#aegon fluff

The sound of Aegon’s shallow breaths is the only sound that breaks through the silence, along with the faint crackle of candle flames that were starting to die out. You were almost on the cusp of sleep, your head tipping to the side as you try to fight off the heavy weight of exhaustion.

Although your attempts are futile, there was a restlessness that had coiled itself around your body holding you from finding peace ever since they had brought your husband back to the Red Keep in that wooden box, the memory still stirs your stomach unpleasantly.

Shaking the thought off you lean forward slightly, reaching over to brush his hair away from his face, your knuckles grazing over his unburned cheek. His skin is warm to the touch, hot with the leftover remnants of a fever he had not long broken.

You stare at him, watching him sleep so soundly that he almost looks at peace. If it weren’t for his pained expression and the way he weakly fists at the bedsheets then perhaps you might’ve tricked yourself into believing he was fine… just resting as the Maesters put it.

You dip a cotton cloth into the basin, wringing the water out before gently dabbing it against the untouched areas of his skin, the last parts of him that weren’t scorched. His body tenses up, and then a broken sigh passes through his chapped lips, the coolness brought him some relief if only for a few fleeting moments.

He sinks back into the comfort of the pillows as you bring the cloth over his chest, avoiding the marred skin. “… you’re still here?” He whispers, disbelief twinging through his broken tone, watching you through his bleary eye. He knows it’s you, despite the daze he is in. He can tell by the way you tend to him with a certain care that the Maesters didn’t have.

His voice sends a pang of hurt through your chest, hitting your heart. “Of course… I’m not going anywhere.” You whisper, going back over to the basin to fold the cloth back in its place before walking over to him once more.

He had been in out of consciousness since this morning when you had witnessed him speak vaguely to Orwyle, his words then were slurred almost incoherent.

“You don’t have to.” He rasps, his actions betraying his words as his fingers twitch weakly in a desperate attempt to hold your hand. You meet him halfway, clasping your fingers around his palm.

“No, I want to. I’m not leaving you Aegon.” You tell him, more of a reassurance than anything. To soothe him whilst he remains in this almost delirious state. He nods feebly, a smile ghosting over his features, the feeling of your thumb caressing the inside of his wrist brings him peace of mind.

Your gaze casts along his body slowly, the dragon fire had caused a web of marred flesh over his chest and arm, across his face. An unsettling sight of pinks and reds, darker in some places and lighter in others as they blended into a violent purple in some areas, it was all extremely sensitive that even the bedsheets seemed to cause him a great deal of agony.

He watches the way your eyes study him, taking in the horrid sight that has become of him. He hates it more than anything, the look of grief in your eyes for a life that he was no longer able to live, long lost within the very same flames that had nearly claimed him. He hates it, such a solemn emotion doesn’t suit you.

Aegon looks up at you as if it was his first time really seeing you since he was first brought home. He seemed much more aware than he did yesterday. His purple eye brimming with tears that he has no control over, not right now in this condition.

“You look exhausted.” He states the obvious, looking at the deep bags underneath your eyes, although you are well aware of the fact. It was his shallow breaths that kept you from sleeping, far too scared that he might pass whilst you were unconscious.

You hum in acknowledgement, not trusting your voice to carry your words without breaking into a sob. His fingers squeeze your own, a wordless understanding, so softly that you barely even notice it.

You collect yourself, clearing your throat. “I’m okay, shall I get the Maesters?” Your words immediately make him shake his head, a desperate noise of protest slipping past his lips.

“No, stay. I need you.” He tells you, leaning into your palm with a shaky sigh.

His hand reaches for the soft velvet of your dress, trying to urge you closer to him, keeping you there with a small pained whimper. You wrap your fingers around his hands softly, looking down at him, trying to stop him with worry in your eyes as he tries to sit up.

“Stop it Aegon, you’re going to hurt yourself. I’m not leaving just lay back.” You promise, urging him to rest back down against the pillows. He mumbles something that sounds more like a jumble of pained blusters, letting you guide him back to the comfort of the pillows.

“Sit down with me,” he whispers in a strained tone, noting the hesitation in your eyes as you look across his burned skin.

You do ask he asks, perching yourself down on the edge of his bed. Your eyes search his expression for any signs of discomfort, but you are met with only a weak smile as his hand rests against your lap.

He looks over to the chair beside his bed, the blankets and pillows that were placed over the cushions, the small tray of food on the table nearby that had been untouched… you really hadn’t left his side? The thought chokes him up.

“You’ve been sleeping in that old chair this entire time? Don’t be silly…” He says, working his fingers between your own, his thumb stroking across your wedding ring. “You should be in bed… sleeping.”

“What use am I to you if I’m in bed?” You ask him, looking down at his hand as he caresses the small gemstones on your ring.

It had become some sort of habit of his, over time as he let you into his heart little by little. It brought him comfort to know that you chose to stay with him, for all his faults you still found yourself caring for reasons that Aegon can’t seem to comprehend even now.

Aegon furrowed his eyebrows slightly, a weak scoff escaping his chapped lips. Your selflessness would forever puzzle him. “You are my wife, I won’t have you wasting away.” He spoke with a sternness, he was worried about you. How much sleep have you had- or food for that matter- if any at all.

You sigh, opening your mouth to argue with him but he quickly cuts you off. “You’d be no use to me at all by torturing yourself like this, you silly girl…” The words carry some truth, but you were stubborn.

“You worrying about me whilst you lay here…like this… that is silly Aegon.” You tell him, looking down at your lap to your joined hands as his thumb continues to idly rub over the wedding band.

He grunts, looking up at you with a small frown but he can’t be mad. He missed you far too much to spend these moments arguing. “You are frustratingly stubborn… I missed you.” He whispers, bringing your hand to his lips to press a kiss to your ring.

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips, letting him guide your hand to rest against his cheek. He leans into the warmth of your palm as your thumb caresses him once again.

“I’ve missed you… so much.” You breathe, words coming out hushed as you try to keep the tears from falling down your exhausted eyes.

He watches you with slight confusion as you suddenly scramble over to the tables beside your chair, grabbing something before joining him at his side once more. Before he can ask what you were doing you take his uninjured hand, gently pushing his own wedding ring onto his finger.

His heart stops for a moment, leaping into his stomach at the feeling. The affection, the gentleness, makes his throat close up and he can’t do much, rendered speechless as he stares up at you with disbelief.

“I thought you wouldn’t wake up… that you were-” dead… you can’t speak the word, you didn’t dear to, just in case in some sick turn of events it might come to fruition.

The tears fall freely, looking down at your wedding rings. A symbol that meant much more than just duty, you were entwined by the soul and heart, tethered to each other.

He reaches up to brush your tears away, his expression softening. “I’m here… I’m not going anywhere.” He rasps, hating the fact he can do more to soothe you. He’s never felt so useless before then he does right now.

“As am I… I’m not going anywhere.” your teary response makes him chuckle weakly.

“Come here…” he grunts, trying to play off the pain that was still searing through his body in hot flashes.

“No- I don’t want to hurt you.” You whisper, suddenly panicked as he tries to tug you down to him by his good arm.

He beckons you closer, his fingers curling around the back of your head. “You won’t… just please.” He begs meekly.

You steady yourself, pressing the palms of your hands against the mattress- being super vigilant of the burns that tarnish his body- as he lowers you down to kiss him. Your lips meeting his own gently before you pull away.

“No more. Rest before you overexert yourself.” You tell him sternly, getting up from the bed as he grumbles in a mixture of objection and pain, watching you walk back over to the wash basin. His complaints soon die down at the feeling of the cool damp rag pressing against his chest.

“Thank you.” He whispers, moulding back into the pillows. The chill it brings against his flushed skin was very welcomed.

“Shh, just relax.” You coo softly and it isn’t long before he’s drifting back off to sleep. His hand entwined with your own, your rings glistening underneath the soft candlelight, not willing to let go even in his unconscious state.

Your eyes—wide, bloodshot—were locked on the small, shrouded body of your son, Jaehaerys. He looked too small to be dead. Too light. Too still. The pyre of wood beneath him crackled faintly, waiting for flame. And yet all you could hear was the memory of his last breath.

“Mother—”

That broken whisper. That tremble in his lips. The way his little hand clutched yours like he still believed you could save him. It played again and again in your mind like a cruel curse. You couldn’t stop it. Wouldn’t. Didn’t want to forget.

You did not weep. Not until it started.

Aegon moved before you even registered it.

He stepped forward, his white hair untamed in the wind, shadows etched deep under his violet eyes. He didn’t look like a king—he looked like a man stripped bare. The grief in his jaw was rigid, his throat moving as he swallowed it down, over and over again. His gaze flicked up to Sunfyre, who waited just beyond the pyre, golden and restless.

Aegon voice hoarse and unsteady.

“Dracarys.”

The word echoed.

And then Sunfyre unleashed.

The fire roared, gold and white, greedy and all-consuming as it swallowed the wood, the silk, the body. Your baby. The heat slammed into your face and that was when the sob tore free, unbidden and raw, and you collapsed.

Your knees hit the stone with a crack, hands shaking, teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurt. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. The flames danced in your eyes but all you saw was his smile—his first steps—his tiny fingers playing with your hair. Gone. Burned. Turned to ash.

You didn’t notice Aegon move until he was there—kneeling beside you, wrapping his arms around your trembling form like he was holding himself together by holding you. His grip was desperate, his chest shaking against your back.

“I should’ve protected him,” he said against your hair, his voice a whisper turned to splinters. “Gods, I should’ve protected him.”

You turned, slowly, painfully, looking at him through your tears. “We’re his parents. We both should have.”

He cupped your face, and for a moment, the firelight turned his eyes to molten amethyst. “You blame me,” he said, barely audible.

“I blame the war. I blame the greed. I blame the fucking throne,” you whispered, gripping the front of his coat. “I don’t have room to hate you, Aegon. I’m too full of hurt.”

He nodded, a slow, devastated motion, pressing his forehead against yours. His breath was hot with whiskey and regret.

“I wake up hearing his voice,” he said. “Every godsdamned night. And I pray for the morning when it doesn’t break me.”

Your lips parted, your breath catching. “Then let it break you. Let it destroy everything, but not us. Not now.”

Aegon’s thumb brushed your cheek as if memorizing the shape of your sadness. “Then burn with me,” he said, voice cracking. “We burn together.”

You kissed him—not for passion, not for want, but for grief. A kiss that trembled with loss, mouths crushed together in silence, tasting salt and ashes. It was an anchor. A promise. A shared ruin.

Behind you, your son’s pyre roared louder. And as the sky darkened and the smell of smoke soaked into your skin, you held each other there on the cold stone floor—two parents grieving a child lost to the madness of dragons and crowns.

The fire ate everything but the pain.

The hearth crackled, low and unrelenting, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls of your shared chambers. It was late, though you couldn’t say what hour. Time had lost its meaning somewhere between the scream that tore from your lips the day Jaehaerys died, and the silence that followed.

You sat curled in front of the fire, your nightgown wrinkled and damp with old tears, legs drawn up tightly to your chest. Your bare feet were cold against the floor, but you didn’t move. The warmth from the hearth touched your skin, but could not reach the frost that settled inside you. That hollow ache had rooted deep, twisting through your ribs like a knife left in place.

The door creaked open.

You didn’t look. You didn’t have to.

Alicent Hightower.

Her steps were soft, deliberate—like one might approach a wounded animal. You felt her presence like a shadow behind you. A ghost that lingered long after the spirit had gone.

