is a harsh truth, one your betrothed cannot comprehend yet, and we must not blame her. Rhaenyra is her mother after all,” Alicent soothed. “While I understand your reluctance to shield her from the truth, it is necessary, for the good of all. A needless war might be avoided.”

“I have no wish to rule, I am not suited,” Aegon warned them, but was ignored.

“The crown seldom comes to those who are ready to bear it,” Otto said, taking a step forward until Aegon was caged between him and his mother. “Follow our lead and all shall be well. We shall send an offer to Rhaenyra, she might keep Dragonstone if she so wishes, and her daughter shall be queen.”

Aegon swallowed painfully, suddenly feeling like one of the bugs Helaena kept under glass domes, some of them dead and others alive, flying into the glass repeatedly until they perished from exhaustion. “Do you truly believe war is evitable?” he asked feebly.

“We must cling on to this hope,” his mother said.

As soon as the illusion shattered and the truth was revealed the following morrow, all hope his mother had given him promptly vanished, and he thought himself a fool for believing her in the first place. Once you learned of the king’s passing, and that Aegon was to ascend the throne instead of your mother, he knew that he had irrevocably lost you. 

At first you had raged and cried, a sort of fury he had never seen from you, and once you had realized the part you had played in it without your knowledge, the look you had given him had been full of horror, and you retreated within yourself. 

War went on almost despite himself, when he had believed the matter would be resolved quickly, and the situation festered both inside the castle and outside its walls. 

Aegon was surrounded by minds thinking themselves greatest, finer politicians and tacticians, each and every one that made their plans without consulting him. He was the king but he was merely a spectator, to his mother’s decisions in hand with Ser Otto, to Aemond and Cole’s military campaigns. 

He suspected there was more occurring behind closed doors, behind curtains, out of his line of sight and hearing, and these secret plots unnerved him. Such was the case one morning where he retreated in his chambers after a Council session, having been once again dismissed by the very people who were meant to serve him.

Pushing the doors to his rooms, he was surprised to see you there—it was a testament to how preoccupied he was, that he did not notice you guards in the corridor. “What are you doing here?” he asked, wary and hopeful in equal measure, as you avoided his company as much as you could.

“I didn’t think you would be here,” you said without glancing at him, your voice flat and quiet. “Where are grandfather’s books?”

“I ordered them removed,” he replied, and at the sudden frown upon your face, added. “I simply removed them, I didn’t burn them.”

Walking to the table, he reached for the pitcher of wine, sighing when he found it empty. “Has something happened?” you asked tentatively, your eyes still downcast, and he knew what you were truly asking. 

He was aware you only worried about your family, which he could not blame you for, yet he needed an ear to listen to his torments. “They don’t care what I think,” he replied, as though you were his true, loving wife, seeking him out to support him. The whole lot of them, they pursue their campaigns without seeking my aid, or even my thoughts.”

“What thoughts would you have?” you retorted, but there was no venom to your voice, only a heavy sort of tiredness he was only familiar with. “Do you think simply wearing the crown, a stolen crown no less, imbues you with wisdom?”

Aegon was stunned by your sudden spite, and it allowed you to go further. “At least those men at your council table earned their seats, unlike you,” you added with contempt.

“Tread carefully,” he warned, but there was no bite to it.

Sorrow took over your face, and finally your eyes rose to his face, but he could barely bear what he saw reflected in them. “Or what, you’ll hang me from the ramparts, as you did those who refused to bend the knee? Or have me banished, as you did your Hand?” you asked, and he loathed how your last question sounded like hope rather than fear. 

He supposed exile would serve you well, as you could flee back to your mother. “Please escort the queen back to her rooms,” he ordered in a weary sigh, and you gladly complied, surely eager to be rid of him.

Once you had left the room, Aegon’s thoughts gave him no reprieve. Sitting at the fire with a fresh pitcher of wine, he pondered the miserable state of his marriage, which had once been the most fortunate prospect he had ever had. While he could not completely blame you, he was growing increasingly resentful of your unwillingness to see war had been inevitable. The two of you had the opportunity to unite the realm into a strong reign, but you clung to your mother’s claim, refusing to uphold the vows you had taken. 

