A Son For A Son…For A Son
Warning: Kidnapping, Hidden child, mentions of young pregnancy
Summary: After the tragic lose of son, Aegon is left without an heir…But perhaps not.
Or
In which you never thought the past would come back to haunt you.
Work: 2.9k
"Finish up, after dinner it is time for your bath," you inform your son as you stir the pot of soup, glancing back to chuckle as he drags the spoon lazily toward his mouth.
"Or you may delay until your father gets home," you tease, leaning on the counter. "I'm sure he will need help to unload the cart."
Your son drops the spoon in favor of lifting the bowl to his lips, the noisy sound of slurping filling the cottage. You laugh again, shaking your head, but then you both fall silent. Outside, the sharp, steady sound of hooves on dirt is followed by the low rumbling of wheels.
"Oh, too late," you whisper with a smile, grabbing another bowl to set aside for your husband's supper. But before you can move, the front door bursts inward with such force it slams against the wall and rattles the shutters.
The bowl slips from your hands and shatters, soup spreading across the floor. Your son rushes into your arms as you clutch him tightly, eyes darting to the door. A knight in polished armor steps inside, his crimson cloak dragging over the threshold.
"What is the meaning of this?" you demand, though your voice shakes despite your attempt at control. "We have already given our share of sheep this season, we cannot give more—"
"Quiet," the knight's voice booms, making you flinch. He casts a glance behind him toward the open door, then gives a nod.
The heavy, deliberate footsteps that follow make your stomach twist with dread. Someone of importance—someone dangerous.
Your heart stops as a familiar figure steps into the room, the very last man you ever expected—or wanted—to see again.
Aegon.
Your knees weaken. Forcing yourself down, you drop to the ground and pull your son with you, bowing low until your forehead nearly brushes the floor.
"Your Grace," you whisper.
"It has been so long," Aegon says, his voice oddly soft. You can hear the smile in it, but you dare not raise your gaze. "You are difficult to find. Does your father no longer run the bakery in King's Landing?"
"My father has passed, Your Grace," you manage, tightening your grip on your son's small hand.
A flicker of something passes through his tone. "You have my condolences."
"Thank you," you murmur. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you plead, "Please, Your Grace, we serve the crown willingly, but we cannot survive if more of our stock is taken. We would starve."
Aegon chuckles faintly. "Stock? I have not come for your sheep, nor your grain."
The words strike ice into your chest. Slowly, you lift your gaze until your eyes lock with his.
"Then why are you here?"
"For my son, of course." He says it as if it were the most obvious truth in the world, even with a smile tugging at his lips. His gaze drifts past you—to the child at your side.
Your blood runs cold. All the whispered tales you had heard in the village of Prince Jaehaerys' murder crash through your mind, of a babe slaughtered by those who sought to wound the crown. To harm a child was unthinkable, unforgivable.
"You... Your Grace, I had no knowledge of the plot against the prince, I swear it," you blurt, desperation flooding your voice.
"I know that," Aegon says, dismissive with a wave of his hand. "I meant our son. Word once reached me that you carried my child. That it was a boy."
Your stomach clenches painfully. Memory slams into you—the nights of whispered promises, his lips pressing against your skin, the little trinkets he gave you. Then the day you found him rutting against a brothel wall, laughing at your heartbreak, tossing you aside as if you had been nothing. And not long after, hearing the Queen herself was carrying his heir.
"Your Grace," you say, your voice tight, the lump in your throat nearly choking you. "That child did not survive the birth. I... I failed to bring him safely into this world. I beg your forgiveness."
His eyes narrow, suspicion flickering. "And this child?" He gestures to the boy clutching your skirts, wide-eyed and trembling.
"He is but four, Your Grace," you lie desperately. "He bears no Targaryen features."
For a long, terrible moment, Aegon studies you. The room is so silent you can hear the fire crackling in the hearth. Then, without a word, he turns away, strolling casually toward the table where the meal still waits. He picks up the pitcher, pouring himself a cup of water as though he were in his own hall.
You release a shaky breath, but it's short-lived. Before you realize it, the knight seizes you roughly by the arm and drags you upright, wrenching you away from your son.
"Mama!" your boy cries, reaching out, but Aegon moves faster. He bends, scooping him up into his arms with surprising ease, holding him against his chest.
"No!" you scream, thrashing against the knight's grip. "Please, don't touch him—please!"
"Calm yourself," Aegon says, his tone almost amused. He looks down at the boy, his expression softening. "Seven Hells, he has your nose. And your stubborn little mouth."
The child whimpers, trying to wriggle free, but Aegon holds him firmly, brushing a hand over his hair.
"Peace, little one," Aegon murmurs, though his eyes never leave yours. His expression is unreadable—half-smirk, half-accusation.
Still holding the child, he strides back to the table and reaches for the cup he poured moments ago. Instead of drinking, he dips his fingers into the water, swirls them idly, and then—without warning—tips the contents over your son's head.
