Chapter Text
"What you did was foolish."
He and his siblings are gathered in their quarters at Driftmark, their mother pacing about restlessly. Aemond's face is swollen and crusted with blood from where his eye has been sewn shut by the maester. His grandfather's eyes follow his mother as she strides across the room, the skin around her fingernails picked bloody.
His mother had attacked Rhaenyra, stolen the blade from his father's belt and cut his sister with it in front of everyone. An action taken in a moment of heated anger that will forever linger in the minds of all who watched it transpire. Her fear and anger at Aemond being maimed has now been twisted, gnarled, turning back on itself. Aemond's mouth wobbles pitifully, though he doesn't look up at their mother as she approaches.
"You did not need to go near that beast," she spits, furious. "You have cost yourself dearly."
It is worth it, Aegon knows. Aemond would have done much more for a dragon, especially one as formidable as Vhagar. It's a mercy that all he lost was his eye.
Slowly, he reaches for a flagon of wine to pour himself a cup, but the movement draws his mother's attention; her eyes snap to him, and he sees within her face a flash of rage. "And you," she snaps, her mouth contorting into a miserable frown as she approaches him. Her face is still shiny with dried tears. "You were supposed to watch and protect your brother, but you were too busy drowning in your cups."
He shrinks back from her, nursing his cup close to his chest. "I did not know—"
"It does not matter!" she hisses, eyes wide. "You are my eldest son, Aegon—the King's eldest son." The implication is enough, though she does not speak it. "You have a duty to protect this family. You will need responsibility for when you—" She stops herself with a huff of anger, but he knows what she will not say aloud. It hangs over his head like a cloud, a charge he has never wanted. His sister is the heir, but his mother endlessly insists that it should be him.
You are the challenge, Aegon.
Bitterly, he swallows what he wishes to say, but not well enough. It rears up—ugly, resentful. The words tumble from his mouth before he can stop them. "It's not like I'll ever be king," he spits beneath his breath, bringing the cup to his lips; his mother raises her hand, smacking the cup from his grip and sending it clattering to the flagstones below. Aegon flinches, raising his arms toward his face to defend himself.
"Alicent," his grandsire says lowly, a warning. His mother's rage peters out, replaced instead by silent grief—for Aemond's eye, for Aegon's insolence, or her reputation, he isn't sure which.
"Leave us," his mother says, raising her hand to her forehead. "We will return to King's Landing on the morrow."
Aegon steps over the pool of spilled wine on the floor, shepherding Aemond and Helaena out of the room and toward their guest rooms. Once he has seen them both to bed he heads back to his own room to sleep. While on the way he spots Rhaenyra speaking with Corlys. She quiets when she spots him, her expression blank but her eyes guarded. Her mouth is a hard line, and she cradles her wounded arm a little closer to herself. When she looks away he hurries off to his room, feeling disquieted by the lingering phantom of her stare.
As he settles down to sleep, the edges of his vision still fuzzy from wine, he recounts the events of the day—the funeral, being wrenched from bed when Aemond had been injured, his mother's righteous fury as she knocked his cup to the floor. Shame and anger burn beneath his cheeks, and he turns onto his side, willing his mind to quieten so he can sink off to the peaceful oblivion of sleep.
After much difficulty, he finally feels sleep tugging at the fringes of his mind, unraveling it like a thread being fed into a loom.
Aegon does not dream much, but tonight he dreams.
He is in Flea Bottom.
Aegon paces restlessly in the lobby of his favorite pleasure house, already irritated that he has not been attended to. He has rules—stringent, rigid—and the proprietor knows this. He rakes his mind for the last time he was here, trying to recall which whore he'd gotten. He has favorites. Some of the newer girls are mercurial, but he likes it best when they are a little frightened by him. Vaguely, he recalls a girl with dark hair—the last he'd taken? It is difficult to remember when his memories are clouded by wine, but when possible he likes the girls to look as unlike his future wife as possible.
