#hord

The wind bites at your face as the ship draws closer to the towering spire of the Hightower. You shiver slightly, though not from the cold. Oldtown is a world away from the Red Keep, and though you’ve heard much of its grandeur and history, the thought of calling this place home sits uneasily within you. Yet, the unease is nothing compared to the aching emptiness left by your separation from Aegon.

Your twin. Your other half. His tear-streaked face is burned into your mind, his voice—trembling and desperate—echoes in your ears. "Please, don’t leave me," he had cried, clinging to you with a desperation that had nearly broken your resolve. His arms wrapped around you so tightly that it felt like he was trying to fuse your very souls together, as if by sheer force of will he could keep you by his side.

But your mother had intervened. Alicent’s voice had been cold and firm, like steel wrapped in velvet, her eyes flashing with something you couldn't quite place as she pried Aegon’s arms from around your neck. "Do not make a scene, Aegon," she had hissed, her grip on him as unyielding as her will. And then, with one last pained look, you had been pulled away, ushered towards the ship that would take you to Oldtown, to the Hightower. To your new life.

Even now, as you stand on the deck, the memory haunts you. Aegon, your other half, left behind in the Red Keep, with no one who truly understands him. The thought that you are the only one who ever did brings you little comfort, for what use is understanding when you are not there to provide it? 

You glance down at Daeron, your little brother, standing beside you. His wide eyes are filled with awe, and a hint of fear as he stares at the looming city before him. He is too young to understand the full weight of what has been done, but you see the uncertainty in the way he clutches at your hand. You squeeze his hand in return, offering what little comfort you can, though the gesture feels hollow. 

The ship finally docks, and the crew is quick to lower the gangplank. As you descend, you are met by a small party of retainers, dressed in the colors of House Hightower. At their head stands Gwayne Hightower, your uncle, and eldest son of Otto Hightower, your grandsire. His presence is commanding, yet there is a warmth in his gaze that eases some of the tension coiled within you.

“Welcome to Oldtown,” Gwayne greets, his voice smooth and gentle, with a hint of the formality you’ve come to expect from a Hightower. He bows his head to you first, acknowledging your status, before turning to Daeron with a softer expression. “Prince Daeron, it is an honor to have you here.”

Daeron blinks up at Gwayne, unsure of what to say, but Gwayne’s easy smile seems to relax him. “Thank you, Ser Gwayne,” Daeron finally replies, his voice small but polite.

“And you, Princess Y/N,” Gwayne turns his full attention to you, his grey eyes meeting yours with a curiosity that is hard to miss. “It has been many years since we last met, but I can see the blood of the dragon runs strong in you. You have grown into a fine lady.”

You offer him a nod, not trusting yourself to speak just yet. His words are kind, but you see the caution in his gaze. You are a stranger to him, a puzzle to be unraveled. And in this moment, you feel more alone than ever. Yet, there is something in Gwayne's demeanor that draws you in—an undercurrent of understanding, as if he too knows what it is to be caught between duty and desire.

“We have prepared quarters for you both within the Hightower,” Gwayne continues, gesturing to the towering structure behind him. “Your retainers will find all the accommodations they require as well. If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to ask.”

You incline your head in thanks, finally finding your voice. “Thank you, Ser Gwayne. Your hospitality is appreciated.”

As you follow Gwayne through the streets of Oldtown, Daeron trailing close behind, you cannot help but marvel at the city around you. It is a place of ancient history, where every stone seems to hum with the weight of the ages. The Citadel looms in the distance, a symbol of knowledge and power, while the Starry Sept stands as a beacon of faith. Yet, despite the grandeur, you find no comfort here. This is not your home. And though Gwayne’s presence is steady and kind, you know it will be some time before you can truly trust him, or anyone else here.

When you finally reach the Hightower, you are led through its winding corridors to your chambers. They are lavishly appointed, far more luxurious than anything you expected, but the opulence feels cold, impersonal. You cannot help but think of the warmth of the Red Keep, of the fire-lit chambers where you and Aegon would hide away from the world, finding solace in each other’s company.