The boy gasps, startled by the cold. Water runs in rivulets down his cheeks and neck, soaking the collar of his tunic. You thrash against the knight's iron grip, screaming—
"Stop! What are you doing? Leave him be!"
But Aegon pays you no mind. His gaze sharpens as he brushes back the boy's wet hair with a slow, deliberate hand. The dark strands cling to his scalp at first, but then—under the dripping water—the truth begins to show. Beneath the muddy brown, pale strands glimmer in the hearthlight.
Silver-white.
Targaryen hair.
Your son whimpers, squirming, but Aegon cups the back of his head almost tenderly, forcing the hair to part and reveal the crown of pale locks that had been so carefully hidden all these years.
"There," Aegon breathes, his tone triumphant, almost reverent. "Did you truly think you could conceal this from me? That dragon's blood could be buried beneath a peasant's dye?"
Your heart pounds so violently it hurts. "Please, Your Grace," you choke out, tears stinging your eyes. "He is only a child. He knows nothing of crowns, of dragons, of you. I beg you—leave him with me. He is safe here!"
"Safe?" Aegon scoffs, shifting the boy higher in his arms, though his hand lingers on that shock of silver hair as if claiming it. "You would have him slop mud in the fields? Grow into some nameless farmhand? No... he was born of my blood. He will not rot here in obscurity."
Your son struggles, reaching toward you again, sobbing now. "Mama! Mama!"
"Please," you plead, struggling so violently the knight growls, tightening his grip on your arms. "He is mine. He has only ever known me. He needs me."
Aegon tilts his head at you, the boy still in his arms, his silver hair gleaming wet beneath the firelight. His smirk softens into something far more unsettling—a smile that carries no warmth.
"And he shall have you," Aegon says smoothly. "Both of you. I do not intend to separate mother from son. You will come with me. You will stand at my side as my wife—my second wife. He will be named my heir, the future King. Your place will be secured beyond anything you ever dreamed in this hovel."
The words strike like a blade to your gut. For a moment, you can only stare, trembling, your mind reeling. Wife? Heir? As if your life, your family, your marriage meant nothing.
The door creaks suddenly behind Aegon, and your heart lurches. Your husband's voice calls, startled, wary:
"(Y/N)? What's happened—?"
Your husband steps into the doorway, carrying one of the younger children in his arms while the other clings to his trouser leg. He freezes at the sight: the knights, the king himself holding your eldest, and you restrained.
"What in the gods' names—"
"Quiet," Aegon says lazily, without even turning. He rocks your son lightly against his shoulder as though soothing him. "Ah, so here is the... farmer. And the others." His eyes flick over your two younger children, lingering in calculation.
"No..." you whisper, horror dawning. "Please, Your Grace, do not involve them."
Aegon finally faces your husband, his expression all regal severity now. "You are fortunate, peasant. Fortunate that your wife once warmed my bed, fortunate that her blood produced my son. For that reason alone, you live."
Your husband's jaw tightens. He shifts your youngest behind him, voice taut. "Put the boy down. You have no right—"
"I have every right," Aegon snaps, his tone hardening like steel. "He carries my blood. He is mine."
He takes a slow step forward, eyes narrowing. "And hear me well. If she and the boy do not come with me—if they dare defy me—then I will see your little brood dashed against these very walls, and you gutted beside them." His words drip with a cruel calmness, as if he were discussing the weather.
"No!" you cry out, your voice breaking. "Please, please, Your Grace—" You fall to your knees despite the knight's grip, begging, trembling so violently you can hardly speak. "Spare them. They are innocent. Do what you will with me, but please... do not harm them."
Your son clings tighter to Aegon's neck, sobbing, his small voice muffled. "Mama, no... I want Mama..."
Aegon lowers his gaze to the child, then lifts his chin toward you again. "Then choose. Now. Come willingly with me as wife and mother of the heir to the Iron Throne... or watch your little family bleed."
The room is silent but for your son's cries and the crackle of the hearth, the weight of your choice pressing down like a sword at your throat.
Your chest heaves with sobs as your husband stands frozen in the doorway, clutching the two younger children to him, his face carved in horror and fury. The knight restraining you yanks you upright, but you barely feel it. Aegon's words coil like iron chains around your neck.
You look at your son—your baby boy—his pale hair glinting where the water washed it clean, his little hands gripping Aegon's collar as he cries for you. Then you look at your husband, at the children clinging to his legs, their faces pale with fear.
The choice is no choice at all.
"I will go," you whisper, your voice cracking. You force the words louder, so Aegon hears them clearly. "I will go with you. Just... leave them unharmed."
Aegon's smile blooms slow and satisfied. "Wise," he murmurs, tightening his hold on the boy. "Very wise."
You sag against the knight's grip, defeated, your husband's anguished cry filling your ears as Aegon turns toward the door.