"Prince Aegon," a woman says, and when he turns he is no longer in Flea Bottom but instead in the Dragonpit. A whore stands with him, her back turned—not the dark-haired one, but one with silvery hair, Lysene?—and she lifts her hand toward Sunfyre's nose, palm outstretched. He attempts to call out—an abortive bark that a dragon is not to be touched or played with—but the words die in his throat. She touches the golden scales, appreciative, reverent, but does not turn to him. "Sunfyre is such a beautiful dragon. Fitting for a prince such as yourself."
She has not been incinerated. Confusion clouds his mind.
When the girl at last looks over her shoulder, his mouth runs dry. Rhaenyra. His older sister regards him with an exacting eye, her expression carefully blank. A shiver runs through him—fear, perhaps. Her aura is imposing even here. "What are you doing?"
At his question, she turns fully toward him. Sunfyre seems to coil around her, protective. Rage and jealousy burn hot beneath his skin at the sight of his dragon poised as if to defend his sister. The Realm's Delight, their father's cherished daughter—more of a dragon than he has ever been. "Are you disappointed that it is me and not one of your whores?" Shame twists then, deep in his belly. "Are you afraid of me, dear brother?"
"No," he replies too quickly, his eyes wide. "Why would I be afraid of you?"
She smiles, though it lacks humor. "Has your mother not whispered in your ear about how I will kill you the moment I ascend the throne?"
The air leaves his lungs in a sudden rush, almost as if she has punched him in the stomach. He blinks at her dumbly, licking over his lips as he tries to decide just how much he should say. His mother's distaste for Rhaenyra is no secret, but it is also something unspoken.
"You can be honest with me," Rhaenyra adds, sensing his hesitation.
Guarded, he eyes Sunfyre behind her. The dragon—his dragon—looms ominously, glittering and golden. "Should I be afraid of you?"
An emotion flashes through her eyes too quickly for him to catch before she turns toward Sunfyre and gracefully climbs up into the saddle. She stretches her hand down to him, inviting. "Come. Ride with me." There's only a moment of hesitation before he grasps her hand and pulls himself up. He seats himself in front of her, grabbing the reigns of his dragon's saddle with practiced hands. As they ascend to the skies he can feel her against his back, the heat of her skin blazing through his riding leathers.
They soar over King's Landing and toward Blackwater Bay, and his heart feels light, unburdened—happy, he realizes. A laugh, unbridled and free, bubbles up from his chest, and he urges Sunfyre down toward the water. The spray of seawater and salt licks at his skin, and he closes his eyes, raising his face toward the warm sun above.
"You should not fear me," Rhaenyra says, and she is laughing, too. As Sunfyre rolls toward the sea, his sister stretches her hand out, her fingertips skirting over the water. "We are blood, you and I. Dragons. I will be your Queen one day."
He leans back against her as he pitches Sunfyre back up into the sky. "I know that."
Her mouth is at his ear, her breath fanning against his skin. "You and I were meant to be betrothed once. Did you know that?"
The world around them churns and slows suddenly, the color bleached out of the sky. Aegon's eyes go wide, and before he can turn to look at her he realizes he is now in his rooms in the Red Keep. There is a girl with him in his bed, pretty and lithe and dark-haired. She writhes beneath him, wanton and needy, as he slots himself between her legs. When he looks up Rhaenyra stands beside his bed, her hair a wild, silvery cloud. The fabric of her nightgown sticks to her skin, glossy with sweat, and he is struck for a moment by how beautiful she is.
"In another life, you could have been mine, and I yours."
There is a tenderness with which she touches him, cupping his face in her hands as if he is her world. Her thumb skirts across his cheek, repetitive, soothing. He leans into Rhaenyra's touch, his head tilting forward as he sinks into the girl beneath him; she arches up, keening, begging for his attention, but he can only look at his sister beside him. "We were to be married?" he asks, breathless. His lip quivers when she runs the pad of her thumb across it, his mouth parting when she instead runs her finger along the sharp edge of his teeth. She tilts his chin up, searching his face.