Once you and Daeron are settled, Gwayne excuses himself, leaving you alone with your brother. Daeron, still so young, looks to you for guidance, for reassurance. And though you ache to give it to him, you feel the weight of your own uncertainty pressing down on you.

“Do you think we’ll be happy here?” Daeron asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look down at him, his innocent face so full of hope, and force a smile. “We’ll make the best of it,” you reply, your voice steady despite the turmoil within. “We have each other, and that is what matters.”

He nods, seemingly satisfied with your answer, and you pull him into a hug. But as you hold him close, you cannot shake the feeling that something has been irreparably broken. You are no longer whole, no longer tethered to the one person who understood you completely. And as you close your eyes, you wonder if you will ever feel at home again.

As the night falls and the Hightower grows quiet, you sit by the window, staring out at the city below. Somewhere out there, in the vastness of this world, is Aegon, your twin, your other half. You hope he is safe, hope he knows that you did not want to leave him. But hope feels fragile in the face of the reality you now face. 

In the distance, the Starry Sept’s bells toll, their mournful sound carrying on the wind. You wonder if Aegon can hear them too, wherever he is. You wonder if he is thinking of you, as you are thinking of him.

And as you drift into an uneasy sleep, you cling to the memory of his tears, of his desperate pleas. For they are all you have left of him now, and you fear that, without them, you may forget what it feels like to be whole.

The days in Oldtown have blurred into a monotonous routine, a far cry from the vibrant, if chaotic, life you once knew in the Red Keep. The city, with all its ancient grandeur, has become a gilded cage, and you find yourself suffocated by the very walls meant to protect you. Daeron, though still young, has adapted better than you expected, throwing himself into his lessons with the maesters. You, however, remain adrift, seeking solace in the only companionship that has begun to mean anything in this new life—Gwayne Hightower.

From the moment you arrived, Gwayne has been a constant presence, hovering at the edges of your life in Oldtown. At first, you found his attentions burdensome, a reminder of your exile from King's Landing. But over time, the sharp edges of your resentment dulled, replaced by a begrudging acceptance of his company. Now, months after your arrival, Gwayne’s presence has become something you not only expect but anticipate. His arrogance, his teasing remarks—they no longer irritate you as they once did. Instead, they have become a strange kind of comfort, a link to a life that feels farther away with each passing day.

On this particular afternoon, you find yourself in one of the Hightower’s many courtyards, the sun hanging low in the sky. The air is cool, the first signs of autumn creeping in. You sit on a stone bench, watching as the shadows stretch long and thin across the cobblestones. Gwayne is beside you, his usual smirk in place, though his eyes are softer than usual.

“You know,” he begins, his voice light with mockery, “I never thought Oldtown would see the day a dragon would be caged within its walls.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Caged? You speak as if I’m some kind of beast, Gwayne.”

“Aren’t you?” he retorts, though there’s no malice in his tone. “You have the blood of the dragon in you, after all. And from what I hear, more of Daemon’s fire than Viserys’s... whatever it is he has.” He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “That’s why they sent you here, isn’t it? To keep you away from your dear twin. To keep you from burning down the world.”

You bristle at his words, even as a part of you knows there is truth in them. “And what would you know of such things?” you snap back, though there’s little heat behind it. “You Hightowers are always so certain of yourselves, always so sure of your place in the world.”

Gwayne laughs, a low, rich sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “We are sure of our place because we make it so. That is what my father taught me. But you… you are different, aren’t you? You don’t fit neatly into anyone’s plans, not even your own.”

His words sting because they cut too close to the bone. You are different, an anomaly in your own family. Not quite the dutiful daughter Alicent hoped for, nor the rebellious one like Daemon that Viserys once admired, you have always straddled a line that leaves you belonging nowhere. And here, in Oldtown, that difference is magnified, a glaring fault line that Gwayne seems all too eager to point out.

But today, something is different. The way Gwayne looks at you, the way his voice lingers on your name—it’s all sharper, more intense. He’s leaning in closer, the space between you shrinking with each passing moment, until you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. The tension between you crackles like lightning before a storm, dangerous and thrilling.