"No! You cannot take her—"
"Enough!" Aegon roars, his voice like thunder, silencing the cottage. He glances over his shoulder at your husband with a look sharp enough to wound. "She has chosen. And I have decreed it. Pray to whatever gods you keep that I do not reconsider your family's fate."
Your husband trembles, rage and helplessness warring on his face. He doesn't move as Aegon sweeps out of the house with your son, the knight dragging you in his wake. You dare one last look back, committing their faces to memory—their tears, their confusion, your husband's shattered expression—before the door slams shut and the world you knew is gone.
⸻
The journey to the castle is a blur of hooves and rattling wheels, your son's quiet hiccupping sobs filling the carriage. You keep a hand on his back, whispering reassurances you don't believe yourself. Aegon watches the two of you with a calm satisfaction, as though he has already won some long, silent war.
By the time the towering walls of the Red Keep rise before you, dread has curdled into numbness.
Servants descend upon you the moment you arrive. Your son is whisked away from your arms despite his wails of protest, while you are taken in another direction. Women chatter briskly as they peel away your roughspun dress, guiding you into steaming baths perfumed with rose oil. Your hair is combed and braided, the dirt of farm life scrubbed from your skin until you feel raw. Fine silks, softer than anything you have ever touched, are draped over your shoulders. Jewels are placed upon your neck and wrists, heavy shackles disguised as finery.
When at last they permit you to look in the mirror, a stranger gazes back. A noblewoman. A queen's shadow.
Your son is returned to you hours later, equally transformed—his hair gleaming pale and unbound, dressed in rich velvets of deep crimson and black. He clings to you, frightened, whispering that he wants to go home. You press him to your breast, heart breaking, even as the chamber doors open and Aegon strides in, his eyes roaming over the two of you with fierce satisfaction.
"There," he says, spreading his arms as though admiring his prize. "A dragon restored to its rightful place. My son... my heir. And his mother—my bride."
_____
Life in the Red Keep began not with ceremony, but with suffocation.
The very next morning, you were awakened before dawn by handmaidens, bustling about with silks and combs and trays of food. Your son stirred beside you in the great bed, his small frame dwarfed by the carved posts and velvet coverlets. His pale hair, now scrubbed and free of dye, gleamed like molten silver in the candlelight. They bowed to him—bowed—as though he were no mere child but already a king.
By midday, the court was summoned to the throne room. You were not permitted to speak, only to stand by the great pillars as Aegon carried your boy to the Iron Throne. His voice rang out over the gathered lords and ladies, announcing that the gods had not left him childless after all. Murmurs rippled through the hall like a rising tide—shock, disbelief, a flicker of hope in some, scorn in others.
"And here," Aegon declared, one hand gripping your son's shoulder firmly, "is the blood of the dragon, hidden from me too long. But no longer. My son. My heir."
The boy looked to you, eyes wide and wet with confusion, but you forced a smile, nodding, your heart pounding as the courtiers dropped into bows and curtsies.
⸻
When the doors finally closed and the court dispersed, the charade ended. Your son clung to you, burying his face against your skirts. You stroked his hair, whispering soothing words, but your eyes were fixed on Aegon as he approached.
"You see how they bent the knee?" he said quietly, satisfaction thick in his tone. He poured himself a goblet of wine, lounging back as if he had not just shaken the realm. "The moment they saw his hair, his face... there was no doubt. He will never be a bastard in their eyes, not while I draw breath."
You tightened your grip around your boy, your voice low, trembling. "He is only a child. He does not understand what you ask of him. He wants only his home, his family—"
Aegon's gaze sharpened, his smile fading. "This is his home now. And his family," he said pointedly, "is here." He gestured between the three of you, as though that settled everything.
Your son whimpered, whispering, "Mama, I want to go back..."
The words cut you like knives. You crouched, taking his face in your hands, kissing his brow. "Hush, my love. I am here. Always here."
But when you rose, Aegon was watching you with a look that made your stomach twist—a look that was both possessive and hungry.
"You'll adjust," he said smoothly, stepping closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear. "You and he both. The silks will feel less heavy, the halls less cold. And in time..." His fingers brushed the back of your hand, lingering too long, his eyes burning into yours. "In time, you'll learn to stop looking at me as though I've stolen you. You'll learn to be grateful."
You jerked your hand back, but he only chuckled, swirling his wine.
"Defiance becomes you," he murmured. "But do not forget—I keep your husband and brats breathing only because you are here. Should you test me, that gift can be taken."
The threat lingers in the air like smoke. You feel your knees weaken, but you force yourself to stay upright, to meet his gaze with quiet fury.
Later that night, when you are finally alone in your chambers with your son asleep beside you, you allow yourself to break. You bury your face in the pillows, muffling your sobs so he cannot hear. Because Aegon was right about one thing: you were trapped. The cage was gilded, the chains lined with velvet, but they were chains all the same.
And you swore, in the hollow of your chest, that no matter what he did to you, you would find a way to keep your son safe.