“Child,” she called gently, the same tone she might’ve used before you married Aegon—before the world became red and burning and ash. “Please. Look at me.”

You didn’t.

Your gaze remained fixed on the fire. The flames were mesmerizing. They didn’t care who they consumed. Perhaps that’s why you liked them now.

“I did not come to fight,” Alicent continued after a moment. “I only came to see if you—”

“If I what?” you whispered, not turning your head. “If I still bleed? If I still have a voice to scream your name into the void of loss? If your grandson still lies in ash while you walk freely in silks?”

Silence. Her breath caught, but she didn’t move.

“I came to grieve with you,” she said quietly.

You laughed, a low, humorless sound that scraped from your throat like gravel. “You came to ease your guilt. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I loved Jaehaerys.”

At that, you turned your head—slowly. Your brown eyes, hollow and rimmed with shadow, met hers with a weight that made Alicent physically recoil.

“Not enough to stop this,” you said. “Not enough to stop your father. Not enough to stop Aegon from being forced into a crown soaked in blood. You stood there. You chose it.”

“I was protecting my family.”

“And I lost mine.”

The words hung in the air, thick and furious, trembling on the edge of sobs. You pressed your forehead against your knees, voice muffled when you spoke again.

“The gods are cruel,” you whispered. “To take my grandsire. To make Aegon a king he never wanted to be. And now… now our boy. My son.”

Alicent stepped closer, but you raised your hand without looking.

“Do not touch me.”

She froze, her hands curling into her skirts.

“My son died because your house could not bear to see mine rule,” you continued, your voice low, steady, like the calm eye of a storm. “Because your father—your ambition—demanded Hightower blood on the throne.”

Alicent flinched. “You think I wanted this?”

“I think you let it happen,” you hissed, turning back to the fire. “And now I sit in a palace of rot, raising ashes to my lips and pretending they are food. I sleep in a bed soaked with the screams of a child who will never wake.”

“You are not alone in this—”

“I am!” you snapped, finally standing. “Do you think Aegon can even look at me without falling apart? Do you know what it’s like to feel your husband’s hands shake every time he touches your stomach, as if terrified he might find it growing again, and lose another child? Your grief is guilt. Mine is emptiness.”

Alicent’s face crumpled, but no tears fell. She swallowed her sorrow like she had done her whole life—one bitter cup after another.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

You shook your head, stepping closer to her, voice trembling now. “I was his mother. I should have died before he did. And instead, I live—watching my world fall to pieces while the people who shattered it come to me offering apologies wrapped in silence.”

Alicent reached out again, but this time you didn’t move away. You let her fingers brush your arm, light and uncertain.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” she said.

“I won’t.”

Her hand dropped.

“But,” you added softly, “if you want to honor Jaehaerys… if you want to be more than a puppet in your father’s hand, then fight for peace. Fight for something besides thrones and dragons and gods.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You have to.” You looked into her eyes, firm now. “Because I have nothing left to fight with.”

The fire behind you flared, its glow bleeding through your silhouette like a halo of grief. And Alicent, for the first time in years, said nothing. She just bowed her head and left you alone—again—with the flames.

The echo of your footsteps carried down the long, cold corridor of the Red Keep like a ghost haunting its own halls. You hadn’t walked them in days—not since the fire, not since the world bled your son from your arms and left behind the hollow shell of motherhood.

But today, the silence in your chambers had felt too loud. The walls too suffocating. The hearth too cold.

And so, wrapped in black, with your hair braided back like a warrior in mourning, you walked.

You reached the heavy doors of the council chamber and paused. Fingers curled at your sides. The guards opened them without a word, heads bowed—not as subjects to a queen, but as men who had seen death too close.

Inside, the chamber was dim despite the daylight. Clouds smothered the sun beyond the high windows. Around the long table, the council murmured—quiet, uncertain—but they stopped when they saw you.

And you saw him.

Aegon sat slouched in the throne-like seat at the head of the table, his shoulders curved forward as if the crown itself weighed too much to bear. His tunic hung open at the chest, the buttons undone and forgotten. There were dark circles under his eyes and stubble lining his jaw, as though days had passed without sleep, without care.

But worst of all—he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even there. He stared blankly at the tabletop, unmoving, like a man carved from grief. Your heart clenched so tightly in your chest it hurt.

His head turned slowly when he felt your presence. His breath hitched the moment his eyes landed on you—as if you had appeared from a dream, or worse, a memory he wasn’t ready to see in the flesh.

You stepped forward, your voice soft but commanding.

“Leave us.”

The lords hesitated. One of them opened his mouth to protest—perhaps to speak of duties or strategy—but your gaze flicked to him, and the sharp grief in your eyes struck him dumb.

They stood, slowly. Chairs scraped the floor. Cloaks brushed the stone. No one dared speak. They filed out with silent bows, the doors clicking shut behind them, sealing you inside with him.

Aegon didn’t speak. Just looked at you like you were the last star in a dying sky.

You approached him slowly, your skirts rustling, your steps measured. Each one toward him felt like a step through fire. You stopped just before him, not touching, not breathing.

“I’ve missed you,” you said softly, your voice a cracked whisper.

His eyes brimmed, but no tears fell. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“You didn’t come to me either.”

“I couldn’t,” he rasped. “Every time I looked at the bed, I saw him. Every time I touched your pillow, I felt your sobs in my hands. Gods, I didn’t know how to be with you without falling apart.”

You dropped to your knees before him, your hands resting gently on his thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers.

“You’re supposed to fall apart with me, Aegon. We’re not meant to carry this alone.”

His chest heaved, and he looked away, ashamed. “I’m the king. I don’t get to grieve. I sit in this chair, I listen to them speak of banners and blood, and all I want is to scream his name until the gods bring him back to me.”

You leaned your forehead against his knee, eyes shutting. “I died with him too.”

His hand moved—tentative, trembling—and threaded into your hair.

“I keep waking up expecting him to run into our chambers,” he whispered. “Asking me to carry him on my shoulders again. And then I remember… what they did to him. What they took.”

He choked, his voice cracking with guilt. “He was only a boy. And I was supposed to protect him.”

You lifted your head and looked up at him, eyes glistening. “He died because they wanted your throne. Because we were born of fire, and they would rather burn the world than see it ruled by dragon blood not of their making.”

Aegon looked down at you—really looked—and his face crumpled. You stood, then, sliding into his lap, your arms around his neck. His hands grabbed at your back, desperate and tight, like he was trying to fuse you to him. His lips found your neck—not in lust, but in need—and he buried himself there, breathing you in like he was drowning and you were the only air.

“I need you,” he murmured against your skin. “I can’t do this without you.”

“You don’t have to.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your hand cupping his face.

“You’re not a king right now. You’re just my husband. Our son is gone, and all we have left is each other. If we don’t hold on to that, we’ll drown.”

He kissed you then—messy, wet, raw with grief and love and desperation. Not to forget, but to remember. To feel. His hands curled into your sides, pulling you closer, and your tears mixed between your mouths.

“I love you,” he whispered brokenly. “Even in this ruin, I love you.”

You pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling. “Then don’t leave me alone again.”

“I won’t.”

Outside, the war still burned. The court still whispered. The gods still played their cruel games.

But inside the council chamber, on a throne of sorrow, a king and queen clung to one another in the only kind of power that mattered now.

You stayed in Aegon’s arms long after the storm of sobs had passed, held together not by strength but by shared ruin. Your face was buried in the hollow of his neck, his hands splayed across your back as though if he stopped touching you, even for a moment, you’d vanish again. The air in the council chamber was heavy with salt and smoke, with grief and something older—like the lingering scent of burnt flesh and broken oaths.

It was the first time in days that you’d felt him. Truly felt him. And then the doors opened, Aegon’s arms tightened around you, instinctive and bracing.

You didn’t lift your head.

You didn’t need to.

You knew who it was the moment the sharp footfall struck the stone. Measured. Unflinching. Proud.

Aemond.

You remained perfectly still.

“My king,” his voice rang out, calm and cold, like the blade that had started this war. “The man who murdered your son—he is in the black cells. He awaits your judgment.”

Silence.

Aegon’s hand moved slowly, brushing over your hair, down your spine. You could feel his throat work against your cheek as he swallowed. You could feel the way his chest tensed beneath your palm, the way his rage and sorrow warred against each other like wildfire.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Not when he was standing there. Not when his voice was in the air you had to breathe.

“You should go,” you said quietly, not lifting your head. Aegon looked down at you, confused.

“I can’t—” Your voice cracked. “I won’t see him.”

“My love…”

You pulled away from Aegon’s embrace just enough to sit back, your eyes glistening but firm. You stared at the stone floor, not at the door.

“I can’t look at the man who tore my brother from the sky. I can’t see the face of the one who turned dragons into monsters and blood into war.”

Aemond shifted near the doorway, but said nothing.

“Everything began with him,” you whispered. “With his arrogance. With his wrath. With his need to claim victory over a child.”

There was silence, heavy and thick, like smoke pressing against your lungs.

Aemond stepped forward. “You think I do not carry the weight of Lucerys’s death every day? You think I sleep easily knowing what I did? It was not meant to be—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, lifting your head for the first time, your brown eyes blazing with sorrow and fury. “Do not stand there and speak of regret while my brother is bones in the sea and my son is ash in the wind.”

Aemond faltered, just for a moment, his mouth tightening.

You turned away again, facing the fire like it could shield you. “You want forgiveness. You want understanding. But you don’t get to ask that of me. Not when your sword carved a wound into my family that will never heal.”

Aegon stood, moving beside you. His hand rested on your shoulder, grounding you. He looked at Aemond then—his brother, his kin—and for the first time in weeks, his voice held something sharp beneath the grief.

“You should have never been there, Aemond. You were supposed to be my sword, not my firestarter. Look at her,” he motioned to you gently. “Look at what’s left of us.”

Aemond’s eye burned with some emotion too complex to name—remorse, shame, defiance.

“She is my family too,” he said. “I did not come to ask her pardon. I came because I thought she deserved to know that the man who took Jaehaerys’s life will suffer. That justice, at the very least, is within our grasp.”

You stood slowly, your voice quiet, trembling with tightly caged fury. “Justice?” you echoed. “Justice would be turning back time. Justice would be undoing what you did to Luke. What your mother and grandsire did to this realm. What you—all of you—burned in your hunger for a crown.”

“I never wanted it,” Aemond snapped.

“But you never stopped it either,” you said, each word like a brand pressed to skin. “And now you speak of justice while the blood of children—mine and my mother’s—stains the stones beneath our feet.”

Aemond stepped back then, just once.

And it was enough.

You turned to Aegon, your face softening only for him.

“I want to see Jaehaerys avenged,” you said quietly. “But I will not find that peace in a cell or on a blade. I will find it when the realm stops bleeding. When the gods no longer feast on our young. When men like your brother stop pretending their violence was fate.”

You didn’t stay to hear Aemond’s reply. You walked past him without looking, the scent of ash and steel trailing you like a cloak. Your steps were sure now. You didn’t need fire in your lungs or vengeance on your tongue.

You had something sharper.

Truth.

And the weight of all that had been lost. Behind you, the council chamber remained still—just two broken brothers and the memory of everything they’d ruined.

The hearthfire crackled low in the corner of your chambers, casting long shadows across the walls—shadows that looked like dragons, or monsters, or memories. You didn’t know which anymore. You sat in the center of the bed with your legs folded beneath you, a soft woolen blanket clutched tightly in your arms. It was small—barely large enough to cover a toddler. Faded in color now, worn from use. But every thread was familiar. Every stitch had been made by your own hand.