“Why do you do that?” you ask suddenly, your voice softer than you intended. “Why do you always bring up my uncle? Why do you always remind me of why I’m here?”

Gwayne’s smirk falters, just for a moment, before he straightens up, the teasing mask slipping back into place. “Because it’s the truth, and I’ve found that you prefer truth over the pretty lies most would tell you.”

You can’t argue with that, but it doesn’t ease the knot in your chest. “It’s a bitter truth,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

“Perhaps,” he agrees, his tone shifting, becoming more serious. “But it’s the truth nonetheless. You are fire, my lady. Wild and untamed, just like Daemon. And it scares them—all of them. My father, your mother, the king… they don’t know what to do with you.”

“And you?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “Do I scare you, Gwayne?”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for the first time, there’s no arrogance in his gaze, no teasing light in his eyes. “Yes,” he says quietly. “But I find that I’m drawn to the flame, even knowing I might get burned.”

The admission hangs between you, heavy and charged. The world seems to narrow down to this moment, to the space between you and Gwayne, a space that feels both too vast and too close. You can see the conflict in his eyes, the way he fights against something he doesn’t fully understand. But then, so do you.

“I should go,” you say, the words an echo of what you think you should say, but not what you want. 

Gwayne’s hand reaches out before you can move, his fingers curling around your wrist with a gentle pressure. It’s a small touch, but it ignites something within you, a spark that quickly flares into a dangerous blaze. His touch feels like the first real thing you’ve felt since you left King’s Landing, since you left Aegon behind. 

“Stay,” he says, his voice a soft command, a plea wrapped in steel. “Just for a little while longer.”

You know you shouldn’t. You know this is wrong, forbidden, and dangerous. The Seven would condemn it, your family would disown you, and yet... there’s a part of you that doesn’t care. A part of you that craves this, that wants to feel alive again, even if it means stepping into the flames. 

Your heart pounds in your chest as you look into Gwayne’s eyes, seeing the same conflict mirrored in his gaze. And then, slowly, you nod. 

He pulls you closer, his hand moving from your wrist to your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that makes your breath hitch. For a moment, neither of you moves, the world suspended in a fragile balance. And then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Gwayne leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a tentative kiss.

The contact is electric, sending shockwaves through your body, waking something within you that has been dormant for too long. You respond without thinking, without caring, your hands moving to his shoulders as you press closer to him. The kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more desperate, as if you are both trying to fill the void that has been gnawing at you for months.

When you finally pull back, breathless and trembling, Gwayne’s eyes are dark with something you’ve never seen before. “This… this is madness,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion.

“Madness,” you echo, your own voice shaking. “But it’s the only thing that feels real.”

For a moment, you both just sit there, the weight of what you’ve done pressing down on you. You should feel guilt, shame, regret—but all you feel is a strange kind of relief, as if a burden you didn’t know you were carrying has been lifted.

Gwayne’s hand still rests on your cheek, and he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his touch lingering. “We can’t do this,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his words, no real intent to stop.

“I know,” you reply, though you don’t mean it. You both know the truth—you will do this again, and again, until you’ve burned through all the self-control you have left. It’s inevitable, like the pull of the moon on the tide.

But for now, you just sit there, in the fading light of the courtyard, your hands still intertwined, the air between you charged with a promise of something more. Something dangerous, something forbidden, but something that, for the first time in months, makes you feel alive.

It's a night that feels suspended in time, where the old gods and new alike seem to hold their breath, watching, waiting.

You stand beside Gwayne, your heart pounding in your chest, each beat a thunderous drum in the stillness of the room. The decision to marry in secret, away from the eyes of the court and the judgment of the realm, was one made in the quiet moments between stolen kisses and whispered confessions. It was born out of a love that neither of you could deny, a love that defied the rules of blood and duty, a love that could only be sealed in the shadows.