What perhaps saddened him the deepest and troubled him as well was the fact that after months, you still bled, and your belly remained flat and lifeless. 

For weeks you had refused him, until one night he suspected you had drunk too much wine, you relented, and since then he visited your chambers as often as could be expected of a man wanting his wife with child. An heir might put an end to this war, as Rhaenyra would not risk the death of her own daughter’s son, but his efforts were in vain. 

Surely there were more important matters to attend to, but he was powerless in all other aspects, and thus he let his suspicions overwhelm him. After all, your mother had five healthy sons which had been born without hardships and in quick succession.

Unsure of what he was truly pursuing but determined to find an answer, he called his guards in. “I want the queen’s maids followed,” he ordered.

Never had you even imagined that one day, you would be queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Never in your wildest nightmares, would you have thought the marriage you so wanted would end up being a prison you would longed to escape. Since learning that your vows had been taken in deception, you were a prisoner in your own marriage.

All trust you used to have in Aegon had vanished, and for a while you mourned the companion you had once found in him. The guards that were here for your safety were your jailers, watching your every move and bringing your letters written and received to the queen dowager. Even though you bore the title of queen, one you vehemently rejected, you were no more than a captive in a golden cage.

As such you avoided Aegon’s presence as much as possible, appearing in public at his side only when it was inevitable, and suffering his presence in private on nights when your melancholy allowed you to soften and you accepted him into your bed without a word.

Every time it happened you stared at the painted ceiling with tears in your eyes, mourning what should have been a joyous marriage bed, selfishly losing yourself in these stolen moments—whether there were indulgences or punishments, you could not decide. Biting back your tears and moans alike, you longed for a different outcome, breathing in the smell of his skin and his hair, remembering how you used to love him so tenderly. Now all that remained in your chest was a wound.

The day following your unfortunate encounter with Aegon in his quarters, you suspected he would come to you soon, as was often the case after you’d seen each other in public—such were your ways, especially when emotions ran high.

However that night he did not come alone—his guard was dragging your maid by the arm, and she was in tears, sobbing apologies to you as soon as they had crossed the threshold. 

“What is the meaning of this?” you called. “Release her at once!”

The guard looked at you, then at Aegon, and his grip loosened slightly. “I should be the one asking you this,” Aegon retorted, his face contorted in pain. “Would you mind explaining why she was seen this evening procuring moon tea in one of the city’s brothels?”

At that, you remained silent for a moment, which was agonizing, but the words that came next were even worse. “Do you think I would want to bring your children into this world?” you said, and the coldness of your answer shook him.

“Leave us,” he ordered, and your maid was guided out once more, the guard closing the door loudly.

Silence took over once more, Aegon watching you with apprehension and heartbreak, and you relished in it for a moment. “There used to be a time where you looked forward to bearing my children,” he said, visibly trembling, and it was the first time either of you had spoken of the before so openly.

Bitter anger flooded you then. “It was over the moment you wed me under false pretenses and usurped my mother’s throne!” you exclaimed. “I am a prisoner here, in this marriage, how can you expect me to happily comply and bear you a child.”

“Do you not see that I had no choice in this!” he cried out. “She would have put me to the sword, and my brothers as well.”

“That is a lie,” you replied, tears spilling down your cheeks, but there was no use in trying to persuade him to the truth, when his whole reign was built on lies. “Our marriage was supposed to bring forth peace, and instead it has divided us further, and I now bear a title that was meant for my mother, but I reject it.”

“No matter what you may believe, you are still the queen! My queen!” he shouted, looming over you, breathing furiously, nearly relishing the way you flinched—perhaps fear was the way to keep you, to make you comply if he could not make you submit or understand, but he knew that he would live to regret it bitterly, and would loathe himself for it until his last moment.

“I am a queen in chains,” you wailed, you breath hot upon his face, and he loathed what the crown had done to him and you, tearing you apart in the most irrevocable way. 

Aegon trembled then, something dark and viscous coiling in his stomach. “Give me an heir, and you shall have the freedom that you seek,” he promised.

Looking into his eyes, you knew then that it was the most truthful thing he had ever said. “A son is all I ask, and then I shall release you.”

Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Requested by anonymous.

Reblogs and/or comments are always appreciated ♡

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.

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