It had taken you weeks to embroider the blanket for Jaehaerys. Tiny stars in silver thread danced along the edges, encircling a golden dragon stitched in the center—just as you had once whispered to your son, You are my little star. My little dragon.

You brought the fabric to your nose and inhaled deeply. His scent was still there. Faint, barely clinging to the threads, but there.

It was lavender soap and sunshine and the warmth of his tiny skin after a nap against your chest. You let out a trembling breath, and then a soft, broken laugh slipped from your lips.

You smiled.

For a moment, it felt like you were holding him again.

And then the moment passed.

Your chest tightened. Your heart clenched so violently it knocked the air from your lungs. The smile faded as your throat caught, and then your shoulders began to shake.

You curled tighter around the blanket.

“I held you,” you whispered, voice shaking as you rocked gently. “I held you as you were born… and I held you again as you—”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t say the word. Died. It tasted like blood and iron and grief on your tongue.

Your arms loosened as the sob slipped from your lips, quiet and sharp.

You knew where Aegon was—down in the black cells. You hadn’t spoken a word when he left. His hand had lingered on your shoulder, his eyes searching yours. But there had been nothing left to give him. Not in that moment. Only silence. And your son’s blanket.

He had gone to face the man who’d taken your baby’s life.

But you… you could not face the world.

You pressed your palm to your lower stomach, gently stroking the place where you had once felt life flutter. Jaehaerys had kicked there. He had hiccupped there. He had grown in your womb like a flame.

And now…

A sharp twist clawed through your belly. So sudden, so vicious it knocked the breath from your lungs. You gasped, your body lurching forward.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets as the pain lanced through you, deep and low. You tried to move, tried to rise—but your knees buckled beneath you before your feet even touched the floor. You collapsed sideways on the bed, one arm tangled in the blanket, the other pressing desperately to your stomach.

“No—no, no, no,” you panted, the pain doubling you. “Not now…”

You could barely think. The agony twisted and pulled like a vengeful spirit inside you, wringing every nerve. Your vision blurred. You tried to breathe, but your chest was tight with something worse than pain—terror.

Had grief broken you that deeply? Had loss hollowed you so fully that your body was now unraveling from the inside out?

You moaned, biting your lip to keep from screaming. You didn’t want the guards to hear. You didn’t want the maids or the servants or the court to see you like this.

You just wanted Aegon.

Your hand scrambled across the bed, reaching for anything—blankets, pillows—something to anchor you. Your fingers found the soft cloth again, the one with stars and the golden dragon.

You clutched it to your chest like it could save you. And then, through the fog of pain, you felt something. Something warm trickling down your thigh.

Your eyes widened. You looked down—and the dread that washed over you was cold, like seawater stealing the last embers of a fire.

Blood.

Not much. But enough.

You choked out a sound that wasn’t quite a sob. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was all sobs now. Maybe that was all you would ever be—a woman made of cries and ashes.

The door was too far.

Aegon was too far.

And you… you were crumbling.

Not from a sword or a war.

But from the ache that only mothers could know.

Still, even as the pain swallowed you whole, you did not let go of the blanket. Your fingers curled tighter around the scent of your son. Your dragon. Your little star. If this was death coming for you, it would have to pry it from your hands.

The corridors were silent as Aegon walked them, save for the fading echo of his boots across stone. He was numb.

The black cells had given him no satisfaction. No vengeance. Only the stench of rot and the hollow sound of a man begging for mercy that Jaehaerys had never been granted.

The crown on his head felt heavier than ever, like it had fused to his skull. He didn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He didn’t care. His hands were still smeared with dirt from gripping the iron bars too tightly, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. There was only one place he wanted to be now.

With you.

He reached your shared chambers and paused briefly before opening the door—bracing himself for your silence, for your back turned to him again, for the distance between you both that grief had carved like a canyon.

But when the door opened—

He froze.

The blood drained from his face.

You were on the floor. On your knees.

Your nightgown was soaked in blood from the waist down, the dark stain spreading fast across the silk. Your hands were pressed between your thighs, trembling as you clutched at yourself, and your face—gods, your face—was contorted in pain so raw, so violent it turned his bones to ice.

You didn’t even look at him. You just groaned, your voice low and ragged, like something was ripping you apart from the inside.

“No,” Aegon whispered, then louder—sharper. “NO.”

He bolted across the chamber, nearly slipping on the rug as he dropped to his knees beside you.

“Guards!” he bellowed, voice breaking with panic. “Get the maester—NOW! MOVE!”

You whimpered, your head lolling toward him as tears streaked your cheeks.

“Aegon,” you croaked. “I—it hurts—I can’t—”

“I know, I know,” he rasped, cradling you into his arms with a gentleness that defied the tremble in his hands. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, love. You’re safe. Just breathe, alright? Just—just breathe.”

But how could you breathe with your body betraying you like this?

You writhed against him, crying out again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. Blood soaked into his lap as he held you, thick and hot and terrifyingly real. His mind raced—was this a miscarriage? Had he not known? Were you pregnant again after Jaehaerys?

Had the gods given him another child… only to tear it away again?

His throat closed. He pressed a shaking kiss to your temple.

“Stay with me,” he begged in a whisper. “Don’t—don’t leave me too. Please.”

You whimpered again, collapsing into his chest. “I’m sorry,” you cried. “I didn’t know—I didn’t even know—”

“Shhh, no.” He cupped your cheek, forcing you to look at him through your haze. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare apologize. This is not your fault.”

The door burst open again, and he shouted over his shoulder, “Maester! She’s bleeding! Get over here, now!”

The elderly man rushed in with his apprentice and a flurry of linen and herbs. But Aegon wouldn’t let go of you.

Not until the maester forced him to.

“Your Grace, please—she needs to be laid down—”

“I said I’m not letting her go!” he snapped, eyes wild, voice cracking.

“Then help me,” the maester said firmly. “We may still save her.”

Those words snapped Aegon into motion. He helped lift you onto the bed, whispering soothing things even as you screamed again, your body arching from another wrenching spasm. The blood kept coming. The pain did not relent. And your eyes—

They found his. Desperate. Distant. Frightened.

“Don’t go,” you gasped. “Don’t leave me.”

“Never,” he swore. “Never, do you hear me?”

He sat at your side, gripping your hand so tightly his knuckles whitened, his other hand stroking your hair back from your damp forehead as the maester worked below the sheets, murmuring instructions and prayers.

The minutes passed like lifetimes.

You faded in and out, whimpering his name between cries of agony. He didn’t dare move. Didn’t breathe unless you did.

The worst kind of helplessness crawled beneath his skin. He was the king. He commanded armies. He held the lives of lords in his palm. And yet here—here, watching the only thing that mattered to him scream in pain—he was useless.

Useless and broken.

The chamber was dim, the fire in the hearth reduced to a low, wavering glow that painted the stone walls in the color of dying embers. The smell of herbs and blood still lingered in the air, clinging to everything like a shroud.

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

You just lay there, in the cradle of Aegon’s arms, your face pressed into the hollow of his chest, and wept.

The sound was low at first—shaky, broken gasps that caught in your throat like glass. But then they deepened, became guttural, as though your soul had been carved open and all it could do now was ache.

And Aegon… said nothing.

He simply held you.

One hand curved protectively around the back of your head, stroking your hair in slow, aimless motions—like he might soothe the storm if only he kept his hand moving, if only he could pretend hard enough that he had the power to keep you from shattering completely.

His other arm circled you tightly, pulling your trembling body closer to his chest until you were clinging to him like a lifeline. Your fists curled in the fabric of his tunic, knuckles white, your nails digging in, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t move.

The only part of him that did was his jaw, clenched so tight it ached.

And his eyes—closed now—because he couldn’t bear to see you this way.

The maester’s words still echoed in his skull like a curse: The babe did not survive.

It should’ve been another whisper in the whirlwind of this war. Another quiet death among too many. But it wasn’t. This wasn’t a piece in the game. This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t duty.

This was you. His wife. The only person left who touched the parts of him that were still human.

And that babe—

That had been the flicker of hope. The thing you both hadn’t dared to speak aloud after Jaehaerys. The balm that might’ve softened the open wound in your chests. Something small and warm and yours. Something that wasn’t built of blood and betrayal.

Now gone.

A future unmade in silence, in blood, on the cold stone floor of your chambers.

Your cries twisted into something smaller now—hiccuping gasps, hoarse whimpers, the sound of someone trying to breathe through grief that refused to loosen its grip.

You pulled back for just a moment, and Aegon looked down, eyes red-rimmed, haunted.

Your face was streaked with tears, lips parted as though you wanted to speak—but no words came. Only a soft, trembling shake of your head before you buried your face into his neck again, another wave of sobs wracking through you.

“I know,” he whispered finally, his voice low and ruined. “I know, love.” It was all he could say. Because there were no words that could unmake what had happened.

No king’s decree could call your baby back.

No dragonfire could burn the pain away.

Aegon held you tighter.

And for the first time in weeks, he let his own tears fall—silent and steady, slipping down his cheeks and into your hair as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“We should’ve had peace,” he murmured, not sure if you could hear him, not sure if he was speaking to the gods or cursing them. “We should’ve had a life. A family.”

His hand kept moving, slow and reverent. He didn’t move even when your sobs quieted into nothing, when sleep finally took you from exhaustion, from pain.

He just held you there, with his arms locked around the one thing he still had and prayed the gods wouldn’t take you too.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting amber shadows on the walls, but the warmth didn’t reach you. It couldn’t. Not when your insides had frozen over with grief.

You sat curled in on yourself, knees tucked tight against your chest, your arms wrapped around your shins like armor, your forehead resting lightly on your kneecaps. The clean nightgown clung to you loosely, the scent of the bathwater—lavender and lemon—already fading. You didn’t feel clean. You felt hollow.

Behind you, the chamber was quiet save for the soft rustle of silk and the hesitant approach of footsteps.

“Sweetling…” Aegon’s voice was barely above a whisper, thick with helplessness. “Please… talk to me.”

You didn’t move. Your eyes remained locked on the flames, as if there was something there you could decode—some hidden meaning in the dance of embers, some sign that might make sense of all this pain.

He stepped closer. “I can’t fix this. But I need you to let me try—”

You flinched when you felt his hand. Not because it startled you, but because it hurt—the gentleness of it. His fingers slid carefully through your hair, brushing it back from your face. He crouched behind you, resting on his knees. He was always taller, stronger, the dragon who carried fire in his blood… but right now, he seemed so small behind you. So unsure.

You said nothing. Just let him stroke your hair as your lips moved with a whisper that grew heavier with each repetition.

“The gods are cruel…” you murmured. “So cruel.”

Aegon exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead to the back of your shoulder. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked, your eyes never leaving the fire. “They don’t punish you. They punish me. They take my children. Our children. Over and over and over again.”

“I lost them too,” he whispered, and the pain in his voice made your spine stiffen. “I lost them with you. Every time.”

“But I carried them,” you whispered, and your voice caught. “I felt their hearts. I held them inside me. I gave them names in my sleep. I dreamed of what they’d look like—if they’d have my eyes or yours. I sang to them when you weren’t there.”

You turned your head just slightly, your profile catching the firelight. The tears had started again, sliding down your cheeks silently now, no longer wild or loud. Just endless.

“And what did I get for it?” Your voice shook. “Jaehaerys… murdered in his own bed. Our babe gone before they could take a breath.”

Aegon didn’t speak. He just rested his palm against your back, rubbing slow circles as if he could soothe the wound beneath your skin.