The septon who stands before you is not one from the grand Starry Sept of Oldtown. He is an ostracized man, a septon fallen from grace, his robes frayed and worn, his face lined with the scars of a hard life. But his eyes are sharp, and there is a solemnity in his bearing that speaks of a deep connection to the gods, both old and new. It is this man that Gwayne sought out, a man who would not only marry you in secret but who would bless this union under the eyes of both the Seven and the Valyrian gods—an acknowledgment of the blood that flows in your veins, the fire that binds you to your ancestors.

The chamber is small, tucked away in the bowels of the Hightower, a place known only to a few trusted souls. The only witnesses to this union are the flickering candles and the ancient stone walls that have stood through centuries of history. And here, in this hidden place, you are about to make a vow that will bind you to Gwayne for eternity.

Gwayne turns to you, his eyes soft and filled with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. The man who once teased you with sharp words and arrogant smirks now looks at you with a love so profound it feels like it could consume you both. He reaches out, taking your hands in his, his grip firm and warm. The callouses on his palms are a testament to his life as a warrior, but the way he holds you is gentle, reverent.

"My love," Gwayne begins, his voice steady but thick with emotion, "before the eyes of the Seven, and in the presence of the Valyrian gods, I take you as my wife. You are my fire, my light, my salvation. In you, I have found not just love, but a purpose, a reason to be. I vow to protect you, to cherish you, to stand by your side, no matter what trials we may face. From this day until my last, you are mine, and I am yours."

His words send a shiver through you, the weight of his vow settling deep in your heart. You can feel the truth of them, the way they resonate with the very core of who you are. When you speak, your voice is soft but unwavering, carrying with it the depth of your own love and conviction.

"Gwayne," you begin, your eyes locking with his, "you are my heart, my strength, my true companion. In a world that seeks to tear us apart, you are the one who has always stood by me, who has seen me for who I truly am, and loved me all the same. I vow to stand with you, to fight for us, to love you with all that I am. We may walk a dangerous path, but I choose it willingly, because I choose you. Now and always, I am yours, and you are mine."

The septon steps forward, his voice low and gravelly as he intones the ancient rites. "Before the eyes of the gods, both new and old, I bless this union. By the light of the Seven and the fire of Old Valyria, may your love be eternal, may your bond be unbreakable. What is done here in secret, let it be known in the hearts of those who bear witness."

He raises a small vial, pouring the contents—a mixture of oil and salt—into a shallow basin. The scent of it fills the room, sharp and cleansing. He dips his fingers into the mixture and anoints your foreheads, first Gwayne’s and then yours, marking you with the symbols of both faiths. The coolness of the oil against your skin is grounding, a reminder of the gravity of this moment.

"By the authority granted to me by the gods," the septon continues, his voice carrying the weight of the ages, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You are bound by blood, by love, and by the will of the gods. Go forth as one, in strength and in unity."

Gwayne pulls you to him then, his hands cradling your face as he kisses you deeply, passionately, in a way that speaks of all the love he has kept hidden from the world. The kiss is a sealing of your vows, a promise made flesh. You melt into him, your hands gripping his tunic as you pour every ounce of your heart into that kiss, into this moment that is yours and his alone.

When you finally part, both of you are breathless, your foreheads resting together as you share the silence of the moment, the weight of what you’ve just done pressing down on you. There is a quiet reverence in the room, a sense that something sacred has just taken place, even if it is a secret that must be kept from the world.

Gwayne doesn’t release you, his hands still holding you close as if he’s afraid to let go, as if by doing so, this moment will shatter. His eyes search yours, and what he finds there makes him smile, a rare, genuine smile that softens the edges of his features. “You are mine now,” he whispers, a note of wonder in his voice. “And I am yours.”

“Always,” you whisper back, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “No matter what comes.”

The septon quietly gathers his things, his presence now a shadow in the background, but before he leaves, he pauses at the door, looking back at you both. “May the gods watch over you,” he says softly, and there’s a hint of sadness in his voice, as if he knows the dangers that lie ahead for two who dare to love in defiance of the world.

And then, he’s gone, leaving you and Gwayne alone in the dimly lit chamber, the only witnesses to your union now the flickering flames and the silent walls. 