You inhaled shakily, your voice so soft now, it barely survived the air.

“This is my punishment.”

His hand paused.

You blinked, still not looking at him. “For choosing you. For choosing you over my mother.”

“Don’t,” he said quickly, voice rising. “Don’t you say that.”

“She warned me,” you went on, like in a trance. “She said loving you would destroy me. That war would follow you, pain would follow you. And I didn’t care. I chose you. I married you. I stood by you.” You finally turned your head toward him, your eyes bloodshot and wet. “And now… my children are dead. One by one, stripped from my arms.”

He looked like he’d been stabbed. “You think I don’t carry that guilt every time I look at you? That I don’t wonder if you would’ve been safer without me?”

You swallowed hard, your voice breaking again. “Maybe I would have.”

Aegon’s hand dropped from your back. He sat down beside you slowly, legs folding beneath him. The fire danced between your bodies, painting both of you in gold and shadow. You stared at each other in silence for a long moment—broken, tired, grieving in different ways.

“I know you hate me right now,” he said finally, his voice tight, like he was forcing it out past a wall in his throat. “And maybe you should. Maybe I deserve it. But gods be damned, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. And if I could take this pain from you—if I could give my own blood to bring him back—I would.”

You dropped your head again, your forehead brushing your knees. “I just want to be a mother again,” you whispered. “I want to hold my child. I want to feel life in my arms, not death.”

He reached out again, pulling you into his arms this time. The gesture was quiet, small… and yet full of the weight of a man who was watching the woman he loved drown.

You didn’t speak again, and neither did he. You simply melted into his arms in front of the fire, surrounded by the warmth you couldn’t feel, and the ghosts you couldn’t escape.

The scent of lemon cake still lingered in the corners of the chamber. You hadn’t touched it.

Aegon had left it for you on the small side table three days ago, a quiet offering, accompanied by a soft kiss to your temple and a promise you hadn’t answered. It had been your favorite once. Now, the sight of it only twisted your stomach into knots.

You hadn’t spoken more than a few words since the babe died. The pain clung to your skin like ash—so heavy, so absolute, it felt like you’d been buried with your child.

You hadn’t left the bed, either. The silken covers had long since twisted around your limbs, heavy and wrinkled with the days you’d spent curled in their cocoon. The hearth had gone cold, the fire long since died. You hadn’t asked anyone to tend it. What was the point?

Grief did not need warmth.

Your eyes were half-lidded, dry and red-rimmed, when the familiar creak of the chamber doors caught your attention. You didn’t look right away.

You expected the maid. Or perhaps Aegon again—come to coax, to plead, to wrap his arms around you and whisper that he was still here, even as you drifted further from everything.

But then—small footsteps.

You turned your head.

And the moment you saw them, your breath caught like a dagger in your throat.

Aegon stood in the doorway, his hand resting gently on the shoulder of your little daughter, and cradled in the other arm was your youngest—Maelor, still small enough to be carried.

But it was Jaehaera who shattered you. The soft golden hair. The pale, thoughtful face. The shape of her nose, the curve of her lips—so much like her twin brother.

So much like Jaehaerys.

Your body tensed, your arms shaking where they gripped the edge of the blankets, and your eyes stung before the tears even came. But they did come.

Not like before—not silent, not restrained. These tears broke through like a storm, sudden and unstoppable. You pressed a hand over your mouth as your shoulders crumpled forward. A sob tore from your throat.

Jaehaera stared at you, wide-eyed, not quite understanding why her presence had sparked such pain. She looked up at Aegon, confused, but said nothing—just held the small wooden doll in her hand tighter, as if for comfort.

You barely noticed Aegon’s steps as he crossed the room. Only when he knelt beside the bed and placed Maelor gently in the crook of your arm did your breath hitch again.

You turned your face away, overwhelmed, but then Jaehaera’s small hand touched your wrist.

“Mother?” Her voice was quiet. “Are you sad because my brother is with the gods?”

Your throat closed. You couldn’t speak.

You nodded, a slow, shuddering movement.

Jaehaera crawled up beside you carefully, climbing into the bed without hesitation. She tucked herself under your arm and laid her head on your chest.

“I’m sad too,” she whispered. “But Maelor still laughs when I tickle him. And I still remember when Jaehaerys told me stories about dragons flying backwards just to make me laugh. So maybe that means he’s not all gone. Maybe he’s still in the stories.”

That did it.

The sob that came out of you wasn’t just pain—it was a letting go, a surrender to everything you’d been trying to hold back. You held both your children tightly to your chest, one in each arm, and buried your face in Jaehaera’s soft hair.

Aegon sat on the edge of the bed beside you, not saying a word. But his hand covered yours, grounding you, as your grief spilled out in waves.

Your fingers clung to Jaehaera’s nightgown, the fabric soft and worn. You pressed a kiss to the top of Maelor’s head, his tiny hand patting your arm as though he, too, knew you needed to be brought back.

And for the first time since your womb had gone quiet, you felt something else break through the ache.

Not peace.

But presence.

The pieces of your heart that still remained—fragile, bruised, and alive—curled up in your arms. And for now, they were enough.

The chamber, once dim and heavy with mourning, now glowed soft with the orange flicker of candlelight. The hearth had been rekindled, its warmth reaching out in golden threads across the stone floor, weaving through your limbs, curling around your fingers.

You were still in bed, propped against the headboard with pillows stacked behind you, your hair loose, your gown wrinkled. But today—tonight—there was a softness on your face that hadn’t been there in weeks. Not a full peace. But something like… a pause in the sorrow. A breath of stillness.

Maelor was curled in your lap, warm and heavy against your stomach, his little legs splayed carelessly over the folds of your blanket. You had one hand around his back, supporting him, while your other arm held Jaehaera tucked beneath it. She was gently brushing the edge of your sleeve with her fingertips, lost in some private world of thought and comfort.

Maelor looked up at you, eyes wide and bright, those chubby cheeks pink with firelight. He babbled something incoherent—a string of sounds only a mother could recognize as a question. You blinked at him and tilted your head playfully.

“What is it, my sweet boy?”

He stared at your mouth like it held some grand secret. Then, with the solemn focus only a toddler could muster, he raised his tiny hands—soft, still sticky from honeyed bread—and cupped your face.

You barely had time to react before his thumb pressed into your cheek and his other hand reached down and grabbed your lower lip between two fingers.

It wasn’t painful—just surprising. The sudden tug made your mouth part in shock, and a small puff of laughter escaped you.

“Maelor!” you gasped through a breathless laugh.

Aegon, seated at the foot of the bed now, let out a playful huff, leaning back on his hands. “Gods,” he said with a smirk. “He’s already got your mouth. Now he’s claiming it.”

Your laughter grew, the sound light and trembling, like a song you hadn’t sung in far too long.

Jaehaera squealed with laughter beside you, her arms wrapping tighter around your waist as she buried her face against your side. “He always pulls mine too, mama!” she giggled. “He’s a silly dragon.”

“Silly indeed,” you murmured fondly, as Maelor, apparently satisfied with your lip, released it and let out a triumphant coo. Then, just as suddenly, he dropped forward and nuzzled into your neck, his little nose smushing into your skin, warm and soft and so achingly present.

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t the sadness this time.

It was the ache of feeling, of realizing how much you’d missed this—how long you’d been drowning beneath the weight of your loss, barely able to register the blessings that still clung to you like lifelines.

Your arms wrapped more tightly around them both—your daughter and your son, your little lights in the long night—and you glanced toward Aegon.

He was watching you, his eyes softer now, the playful smile dimmed into something reverent.

Something aching.

“I missed you,” he said quietly. “We missed you.”

You swallowed, the knot in your throat tight but not suffocating. You leaned your cheek against Maelor’s curls, inhaling the faint scent of milk and lemons and the clean linen of his sleep tunic.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I was trying to hold it together… but I forgot how to reach for anything else.”

Aegon shifted closer, reaching out to touch your knee gently. “You don’t need to hold it together,” he murmured. “Not here. Not with us. You just need to be. Let them carry the rest.”

You looked at him, tears shining in your lashes, and nodded.

For a moment, the four of you were wrapped in something sacred—flawed, fraying, but still holy in its own quiet way.

Your son tugged your lip again, giggling now, proud of his new trick. Jaehaera shrieked with laughter, her head thrown back against your chest.

And you—you laughed too.

Real, full, and trembling.

Aegon closed his eyes as the sound filled the chamber, and when he opened them again, his gaze rested not on the shadows of your pain, but on the living proof of everything you still were.

Still whole.

Still mother.

Still here.

©2025 hisfavegirl. No part of this story may be copied, stored, transmitted, or shared in other apps.

“Ah, my lovely wife!” In exclamation, your husband turns to compliment your captivating smile as he gleams contentedly. He takes a few steps down from the small stairway from the miniature podium, while some of his personal Kingsguard can be heard snickering. Which you wholeheartedly ignored as your attention laid straight to your King’s beaming face. “Just who I wanted to see!”

“I must speak with you,” Through your expressed delightfulness, the tone of your voice is quickly replaced with a sour one. And it seemed to have caught the attention of the seamstress and others in the room as they all paused at your subtle notion of privacy. “Alone.” Only when you mention it, it’s as though they were a flock of birds, all fleeing from the chambers at once. A few clatters and suddenly the doors were quietly slammed shut with a whisper of a demand. 

However, your husband did not seem fazed at all. He merely shrugged, casually walking to fill a cup or two with wine. Yet a visible glower can be caught right after he steps off the podium and to the table of beverages. Sometimes his reaction to your urgency was comedic. The King was never one to take duties earnestly. It’s one of his eminent flaws that all of the townsfolk and servants knew of. His days by the Silk Roads were but a regular story. But now, he is a changed man, Aegon thinks. They’ve witnessed all of his mistakes and tourneys. He’s young and has never been as interested in duty as his siblings. And now suddenly, he was pulled onto the seat as King. And you would have to sit beside him and watch. As a graceful symbol yet mute on what to say on any matter. 

How horrendous was that? 

“What troubles you, my sweet?” The sound of liquid plops as all of the noise from the outside world becomes muffled. For the past few days, it has been the most chaotic and tragic period of your life. Not just for you and Aegon, but everyone in King’s Landing. Your son, Jaehaerys, was left for dead at the hands of a murderer and false ruler. Panic was running through the streets of Flea Bottom. People questioned the King’s cruel punishment of the rat catchers though Aegon did not care for their grief. 

To you, it was more than sadness. But anger and confusion, all of your pent-up emotions ever since living in King’s Landing have made you become this way. The Capital has changed you. To who you were as a person and figure of nobility. Now you were suddenly the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet only moments ago, you were the princess of the firstborn son of the King. You should have expected war to come between siblings over the throne, yet your father persisted that the marriage would’ve led to success. Having lost your child, your son, made the promise to communicate more to Aegon. To somehow seek solace in the empty void of your heart in whatever left the world had. 

“You named Ser Criston Cole your Hand…” You mumbled slowly, the last words faded out into thin air. Was he wrong to do so? You did not want to say. For the little you knew about the battle being played at hand, you knew Aegon’s impulsiveness would come to the cost of many. Especially of the Council when they have refused relentlessly his thoughts and suggestions. So perhaps this decision would cause more upbringing for the noblemen to bleat about. “Why?”

A muffled sound and then a snort comes out of his mouth as Aegon proceeds to sip his wine. As if not a care of the world or your concern over the matter. “And why does this concern you?” 

He does the courtesy to hand you your cup, as you clasped it eagerly to swallow whatever worry your heart must feel. The Queen Regent, Aegon’s brother, Aemond, and even Criston Cole, all look for you in the guidance you have over their King. You’ve yet to make it clear that you don’t control him like many others would consider to do. You’d think it's heartless to manipulate a man of his feelings, especially your husband. 

Eventually, you lay the cup down, trailing your finger around the outer details of the golden goblet. It’s glimmering through the sun, carefully designed with outlines of a dragon and flames that surround the jugular of the base of the cup. It curves and twists under your palm as you proceed to swirl the liquid inside and watch as a mini typhoon is formed. 

“Do you believe your decision on making him Hand was just?” You lift your gaze to be met with his bright purple eyes. It always seemed intense and vivid in color whenever his attention was on you. As if you were the only person that mattered in the room. And if not at this moment.

You looked ravishing, decorated in his house colors with pops of gold from the jewelry and headwear. You had no shame in exemplifying wealth because he would give you everything willingly. No matter the cost or debt, every piece of gold, and diamond was meant to be yours. He watches as your golden droplet earrings jingle when you shake your head, contemplating your next words. “Because I do not think that was the wisest decision to be made, husband.”

“And, care to explain why?” Like every little piece of his childhood, Aegon looks at every objective like a game. Though he looked like he was trying to resist your hesitancy for his new Hand, he was staring into space at the glorious jewels that make your figure and face pop out more. 

You urged, before meeting the King by the tableside where the pitcher lay. “He is a warrior, not a politician,” You set your goblet aside, to look your husband in the eye more closely. “He does not know the ways of the people, especially those who he surrounds himself with. He was born lowborn, making him more naive than aware of tellings.” 

Yes, you make great points, he would say if you did not have that adorable scowl on your face. Aegon would admit, he was getting drunk by the minute. And your presence did not help in his regard to be sober. Regardless, he does take account of your calls, more than most that surround himself with. Everyone at the Council is eager to spout their plans and news, it makes him deaf to the ear when they have nothing to contribute when he suggests something. Nevertheless, you at least are supportive of his thoughts. Despite your constructive nature, he appreciates and craves your attention. 

Your King hums, drowsily and that was when you knew his mind was somewhere else. You would admit, you too were becoming tipsy with alcohol. After the morning Council meeting, you rather have your head hung outside with ratcatchers at the mess of the Council. You glance at his attire once more and this time, he catches you. He sees you, the way your doe eyes wander up and down his figure. He rarely has a chance to wear dragon armor like this. 

“Distracted, are we?” His breath immediately inches away from yours. And the scent of strong alcohol stings. You’re so accustomed to it, that you’re surprised you would still rebuke the scent of it. Apart from that, the look Aegon gives you makes your heart weak. His smile is sluggish but pulls you in like a serpent in water. It’s alluring and hypnotizing, the way his focus wanders in all of you, and the same for him. You can’t help but wonder if the work of the armor was tricked. And you let your desires plunder when you trace his breastplate armor. Of the harsh outlines it’s supposed to represent dragon scales. It’s majestic and divine, fit for a king. 

Almost timidly, your husband giggles at your touch. He separates a stray hair from your cheek, allowing leeway more into your personal space. You can’t feel automatically embarrassed if someone were to barge in. Because anyone could, the seamstress, Kingsguard, or worse, his mother. 

“Wear that armor more often and perhaps you’ll receive more than indecent staring,” A mischievous grin forms as again another jingle of your golden jewelry. Gods, you’re enticing and coy. Had he mentioned that? More than once. 

The first time you were at Court, it was a spur of surprise. Not only had you arrived with Prince Aemond unannounced, but Aegon encouraged it. You would suspect the disapproving faces of the men, especially coming from the King’s Hand and grandsire. How he ploys and plots with every citizen of King’s Landing to do his bidding. To save the Realm, of course, more to have the most influence in the city. You were aware of what he thinks of you. An obedient and dainty princess. The Queen and wife to the King should have no right to speak of politics. 

And yet here you were. 

“You do not have a seat in this Council,” Queen Regent, Alicent urges, gazing at her second son with slight apprehension. In doubt, she feels a quick quiver of fear the moment Aemond strides past the Council table. When it came to you, Alicent could only muster a poor glance. The one-eyed prince proceeds towards the map of Westeros that stands beside the King. He strides in confidence, abruptly ignoring every piercing stare bestowed on him. Other than him, you reached towards the seat at the opposing side of your King, hand delicately trailing down the handles of the chair.

“Aemond is my closest blood and our strongest sword. I welcome him,” Aegon lay unfazed at the subtle shocked expressions on everyone’s faces. “As for my wife, I think it should be customary for her to be by my side even in Council. As my father has allowed you to do for him, remember mother?” A playful grin, all-knowing of his lightheartedness, and carelessness of what others thought of his decisions. Surely his mother would be the most understanding, bestowing the same position many years ago when King Viserys was dealt ill and immobile. Shouldn’t the Queen beside her King as should they in every instance? 

Alicent is silent in her displeasure. There was no reason to refute the King’s wishes and sometimes made you appreciative of Aegon’s power and status. Being King was a risky position however it offered you more freedom and the ability to speak your mind more often than not. Your husband was the cause of this leverage for the most part. You expected the Queen Dowager to give you any kind of sign of comfort except there was none. Only but a forgotten thought and you were dismissed. 

It fills you with dismay, a small black hole for where her approval was meant to be. For the last few days, you’d only wished for Alicent’s consoling eyes.

“We should send troops marching to Harrehal, the Riverlands have the largest force.” Aemond waves his hand over where the location of Riverrun is plastered on the wall. It’s curved in cursive lettering, surrounding soft green fields, most notably of their Southern lands, which was an inhabited place of divided houses and discourse. The largest force, it had many issues of compromises and its lordship. “With them, Rhaenyra’s forces would be left vulnerable on land.”

The accordance of hums coaxed the second son with assurance. A sense of pride if you will, knowing how much more skilled and knowable he was than his brother. But the Hand was quick to question his methods. 

“And what of the small Houses of Riverrun? The Brackens and Blackwoods have been fighting each other for centuries. They would never work together as one,” Otto points out and it brings more skepticism and worry to the other Councilmen. Alliances with the Southerners were awkward. They do not know when or where to stop the fight. And it has become extremely bothersome at the time of war. The Bracken and Blackwoods were examples of that. They proceeded with the war more for themselves and would kill hundreds of their men if it meant to end their rivalry before the war even began. 

“We should negotiate with smaller Houses beyond the River lands then,” Your lips shudder slightly when the immediate eyes turn to you. Even your husband stares at you in astonishment and curiosity the same. Alicent looks at you warily. And Aemond, all too mysterious, holds a neutral look. “Would it not help Ser Criston Cole secure more of the surrounding Houses towards their larger forces? Gaining allies along the way to Riverrun would only add more to our numbers,”

“And in truth, give us a better advantage to overruling Riverrun altogether?” A devilish grin was on Aegon’s face at your suggestion. Your advice seemed promising and seemed risky but it was the most practical. King’s Landing had more advantage on land than the sea or sky, therefore it was evident in their leverage over the smaller Houses close to Riverrun. 

You tilt your head in amusement, all while lowering yourself to sit down. Yes, even though you had no experience in politics or war, you listened. You had ears whenever you managed to walk past one of their meetings. It should be frowned upon but you did not care. You wanted to have more say in protecting your family and House. Most things had been provided for you at an early age. You were a princess with a wealthy father, negotiations were your family’s specialty. You learned early on how to enunciate and please people with the way of your words. And here, you simply voiced what you believed was the safest way to Riverrun. Despite all the demeanors, none of the other Councilmen had anything else to say or disprove of your plans. 

“Good! Then it’s settled then,” The king rises, as well as everyone else who feels startled at his shifted demeanor. “Then Ser Criston Cole should prepare some men for the long journey ahead of us by dawn!” It was then you felt some sort of pride that would solidify your position at the Council. As long as you hold a strong mind, should your advice become helpful towards the men, you’d hoped they would see your presence as a blessing. 

In some midst of it all or perhaps the end, Aemond is quiet. He’s curious and admires you for everything you strive for. Many people would assume he despises you for taking the initiative to aid his king. But he does not believe in that no, you’re a delicate thing and would never be selfish on greed. Merely he can appreciate your ambitious strides from afar. The way you act around the people, the Council, and his mother makes him believe you were born into the role of Queen. You care for your subjects and think of what’s best for them. You do your best to stay by your king’s side even though he lacks the mind for it. 

Perhaps maybe, in some cases, he should’ve had you. 

The words struck right out of his head just when everyone was dismissed. While the nobleman rushes out of the council room, he delays his leave momentarily to catch a glimpse of you. You define the example of his House’s wealth, always proud to dress in colors of black and crimson red as if it was your second skin. However you do not forget about your own House colors, you embrace it all together with his own and it makes him wonder what kind of beauty like yourself can be persuaded by the likes of his brother. You were quick-witted, amusing, and altogether undeserving of Aegon’s love. 

You do not immediately flee the room as his mother or Ser Criston Cole had done. Instead, you slowly rise from your seat and make your way to your husband, eagerly. Aegon sits comfortably in his golden chair, smug with loving eyes at your figure. He could not help but eye at you openly even with his Kingsguard standing beside him. 

“Aemond, may we have the room?” He hears his older brother say. It does not take a blind man to know the following events as the one-eyed prince simply tilts his head in your direction. Before storming out of the room and the slam of the doors. His footsteps clank against the cold cobblestone pavement as he makes his way to his room. But all he could think about was your lively laughter as he disappeared from the scene. 

The day after Cole’s troops arrived back at King’s Landing, you felt a string of worry crawling down your spine. As you pace across your bedroom, you fiddle with the ends of your loose hair to solace the anxiety you feel in your stomach. The pit was too unbearable as more men would be escorted out towards Rook’s Rest. After Aegon removed Otto Hightower as Hand, Criston Cole became the primary candidate for the position. You voiced your concerns before but Aegon had yet to change his decisions on your advice.

Now rumors have spread that by the time Cole invades Rook’s Rest, Aemond would be by his side to counter whatever attack Rhaenyra plans to defend her councilman. It would risk losing one dragon, the biggest and largest female beast you’d seen. Doubt fills your mind when you try to shake your worries away. You shook your hands feverishly and swatted away the sweat building up against your palms. You must speak to Aemond. You should warn him of the consequences of this act. 

You found the prince outside of the castle. Vhagar resides in a shallow space close to the gateways to the city and is attentively monitored for her whereabouts. Very few dragon keepers watch over the powerful beast for her dangerous nature and size. As a cart, full of sheep was being carried by horses, you looked in awe at the amount of necessity the castle must provide for their dragons now. Surely it would impact the people’s living and cost. It worries you how chaotic and unlawful the palace seemed to behave in times of war. Even though you find yourself wanting to question Aemond’s intentions of helping Cole this way. 

Your words settle like a soothing wave in his ears. “Prince Aemond,” And when the one-eyed prince spots you, holding the reins of your horse with a steady hand, he’s not afraid to show his approval of your presence. The colors you wear today are regarded as wealth and beauty. The golden linen stretches along the cloth of obsidian, representative of his House, your House. The gown expands upon your collarbone, allowing the silver necklace you have on to become the ire of his attention. It entices him, brings him into your line of view. Clear cut diamonds you had on your earlobes, they jingle at the slightest movement you make, as you make your way towards him with ease. 