Gwayne takes your hand, leading you to a low table where a small feast has been laid out, simple but thoughtful. The food and drink are symbols of the life you will now share, a life that must remain hidden in the shadows, but one that is no less real for it.

You sit together, the silence between you comfortable, each of you lost in your own thoughts. When Gwayne finally speaks, his voice is quiet, but there’s a fierceness to it that makes you look up.

“We will find a way, my love,” he says, his hand reaching out to cover yours. “No matter what, we will find a way to be together.”

You nod, squeezing his hand in return, your heart swelling with love for this man who has become your everything. “Yes,” you agree, your voice filled with the same determination. “We will.”

The night stretches on, and eventually, Gwayne rises, pulling you into his arms once more. He leads you to the bed that has been prepared, and as you lie down together, the weight of the world seems to fade away, leaving only the two of you, bound together by vows spoken in secret but no less sacred.

In the quiet darkness, Gwayne’s fingers trace the outline of your face, his touch tender and full of love. “Sleep, my wife,” he murmurs, his voice a balm to your soul. “For tomorrow, we begin the rest of our lives.”

You close your eyes, your head resting against his chest, the steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm that lulls you into sleep. And as you drift off, you know that no matter what the world might say, no matter what the future holds, you and Gwayne are bound together by something far stronger than duty or blood. You are bound by love, a love that defies the gods and the world alike.

And that, you think as sleep finally takes you, is all that matters.

The night outside the Red Keep is eerily still, as if the very air is holding its breath, waiting for something momentous to happen. Inside the queen’s chambers, the atmosphere is equally tense. Alicent Hightower sits at her desk, a single candle flickering beside her, casting shadows on the stone walls. Her hands tremble slightly as she unfolds the letter she has just received, the familiar sigil of House Hightower stamped in red wax at the seal. She has been waiting for this letter, though she dreads what it might contain.

Otto Hightower stands nearby, his hands clasped behind his back, his face an impassive mask. His eyes, however, are sharp, watching his daughter closely as she reads. The silence in the room is oppressive, broken only by the soft rustling of the parchment as Alicent’s eyes scan the contents.

As she reaches the end of the letter, her face pales, and her breath hitches. Slowly, as if the action costs her all the strength she has left, she lowers the letter to the desk. Her hand lingers on it for a moment before she crumples it in her fist, the delicate paper crinkling loudly in the quiet room.

“What does it say?” Otto asks, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

Alicent doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stares down at the crushed letter in her hand, as if by squeezing it tightly enough, she could somehow undo the words it contains. But no amount of denial can erase what she has read. Finally, she raises her eyes to meet her father’s gaze, and the look she gives him is one of profound unease.

“He’s coming to King’s Landing,” she says, her voice low and strained. “Gwayne. With… his family.”

Otto’s brows knit together slightly, though his expression remains carefully controlled. “His family?” he echoes, the words heavy with unspoken questions.

Alicent swallows hard, a sense of dread settling deep in her gut. “Yes,” she whispers, her mind racing as she considers the implications. The rumors she has heard, the whispers that have reached her ears in recent months, suddenly take on a new and terrifying significance.

She looks back at her father, her voice trembling as she asks, “Have you heard the whispers, Father? The rumors coming from Oldtown… about bastards walking the halls of the Hightower? Children with silver hair and purple eyes?”

Otto’s gaze narrows, a flicker of something—concern, perhaps—passing through his eyes before he schools his features once more. “Rumors, nothing more,” he replies, though there is a carefulness to his tone now. “Gwayne married a noble lady, a match arranged by our family in Oldtown. It was a quiet affair, nothing that would draw too much attention. The children you speak of are likely theirs, legitimate, though the Hightowers have chosen to keep their names and details discreet, to avoid unnecessary scrutiny.”

Alicent’s heart hammers in her chest, the dread in her stomach deepening into something closer to panic. She stands abruptly, pacing the length of her chamber as she tries to make sense of the situation. The image of those children—silver-haired, violet-eyed—flashes in her mind, and with it, a terrible realization begins to take root.

“The only woman who could give birth to children with those features,” she says slowly, her voice thick with fear, “is a Targaryen. A woman with the blood of Old Valyria. And the only one who has been close enough to Gwayne… is her. My daughter.”