“Your Grace,” He prompts, politely. He is a plain canvas for you to paint over, to inspect over. You should not be afraid of his presence because he behaves well under yours. The prince regent eyes you down carefully and you’re vaguely reminded of the day before, the two of you entered the Council room.

“How was your ride with Vhagar?” You tenderly incite, head tilting towards his beast. Vhagar sits lazily with her entire body blended into the environment. Her muddy green scales combine with the grassy interior. The dragon pits were deemed too small for her size. And more so claustrophobic for a creature of her caliber, as a champion of many wars and destruction, Vhagar is rather docile for being the largest dragon. 

He hums before easily answering. “The morrow dew is not something to be missed during this time. Vhagar could sense it, and the warm breeze is sure to come sooner for summer,” He crossed his arms behind his back as if analyzing your every breath as you walked in irregular patterns, trailing along where his dragon resides. Your attention was not fully on him. No, not that he wouldn’t mind. But it was ignorant on your part to ignore him so easily. “Now save the rest of this nonsense for supper or shall I ask what were your real intentions for coming here? Though I welcome it,” 

You catch onto his coarse tone. Aemond dislikes those who do not take him seriously, like his brother. And you are aware of his estranged heart. You give him a look of consideration. It was the look of someone who had the upper hand. You knew he was becoming impatient with your meddling. 

“What are your plans with Criston Cole going to Rook’s Rest?” Your figure fully faces him now as you cup your hands together modestly. Surely the prince of the realm should respect the Queen’s uncertainties when he meets with the King’s Hand behind his back. A sliver of dread falls on the blonde prince as you take a step closer. “Consoling with the Hand without the King’s presence is extremely demeaning, my prince. Surely you have a right reason to go behind his back,” 

He takes a step forward, as Aemond’s eye moves back and forth from you. “We have a plan,” He is recursive in his thoughts and manners. Yet under your eyes, he feels utterly weak and broken, as if you have put a spell on him. “It is best if the King does not intervene.”

 Shaking your head disapprovingly, you fake disappointment. “Then what do you plan to do?” The longer it went on, the more you could feel his blood rising at the way you glanced and teased at his exploits. “As I, the Queen should know.”

“You need not,” The second son grunts, moving away to leave whatever conversation you were trying to muster with him. You intended to snuff out his plans with Criston Cole and expose them to your King's husband. Your King husband. What would he know of battles and formation? He knew better strategy than him yet you still side with Aegon with his pathetic whims on the townsfolk. 

Unsatisfied, you shot a disapproving grin. “I know you intend on attacking Rook’s Rest as a surprise, why else would you go with Cole?” You heard his mudded footsteps stop momentarily as you continued. “My question to it is, what are you trying to prove out of this act of disloyalty?” It flicks a trigger in him. A quick flash of anger, jealousy, and disgust, all coiled into one hole that explodes. 

“I intend to prove I am the better fit as heir,” His tone is sharp and alert as he stomps back to you with a violent gaze. His one good remaining eye, unharmed and uncut, shoots daggers at your stern face. A small part of you thinks he is handsome. The way you can rile him within seconds gives you a sense of joy and satisfaction that quenches whatever annoyance you had of him before.

“There is no denying that,” Your lips agape still at how much you were able to pry out of Aemond. However, there was one detail you needed to remind him of. “But you fail to recognize that Aegon still has an heir, Maegor.” With that, you close your mouth to form a thin line as you stand more confidently against the prince’s deadly stare. “And as Queen, I hope you do not try to cross your King’s benevolent trust with your anger.” 

It was his turn to remain there motionless. The one-eyed prince repeats your words over and over again. He contemplates them long and hard, glaring at the ground, at where you stood, close to his breath and space. But all of his emotional desires could be examples of an ill temper. You twist and turn his head like a puppeteer to a helpless marionette. And his strings had long sprung and trapped him in an immobile place.

He leaves without a word.

The battle was over. But the war continued. You became increasingly paranoid as no word from Cole’s army of Aegon’s wellbeing. You heard unreliable news. This and that but you wanted the real thing. The truth from a real member who had witnessed the battle at Rook’s Rest. As you twist the ring on your finger, you glance towards the rising crowd in the city. There were so many citizens.  They succeeded and followed like colonies of ants. 

Your anguish was reassured when the sight of the King’s army appeared. Shouts and screams returned you from your thoughts as hundreds of men walked and rode on horseback. Your lively expression did not last long, only to falter when meant with their solemn faces. What a grim battle it must’ve been.

“All hail King Aegon! Who went against and slain the traitor, Rhaenys, and her dragon, Meleys!” Cole exclaims in a harsh and undeserving undertone. From where you stood, on the high mounts of the castle, you saw the horrors of what they’ve done to the traitors. A severed head of the Red Queen, without her rider. Her flesh was torn and burnt. Charred from the attacks of another dragon, you did not believe Aegon had done so. You had doubts and Criston’s indifferent frown proved your intuition. 

Alicent was by the patio where you spied on the citizens of King’s Landing. She observes and feels a familiar dread from the aftermath she has yet to witness for herself. You have taken the position of Queen and in turn, must understand the order of things. Simply because she had a feeling that things did not seem as they were predicted by the townsfolk. 

When the wooden carriage of your husband is delivered to your bed chambers, everyone storms aside for the guards to set it on the floor. You arrived shortly after, nails and teeth clenched in fear as your mother-in-law appeared beside you with the same fixation. And somewhere else, your brother-in-law, Aemond carefully watches your scared position. The lid lifts and the soldiers hold onto the emergency bed that protects their King. In a swift motion, they lift and allow the body to hover over your shared bed.

In patience and precision, Maester Orywle walks into the chambers with several other maesters under his wing to begin a procedure and analysis of his injured body. The room is quickly transformed into a medical room, with various tools and gadgets displayed for the maesters disposal. You had little clue what they were doing, worried about your husband’s awakened state. 

“How is he?” You stumbled by the foot of the bed, where the other maesters scurry to give off Maester Orwyle a scalpel. Gods, the wounds he had mustered. You felt terrified and rightfully so. This could be the last time you see your husband, alive and breathing. “Is he awake?”

“I’m not sure, Your Grace,” Maester Orwlye replies with adequate patience. Knowing the panic and hysteria you must feel for your king, your husband, he pities in your state. You should not deserve such sorrow. “But I must be given time to work on his fatal wounds. Whether he lives or not will be confirmed afterward.” His unflinching face softens when glances at one of Aegon’s personal Kingsguard to escort you outside. The knight nods and walks forward to excuse himself before coming forward.

“My apologies, Your Grace,”

Yet you did not want to leave. Your palms felt hot and guilt-ridden with the idea of leaving Aegon alone to suffer. You urge, taking a step forward for only Maester Orwyle to hear. “How long can you be sure he will survive?” It’s so hushed with desperation in your voice. But the maester could only respond with a sorrowful shake. It breaks your heart wholly, to know not even the best medical professionals had a clear understanding or answer to their King’s expectancy. 

As you feel pathetic tears, ready to fall, the Queen Regent rushes to take hold of your forearm. She drags your pitiful self out of the chambers. The bodies that remained stepped aside for you and Alicent to leave swiftly. A quick flash of silver and black vanishes from your peripherals, but you cannot process anything that is happening anymore. 

The syllables of your name ring against your ears as the Queen Regent tries to bring you back to her. “My dear, please focus on me.” Delicate fingers drape a hold of your jaw, firmly. They smooth over the apples of your cheeks, smoothly and soothingly like a gesture a mother would do for their children. “You need to stand strong for Aegon and yourself. Your children, think of Jaehaera and Meagor! Pray to the gods for his health.” 

With that, you took a deep breath. 

Aemond was avoidant to the whole ordeal. No one besides Criston Cole was there when he found his brother’s scorched body. Alongside his dragon, Sunfrye, it looked as though he was fighting for his last breath. Aemond would’ve taken that chance to send him to eternal sleep if not for Cole’s arrival. A pity for him.

As he watches the scene before him, your grief-stricken features are what caused the most pain. You resembled a tragic painting, so angelic it’s saddening to see you this way. Aemond could’ve done it. He could have killed his brother and taken the glory of killing Meleys. Despite that, he did not and stormed from the scene. Now left in the shadows of what’s to come, he numbly waits for the maester’s work to be done with. The Council meeting will begin shortly. After Aegon’s procedure and Maester Orywle, official confirmation of whether he would live or not would determine whether he would become the true heir or not. 

This was what he wanted, yes? 

Except, everything was bleak now. All the colors he witnessed were suddenly wiped; now all he saw was black and white. Your tragic face comes into mind, along with your fragile sniffles and tears. Gods, he wanted to comfort your sweet little heart. Yet knowing he was the cause of it, made Aemond strangely more devoted to you. If Aegon does not survive, you are bound to be a widow. Your youngest child, Meagor was still but a babe, unfit and too young to understand what an heir was. Therefore he would be the rightful option if all else failed. He would rule in the King’s stead. 

That was what the one-eyed prince considered when he stepped through the doors to begin the Council. The King’s chair was empty as expected, looking lonely and authoritative without its ruler. In the same sense, on the opposite side, you sat soberly with nothing but a blank look. You wore cool-toned colors this morning. It reflected much of what you must be feeling. 

Grief, misery, and blame.  Even in this poor state, he still considers you attractive and alluring. It’s a shame you looked dejected and lifeless despite all your energy and might to stay awake. Your hair was even braided in a simpler style. Knowing you always had a knack for extraverted taste, Aemond takes in your appearance profoundly. Because perhaps, everyone in the Council can understand the emphasis on the wife of the King. As they eagerly await Maester Orwyle’s results, they all gaze at your seat for any kind of solace. 

He takes the chair to your left and sits. While the Grand Maester begins to explain Aegon’s conditions. The longer he spewed, the more you felt your heavy heart fall deeper into your chest. How would the realm react now? Their king suddenly struck and immobile to be by their side. He had defeated Rhaenys in battle however now suffered in a long-inducing coma just as his father did. Who would rule in his absence? It only made sense in your mind but you did not make it become a reality. 

“But he is very much alive, Your Grace,” Maester Orywle gives an earnest smile to the Queen Mother as she exhales with the utmost relief. “Though he will need time to recover, I do not think he will ever be the same.” 

An unfavorable grunt from Aemond brings attention from you and Cole. “So he is unable to leave his chambers.”

“I’m afraid not,” 

“Then we must choose who is to rule in his stead,” Lord Wylde speaks of the obvious, sparing everyone a momentary glance. He clears his throat and rubs his beard, nervously.

“If anyone should come in Aegon’s stead, it is his wife,” Alicent jabs, shooting quick assertiveness when she presses her crossed palms onto the table. Your name leaves her lips as a clear sign of hope. “She was the closest companion to the King and has been since this war started. It is only right for her to continue her husband’s intentions and plans.” 

“And what plans did the King have?” A pompous statement coming from her second son, which surprised you as well. Aemond was known for his restrained nature however it seems as days passed, he was slowly losing his grip on his sanity. “I am the closest heir the King has. Would it not be I who rules in his stead?” In the turn of the tides, the room is divided upon their suggestions. You can tell by the wary looks the lords hold with each other. However, you have been grateful for Alicent’s support regardless of the cold shoulder she has given you previously. 

“You are not fit, Prince Aemond,” Your fingers slide and take hold of the marble ball in front of you. The weight of the object pleasantly gives you a boost of poise to look him in his one good remaining eye. “The King’s line is still secured for my son, Meagor will become the next heir. But he is young so for the time being, I am naturally the next in line to come to his stead. As his wife and Queen, I should have a say as well.” 

Chapter navigation:

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Gathered on the edge of his vision, there was a group of noble girls—perhaps a tad under the appropriate age for such a late hour—fanning themselves and giggling, hoping to catch his eye.

They had spent the better part of the evening trying to get his attention, as getting even just one dance from the King’s eldest son was considered an honor. Yet to their great disappointment, he had barely spared them a glance and a nod of respect, and quickly looked away from their low necklines and over-powdered cheeks.

Currently being led with a respectful hand to the waist and gently twirled, the object of Aegon’s affection was dancing with the son of Lord Caswell, and despite his friendship for the young man, Aegon could feel his stomach burn with jealousy.

She was a respectable woman of noble birth, but not a simple lady of the court, waiting in the wings for some advancement or favor. She was a lady-in-waiting to his sister Helaena, and for many years now had had the trust of the King and Queen themselves.

She had even obtained their affection with her disposition and sense of duty. Her father sat on King Viserys’ council, and her brother served in the lower chambers—she would make an ideal match, Aegon knew, but he hadn’t dared suggest it to his father.

Aegon had to admit that his admiration ran deeper than physical attraction, and that over the years of sharing her company, he had slowly but irrevocably fallen for her.

They had occasionally stepped over the line of propriety, with their words and the tense atmosphere of some of their conversations. She was skilled in the art of teasing and didn’t shy away from improper allusions if it allowed her to throw his play on words back at him. He adored her for it, and always wondered if below her playfulness, lied a secret love for him.

He hoped for it dearly, as there was a hunger for her in him, a desperate need to be seen and recognized. He knew that with her affection and her love he could achieve more than he would on his own.

For now, he had to content himself with silent gazes as she danced, occasionally suspecting she was aware of his eyes on her.

As the young Caswell twirled her again, slower this time, she was able to let her eyes roam the Great Hall, once again catching Prince Aegon’s insistent gaze. He hadn’t let her out of his sight for the whole evening, and she didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.

She knew the reputation the young man had, and the love he had for the fairer sex. Despite her trust in him and genuine friendship, he remained a red-blooded man and she didn’t doubt his frivolous intentions. In his eyes, it probably was a favor, even an honor, to gain the prince’s interest.

She despised how his smile made her shiver, the back of her neck prickling with delight. 

As the night slowly bled into the morning, the last lords and ladies still standing slowly made their way to their chambers, with more or less ease. Where Prince Aegon was concerned, he found himself in such a state that to his great shame, the object of his affection felt that she had to escort him.

“Why do you drink so much, Aegon?” she groaned as she helped him to his bed. He sat at the foot of it, leaning his heavy and spinning head on the bedpost.

“You know why,” he replied wearily, tired of a night of observation rather than enjoyment. He had shared a few dances with her, but eventually had had to allow other young men the pleasure. Such were the ways of court, but he had found he had no desire to dance with anyone else.

As she was aware of the burden on his shoulders, as the king’s eldest son, and could see the sadness gleam in his eyes, she remained for a moment and allowed herself to cross a line. She welcomed him into her arms—as any friend would, she tried to reason with herself—and he rested his head on her shoulder.

Aegon closed his eyes, inebriated by the scent of her; she smelled faintly of perfume and mostly of sweat, and it intoxicated him. He could feel her chest going up and down as she breathed, and he knew that if he were to open his eyes, he would be able to see down the collar of her dress.

Perhaps it was the wine or the early hour after a sleepless night, or perhaps it was years of suppressed desires, but he allowed himself to press a chaste kiss to her shoulder, at the junction of her neck. The contact from his lips to her soft skin made him shudder, and he felt himself swell and harden in his trousers.

“Aegon,” she warned, not unkindly, despite her visible shiver.

“It’s just a kiss,” he slurred.

“To you, maybe,” she sighed as she pulled away, her hands coming to the buttons of his doublet.

He smirked, looking almost victorious as she helped him out of his clothes—she refrained from voicing that she was simply ensuring he wouldn’t suffocate in the heavy fabrics, but she knew that any word she would speak now would be twisted, and she was too tired to tolerate his jests. 

The truth was she hated how frivolous he was, how careless he was with his compliments and touches. She didn’t blame his love for the fairer sex, as it was only natural for a man, but those gestures mattered to her.

She cared about him, valued his friendship and wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea of a courtship. However she knew it wasn’t in his ways, and that he would rather find fleeting pleasure in women, than a life-long companion.

“Stay with me a moment,” he called as she tried to push him back onto the sheets, once he was divested of his doublet, belt and chains, and that his boots had been thrown to the side.

He clung to her and she groaned her frustration at his strength despite his inebriated state, sitting down beside him despite herself.

“I cannot,” she admonished. “It is not proper, people will talk.”

“Let them talk,” he slurred once again, and she hated as much as she adored his condescension for the values and opinions of the Court.

“It might not matter to you what people think of you, but it matters to me,” she replied as she ran a hand through his thick waves—she suspected that a few hours of sleep and some water would erase her moment of weakness from his memory. “I would not have my reputation tainted.”

“Just a moment, please,” he asked again, looking up at her from below his lashes. Laid out as he was on the sheets, the early morning light peeking through the curtains, he looked like an angelic creature rather than a simple prince. 

“Why must you torment me so, my prince,” she sighed, dropping her head in defeat, and as his eyes closed and his breathing deepened, she allowed herself the ultimate weakness—she dipped her head and stole a kiss from the soft skin of his cheek, too close to the corner of his mouth for it to be innocent, then slipped out of his quarters.

The early afternoon brought a splitting headache and a foul taste in his mouth, and yet a triumphant feeling had taken root in his chest—he had faint memories of the end of the night, of his favorite lady walking him to his chambers and cursing him for not walking straight. The memories that followed were far more tender and left a fire in his stomach.

The scent of her was on his sheets, her expensive perfume hanging on the fabrics and in the air, and as he finally dragged himself out of bed and to his dresser, he caught sight of himself in the mirror—there was a trace of her powders on the side of his face, and his mouth split into a grin. He remembered the warmth of her lips on his skin, the tenderness of her hands, and the evidence in front of him served to fill in the blanks.

She returned his affections. She was his, now.

“About this morning,” he whispered in her ear, later at dinner when they gathered around Daeron once again, this time in a more intimate setting. She flushed crimson and threw panicked glances to the side, which only served to delight him more.

“Lower your voice,” she hissed, hiding her blush in her cup. 

She was obviously embarrassed, as any lady worth her station would be. Before Aegon could reassure her that what had taken place would never leave his rooms, she spoke again in frantic whispers. “I have no regrets, but in the name of our friendship, spare me the shame of putting it into words.”

She had hoped Aegon’s inebriated state would have made him forget her indiscretion, but it had not. She had allowed their playfulness to go too far and was now paying the moral consequences.

She had allowed her own heart to be bruised, only because of her own pride—she wanted to prove herself that she could entertain a genuine friendship, and a close one, with Prince Aegon. She wanted to prove to herself that her mind ruled over her heart, and that she would never let something as mundane as girlish infatuation get in the way. 

Despite his promise that he would not speak of it again, Aegon proved himself to be relentless in his acts and gestures in the following weeks, and she found herself to be equally proud. She held onto her pride and refused to be defeated by her own heart—she kept on appearances, pretending to play in the prince’s hand, lest she revealed herself.

Aegon was more perceptive than he let on, and she would have hated for her heart to be revealed by her obvious shame. As long as she maintained the illusion that it had all been a moment of weakness, of friendship gone too far due to the fever of wine, she was certain the prince wouldn’t hold it against her.

As time went by and official functions succeeded one another, Aegon wasted no time showing his favor of her to the Court. He refused on her behalf when other lords asked her for a dance, keeping his hand on her waist a bit lower than a simple dance partner would. He also spent more time in his sister’s quarters, feigning interest for what activities the young ladies were partaking on, and even renounced his love for the drink, as though to never forget a moment spent with her at dinner or banquets.

However, he came to notice that she seemed more reserved now, and shy, blushing at some of his teasing words. Now that their relationship had crossed the boundaries of friendship into courtship, he supposed she allowed herself to take his words at heart. She was delightful, and this newly-discovered side of her pleased him to no end.

Months went on in this fashion, and despite his delight in her and the new intimacy they shared, he was hesitant to approach her. She seemed to avoid being left alone with him and it was torment, as he longed to feel her lips on his again, and to remember it this time. 

All the while Aegon’s behavior was agony for her, and was quickly proving to be her downfall. The prince’s usual playfulness didn’t amuse her so much as it used to, now that she had allowed herself the one indiscretion of stealing a kiss from his cheek. She cursed her own female weakness for not being able to resist the advances—even though they were jests—of a handsome prince.

It wasn’t unusual for him to toy with the courtiers, or even go to great lengths to make other ladies jealous, but his behavior toward her at banquets and balls only served to irritate her further.

It would have amused her in the past, to be whisked away from under the nose of a lord who had hoped for a dance, or to act like lovers to make a lady she detested positively green with envy, but not anymore.

This was why, after a dinner with a few envoys from great houses, where once again Aegon had refused her to a vassal of House Lannister who had hoped to sit at her side and converse with her, she decided she had to put a stop to it. Surely Prince Aegon would see reason.

They slipped out of the dinner hall as liquor was offered and the conversation turned to politics again, rather than frivolities. They knew they would not be missed, and Aegon seemed all the more happy to be pulled away from such topics. She led them to an alcove overseeing a deserted staircase, leaning against a pillar to give herself more confidence.

“Aegon, we must talk,” she said, which immediately seemed to worry him. She took a moment to smile at him, hoping that pursuing this conversation in good friendship would help make her case.

“This toying with the line of propriety, this little game we are caught in… It was fine, when we were children. Now let us be adults, and be frank, for once.”

“I quite agree,” he replied, the crease of his brows smoothing, and she was relieved. Perhaps now, the games would stop and she could nurse her aching heart in peace.

Unaware of the struggles of her heart, Aegon stepped closer, emboldened by her request to leave childhood in the past—she had asked for his frankness, and he was more than happy to comply. She stilled as he stepped into her space, and bracing his hand on the wall, dipped his head to catch her mouth in chaste but firm kiss.

However, as her hand came up to his chest, it wasn’t to tangle in his doublet and pull him closer, as he had hoped, but to shove him away sharply. He had barely had the time to feel the softness of her lips under his that it was being ripped away, and the expression on her face made him feel as though she had struck him rather than simply pushed him.

“How dare you,” she whispered, her tone dark and biting. “Did you not hear what I said? Are you mocking me?”

“I would never—” Aegon answered, but he couldn’t find his breath to utter more than a few words. He didn’t comprehend her reaction, and was terribly sorry for what he had done wrong—perhaps she had wanted more privacy rather than a corridor in the Keep.

“This is cruel, even for you, Aegon,” she cried out, tears rising in her eyes.

“I am not mocking you. You must believe me,” Aegon protested as she tried to push past him and leave.

She turned as he grabbed her by the arm, blinking her tears away, seemingly getting over her shock and regaining her composure. “Do you really think I would fall this low?” she asked, her voice low and cold.

His blood turned to ice in his veins and his heart seemed to stop for a minute, making his chest ache. “Now you are the one being cruel. It has been months since we—” Aegon cried out. “Why wait until now to turn me away?”

“What are you talking about?” she inquired, suddenly as breathless as he was.

“The banquet, for Daeron’s name day,” Aegon said feebly, and saw the understanding dawn on her as her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

“Did you… Oh Gods,” she gasped. “Did you believe we were courting?”