Otto remains silent, his eyes following his daughter as she paces. He understands the gravity of her words, the implications of what she is suggesting. But he is also a man who has spent his life navigating the treacherous waters of court politics, and he knows better than to give in to panic.

“Alicent,” he begins, his voice firm but not unkind, “we do not know for certain. These are only rumors, whispers in the dark meant to sow discord. We cannot act on mere speculation.”

But Alicent is not so easily reassured. She stops in her tracks, turning to face him with a look of desperation. “And what if the rumors are true? What if she has given Gwayne children? What if those children come to King’s Landing with him? What then?”

Otto exhales slowly, his mind already working through the possible scenarios. “If the children are indeed of Targaryen blood,” he says carefully, “then we must ensure they are seen as legitimate. We must present them as the offspring of Gwayne’s marriage, no matter the truth. If they bear the look of Valyria, it will only serve to strengthen their claim as trueborn heirs of House Hightower.”

Alicent shakes her head, the fear in her eyes now mingled with a deep, gnawing guilt. “But what of her, Father? What of my daughter? If it becomes known that she has married her own uncle, that she has borne his children… it will be seen as a scandal, a sin in the eyes of the Seven.”

Otto moves toward her then, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “We will deal with it as we must,” he says, his voice resolute. “We have always been able to navigate the complexities of power, and this will be no different. But for now, we must be calm. We must wait and see what Gwayne brings with him to King’s Landing. If the whispers are true, we will control the narrative. We will ensure that whatever happens, our family remains strong, untarnished by scandal.”

But Alicent can’t shake the image of her daughter, the girl she sent away so many years ago, now grown into a woman whose life has taken a path she never anticipated. A path that has led her back to the very heart of the storm that Alicent herself helped create.

As she looks into her father’s eyes, she sees the determination there, the cold pragmatism that has always defined him. And she knows that whatever happens, Otto Hightower will do whatever is necessary to protect their family’s legacy. But as for her… Alicent is no longer sure where the line between duty and love lies. And the thought of what might come to light when Gwayne arrives sends a fresh wave of dread coursing through her.

Because deep down, Alicent knows that the rumors are more than just whispers. They are the truth, a truth she has tried so hard to deny. And that truth is coming to King’s Landing, wrapped in the guise of her brother’s family—a family that should never have existed, yet one that now threatens to unravel everything she has fought to preserve.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm golden light over the sprawling courtyard of the Red Keep. The air is heavy with anticipation, the kind that prickles at the back of your neck and settles uneasily in your stomach. Dowager Queen Alicent stands with her father, Otto Hightower, at her side, their eyes fixed on the great gates that lead into the heart of King’s Landing. Today, Gwayne Hightower returns to the capital, and with him, the secrets that have festered in the shadows of Oldtown.

As the gates creak open, the first thing Alicent notices is the Hightower banners, fluttering proudly in the breeze. A small company of knights and retainers rides in, their armor gleaming in the late afternoon sun, followed by a carriage flanked by more soldiers. But it is the figure on horseback at the head of the procession that draws her attention, making her heart skip a beat.

Gwayne Hightower rides in with all the confidence of a man who has nothing to hide, his expression calm, almost defiant. But it is not just his presence that sends a chill down Alicent’s spine—it is the woman who rides beside him. Her daughter, the princess she sent away so many years ago, now a grown woman with the unmistakable look of her Valyrian heritage. Her silver hair, cascading down her back in loose waves, catches the light, and her purple eyes, sharp and discerning, seem to pierce through the crowd.

But it is not just her presence that shocks Alicent and Otto—it is the way she and Gwayne sit side by side, unashamed and unafraid, as if daring anyone to question their union. Behind them, four children trail on smaller horses, their features a striking mix of Hightower and Targaryen—silver hair, purple eyes, and faces that mirror the legacy of both bloodlines.

Alicent’s heart sinks. The whispers, the rumors, they are all true. Her worst fears have materialized before her very eyes. She can barely breathe as she steps forward with Otto, her voice trembling with barely contained fury.