She would have thought in those circumstances that Aegon would hide behind his pride and occasional cruel humor, but instead he seemed to crumble even more. He relinquished his hold on her arm and tears came to his eyes as he looked away in shame. His lower lip trembled as he murmured an apology, and it only made the ache in her heart sharper.

“Why would you be courting me?” she whispered, stepping closer. It had been years since she had seen him in such a state, so vulnerable and true. 

“Don’t you know? I never lied to you, everything I said, I meant it,” he stated, chin low.

“I thought you were jesting… Playing like you do with the other ladies of the court,” she said, and his sudden confession brought back all the words they had exchanged in the last few months, all the situations where propriety had been put to the side in favor of good humor.

“I was too proud, I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of caving in, and asking you to stop. I thought it was all a game to you, and I didn’t want to lose.”

“I would never jest with you in this way, you must believe me,” he replied, looking up at her from under his long lashes. “I care too much about you.”

“Care?” she inquired, stepping even closer and raising a hand to his chin, forcing him to face her fully.

“Are you going to make me say it, so that you can reject me once more?” he laughed, but there was no mirth behind it.

“If you truly care then you will make your feelings plain,” she pushed, and she hated herself for it, as she knew Aegon would allow her and inevitably respond to her demands.  

“I love you,” he admitted in a breath, and the way she flushed at his words made him shiver.

Despite his shame, he was utterly entranced; the flush of her face that tinted her cheeks pink as well as the bridge of her nose, and the curve of her lips as it fell open in surprise, all called to him. The desire to kiss her was pounding at his ribcage but he ached with the knowledge that he would be refused.

“Oh, Aegon,” she murmured, and her hand that had been at his chin came to the back of his neck, pulling him into her.

He moaned into the kiss she gave him, closing his eyes against the thoughts that she was perhaps inclined to pity and offering him a kiss to appease his sorrow. Still he melted against her, growing bolder as she wrapped her other arm around his shoulders and allowed him to deepen their embrace.

He turned her around, bringing her back against the stone pillar once more, and she went willingly. She sighed as he curled his tongue around hers, his hands at her waist, and pulled him further into her. Crowding her against the stone, he became desperate, and still she matched his passion.

“Please, give me a chance,” he begged as he pulled away, reeling from their kiss and clinging to hope.

“Don’t you understand?” she asked, breathless, her chest rising and falling quickly. “This game I thought we were playing, it was breaking my heart.”

“Are you saying—”

“I love you, of course I do,” she replied, her hands coming to frame his face, caressing him adoringly as she looked up at him, tender. Aegon sighed his joy in the next kiss they shared, tucked together in the alcove.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics. Requested by @hollysnap.

They had endured the usual expressions of disappointment from there families.

Aegon reached for his wine cup with stubborn eyes. She twisted her wedding ring on her finger and looked at the flickering candle in front of her.

She was too volatile for her family. She was interested in too many things at the same time and now had a wide-ranging but sporadic knowledge. He was only interested in things that were not valuable at court.

No one saw any talent in them. Not even their mothers.

Rhaenyra and Alicent had been furious when they found out about them.

Sir Arryk had found them both. Intertwined and loving each other. They were the black sheep of the family. Always had been. It bound them together. It united them. It created an understanding and it created a home. They knew that the other understood. They knew they could find a safe place in each other.

Their mothers only saw the shame they almost brought upon the house. Back when they were children of ten and seven and ten and five, they decided they would marry. That Aegon would not follow his mother's plan and marry Haelena. Back then, when they found their way to each other in the night and consummated a marriage, that had not yet existed. Back then, when they saw their hope in each other.

The world now only saw (Y/n)'s inability to give Aegon a son after her womb was broken following the birth of her first child, her daughter.

They both sat in the hall and ate with the others. Even though Aegon drank more than he ate and (Y/n) dwelled more on her thoughts than dwelling in reality.

Only his hand managed to bring her back to the here and now.

Her eyes rested on his violet irises, which looked at her, exhausted and sad.

She smiled sadly. He squeezed her hand. He leaned towards her.

"I would rather sleep in a latrine of flea bottom, than listen to even one more eulogy to Lucerya and Aemond."

She smirked. She quickly pressed her lips together to suppress her grin. "They're almost as pleasant to endure as the fish from that yellow tavern.", she smirked.

Aegon chuckled. "Mother really thought you were pregnant again."

"She'd think the sun was rising in the west, too, if it meant she could still hope for an heir of yours."

Aegon grinned. "And they say we're naïve."

She brought his hand to her lips and pressed a soft kiss to it. "So we are... Just not when it comes to matters of the marriage bed.", she smirked.

Aegon bit his lip, but then shook his head with a grin. "Is Jaehaera already in bed?", he asked.

"I want to check on her when this boring play here is over. I don't think she'll be ready for bed by then. You know that if you try to force her into it, she won't sleep at all."

Aegon kissed her forehead. "I can read something to her.", he murmured.

She closed her eyes. Savouring the feel of his lips. "She loves your stories."

He smiled. But his eyes became cloudy again. "Sometimes I wish she could stay like this forever."

"Defiant and smart-aleck?"

That did make him smile. "Safe and uninteresting for the rest of this table... And defiant and smart-aleck... Only she can drive Aemond to despair with a single word."

She giggled. "She just knows that the poison is in the dose. She could drive a maester with a necklace of pure gold to despair, if she asks 'why' often enough."

Aegon smirked.

Later that evening, after their daughter slept ,after being promised an outing with Sunfyre and Aegon in the morning, they lay in their bed, enjoying the silence without any comments on their person.

"Do you think she'll be better?", murmured Aegon into her hair.

She turned her face towards him and nudged his nose with her own. "What do you mean?"

"Jaehaera... Do you think they'll like her more than us? Do you think she... will be better than us?" His eyes were closed, but the small crease between his eyebrows betrayed his sadness.

She put her arms around his body and pulled herself close to him. "I don't know if they'll see how wonderful she is. We can only hope."

"Hmm." he grumbled and snuggled more into his wife's embrace. "Do you think we'll ever do anything right?"

She left the question unanswered for a while. Aegon was beginning to think she'd fallen asleep when she mumbled her answer. "We could try something that no one in this family has ever done before."

"And what would that be?"

"We could just try to be good parents."

__________________________________________________________

Was he on a ship. He must be on a ship. His stomach rolled and churned so much it must be the waves on the ocean. Blinking blearily into the sunlight he vaguely felt fingers running through his hair. Aegon finally managed to focus his eyes on his bedside table, and the jug of water placed on it. The soft touch continued to caress his forehead and brush through the silver strands falling in front of his eyes.

“Good morning husband. How are you feeling this morning?” Aegon blinked and his mind cleared slightly. His wife was in his bed. You were stroking his hair from his face and asking if he was well? Thoughts flew through his head and as he jolted from the knowledge you were right behind him, his stomach reminded him of his current state and he rolled ungracefully from the bed. He landed sprawled on the floor causing a sharp gasp to leave your mouth as you watched your severely hungover husband groan and roll around tangled in sheets before moving like a slug to the open doors of his balcony and slamming them close behind him.

You couldn’t see him like this. He hadn’t even managed to face you, but he knew he must look terrible and there was something in him, ridiculous as it may be, that wanted to keep you under the illusion that he wasn’t a complete failure. Once he’d finished evacuating the contents of his stomach off his balcony, and damningly close to his brother who was just making his way onto the training grounds for his morning spar with Cole, he inhaled deeply before steeling himself to walk back inside.

Opening the doors to his rooms, he saw you sitting prettily on the end of his bed. Hair fallen perfectly to frame your face, wearing only in a linen shift you had presumably slept in by his side all night – surely his wife had been carved by angels. Bustling in the room brought him back and he drew the sheets tighter around his waist. Maids flitted in and out, making up the bath and serving breakfast on a table set up at the end of the bed.

“Better?” you said shyly smiling at him. “I thought you might need something to line your stomach – and possibly a bath.” You trailed off. You’re right. He smelled revolting.

He doesn’t quite understand how or why you could be so nice to him, he thinks as he sinks into the steaming perfumed water. Especially as a vague memory of the previous night comes back to him, he’d stumbled back into the keep, pissed as a newt, and demanded you come to him to fulfil your wifely duties. Closing his eyes, Aegon felt his muscles relax in the warmth. Even his head lessened from the soothing lavender scent.

This time he felt your presence behind him before your touch. Softly, again, you carded your fingers through his hair, moving him gently forward so you could wash him. Your gentle touch was so foreign to him. Even when he was washed by the servants, they were never this gentle with him. The warm water cascaded down his back, your fingers working a floral scented soap into his hair and pressing firmly against his scalp. The sensation was heavenly. The warmth of your body surrounded him as you leant him back again to rinse the soap from his hair.

Once he was cleaned you set a small pillow at the back of the tub for him to rest his head on. Though he was a prince he was sure he had never been as pampered as this. He stared up into your face as he leant his head back, taking in the soft fluttering of your eyelashes and the curve of your cheeks and lips.

Though you had been married for over two moons now Aegon didn’t think he had ever really looked at you before now. Surely he would have lingered around you more if he had seen what a beauty he had married. Your mere presence brought him peace, and whilst he could not understand why you were being so kind to him, his heart overstepped his mind and let him live in this fantasy for just a moment longer; practically jumping from his chest when he felt you lay soft kisses along his hairline. Your warm smell invaded his nostrils and his eyes fluttered open to discover your neck and cleavage so close to his face. Your skin looked so smooth, and his lips ached for him to lean closer and place a reverent kiss to your collar.

You took a towel and held it out for him, helping him dry as he stepped out of the tub. His eyes rolled over your body as he dressed, tucking his loose shirt into linen britches as he watched you arrange the chairs around the breakfast table.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” his voice wavered ever so slightly at the question falling from his mouth.

“Aegon?” you replied. Softly breathing his name as you turned to face him. He was sure the sweet sound of your voice confirmed you had been sent from the gods. “I am here to care for you. I am your wife…” His face fell slightly at that, which you saw. Of course you were there for your duty. The thought brought back his words from the previous evening. Wifely duties. You were fulfilling your side of the bargain. “… and I like you.” You finished.

You studied his face as he looked at you. His delicate features held together by perfect milky skin. The rounded cupids bow of his lips forming a soft pout that was hard to resist. Though you’d seen his anger and drunkenness many times since your wedding and heard worse from the ladies of court before your arrival, you’d also seen the small sad look on his face whenever he’d leave a council meeting, or even just at dinner with his family. Although his mother had been nothing but kind and gentle with you, you could see this favour wasn’t extended to her own son, and his grandfather was even worse – openly mocking him with his father, the king when surely, they should have been teaching him.

Thoughts brought you back to reality as you stepped closer to him. Looking into his eyes, the pale violet seeming deeper towards his iris and wider as they searched yours for an answer. You softly took his wrist into your hands, sliding your fingers down to intertwine with his own you placed a small kiss between the crease in his brow.

“I am your wife. I know you did not choose me for love, or choose me at all, but I hope that you will know how much I care for you, and one day maybe you may care for me.” Aegon’s throat almost closed up, and his eyes betrayed him as they began to water. His thumbs barely moved to brush the backs of your hand bringing them up to place a kiss on your knuckles – gently leading you to sit next to him at the end of his bed.

The words struggled to form in his throat; a combination of a hangover and sudden emotion rendering him surprisingly catatonic. Your hand moved to stroke to side of his face, bringing his eyes back to your own.

“I will do my best” he whispered, leaning into the warmth of your palm. “I will do my best for you, and for our line.”