“Gwayne… what have you done?” Alicent’s voice is sharp, almost a hiss, as she locks eyes with her brother. “How could you be so reckless? So shameless?”

Otto steps forward as well, his usually composed demeanor now laced with anger. “This… this is an abomination,” he declares, his voice low but filled with authority. “You bring shame to our house, Gwayne. And you—” he turns to his granddaughter, his voice tightening—“you have brought dishonor to your name and to the memory of your father.”

But before either of them can say more, there is a sudden movement, a blur of silver and gold as someone rushes past them. Alicent barely has time to process what is happening before Aegon, now king and clad in his royal finery, sweeps forward. His face lights up with pure joy as he closes the distance between himself and his sister.

“Sister!” Aegon exclaims, his voice filled with delight. Without a second thought, he pulls her into a tight embrace, laughing as he buries his face in her hair. “Gods, I’ve missed you.”

You return the embrace just as fiercely, the years of separation melting away in an instant. Aegon’s warmth, his familiar scent, it all feels like home, like a piece of your heart has been returned to you. When he finally pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his eyes scanning your face as if to reassure himself that you are truly there.

Aegon then turns his attention to the four children standing quietly behind you and Gwayne, their wide eyes watching the scene with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. His face softens as he approaches them, kneeling down to their level.

“And who are these fine young dragons?” Aegon asks, his voice gentle as he ruffles the hair of the eldest boy, who looks so much like his mother.

“They’re my children,” you say softly, pride evident in your voice. “Your nephews and nieces.”

Aegon grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief and affection. “I see they take after you, sister. They have the look of Targaryens—strong, bold.” He then looks up at Gwayne, his smile never wavering. “You’ve done well, Uncle.”

Gwayne inclines his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Alicent’s face drains of color as she watches the scene unfold, her worst fears confirmed. She steps forward, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Aegon… did you know about this?” Her eyes bore into her son, searching for any sign of deceit.

Aegon straightens up, turning to face his mother with an expression of calm amusement. “Of course, Mother. Did you truly think my sister and I would not stay in contact? We’ve always been close. She wrote to me often from Oldtown. I knew everything.”

Alicent’s hands shake, her nails digging into her palms as she struggles to contain her emotions. “And you… you approve of this? Of this union?” Her voice breaks on the last word, the full weight of what has happened crashing down on her.

Aegon’s smile only widens, a hint of defiance in his eyes. “Approve? I rejoice in it. They’ve done nothing wrong. They’ve followed their hearts, and that’s more than most in this wretched world can claim.”

Otto’s face is a mask of stone, but his eyes burn with anger and frustration as he steps forward. “This is not just about following one’s heart, Aegon. This is about the sanctity of the family, of the realm. A marriage like this… it will bring scandal, division. It goes against everything we’ve worked to build.”

But Aegon only laughs, a sound that echoes in the tense courtyard. “What scandal? The Seven Kingdoms are mine, and I will decide what is scandal and what is not. My sister and Gwayne are married, and their children are legitimate in my eyes. That is all that matters.”

He turns back to you and Gwayne, his expression softening once more. “Come,” he says, extending his hand to you. “Let us go inside. You’ve been away from home too long.”

Without waiting for a response, Aegon takes your hand and leads you toward the entrance of the Red Keep, Gwayne and the children following closely behind. The knights and retainers part to let you pass, their faces a mixture of shock, confusion, and respect. As you walk, you feel the weight of your family’s judgment pressing down on you, but with Aegon at your side, you feel an unshakeable sense of confidence.

Alicent and Otto remain rooted in place, watching as you and your family disappear into the castle. Alicent’s face is ashen, her eyes wide with disbelief and horror. She opens her mouth to say something, to call out to her son, but no words come. The truth of what has happened, the reality of the situation, is too overwhelming.

As the doors to the Red Keep close behind you, you can feel the walls of the castle seem to close in, suffocating in their familiar embrace. But there is also a strange sense of liberation, of triumph, in walking beside Gwayne, your husband, with your children in tow, and the support of the king himself.