"It would have been a happy marriage. You, my Prince Consort…" An aroma reminiscent of summers in the Red Keep fills the room—heady flowers, fragrant wine, sweetmeats and pastries. "And I as your Queen."
She will kill you, he hears his mother say. She holds no love for you.
"Prince Aegon."
He looks down. The girl who was beneath him is gone, and now it is Rhaenyra who looks up at him, her cheeks pleasantly flushed and her eyes shiny with arousal. Her hands are still on his face, brushing the hair back from his temples, cupping his jaw. He glances down between them; they are both naked, and he can see where his cock is nestled deep inside the split of her cunt, slick and shiny. Only a moment passes before he tentatively thrusts forward, and her lips part around a small moan.
"Brother."
Her hands pull him closer, and her breath is soft on his face. One of her hands finds his, and she guides his fingers down to the apex of her cunt, showing him where and how she would like to be touched. He can imagine it—this, which almost was his. He fucks her slowly, gently, as if he is afraid she may disappear if he takes too much; he watches the way her face twists up in pleasure, and her eyes find his, captivating. He leans down to her mouth, pausing for a moment as if he's not sure if he is allowed, but Rhaenyra smiles, her eyes crinkling up in adoration.
"Husband."
When she kisses him he tastes summer, honey and fruit and wine.
Aegon awakens with a gasp, sitting up so quickly that his head spins. His hands tremble, shaking as if it's the midst of winter even though his chambers are warm and humid. Disoriented, he glances around his guest quarters in Driftmark, looking for Rhaenyra. He remembers all too well the sensation of his sister's mouth against his, warm and inviting. It dawns on him that he is still in Driftmark, and then he realizes he had been dreaming.
It felt so real. His eyes begin to sting.
He peels his coverlet off of him, swallowing down the emptiness and sadness that sits heavy in his throat. There is a pool of spend cooling on his stomach, and he grimaces as he wipes it off with his hand and onto his linens for one of the serving girls to clean. While he is dressing, a guard enters his rooms, seemingly unphased by his nakedness.
"My Prince, the Queen requests your presence."
Miserably he makes his way through the halls, clasping his hands tightly behind his back. When he rounds the corner leading to the courtyard he crashes into Rhaenyra, startled; she brings her hand to his shoulder, steadying him. His face reddens when he thinks of his dream the previous night—seeing her naked and spread out below him, hair wild and face flushed. When her hand finds his cheek, the sensation of her cupping his jaw makes heat pool in his stomach. Summer, he remembers. She tasted like summer.
"Aegon," she says, and her voice is very carefully composed—as if she isn't sure what to think of him being there. "You should be more careful."
"I'm sorry," he mutters, and her thumb caresses the highest point of his cheek for a moment before she lets it fall away.
"Do not apologize." Rhaenyra turns, looking out across the sea; their father's ship sits in the bay, the sailors and servants making ready to leave. "You brought Sunfyre here, did you not?"
It was just a dream, he reminds himself. She has no way of knowing how his hands tremble when he remembers touching her, her body responsive and lively. He clears his head, willing his voice to be steady. "Yes, I rode on Sunfyre, and Helaena on Dreamfyre. We will be riding them back, and Aemond…" He stiffens, looking down; Rhaenyra quietly clears her throat.
"Yes, on Vhagar."
She pats his arm reassuringly, then takes a measured step away. Her eyes are curious when she glances at him. "Come. Walk with me to go see the dragons."
There is little time to agree or disagree; Rhaenyra turns and walks out of the courtyard, heading to the cliffs where their dragons are all resting. He follows behind her quietly, glancing behind him to the ship where his mother is waiting for him. She has always warned of him about Rhaenyra, but his sister has never given him a reason to believe she would do anything to harm him. As they crest the hill he can see Syrax and Caraxes, and slightly further rests Sunfyre. Vhagar looms in the distance, cloaked in fog.
"I hope you do not blame yourself for what happened last night," Rhaenyra suddenly says, and he remembers his mother's fury at him not being present. He clenches his hand behind his back, bitter.
"I was supposed to watch them," he replies, repeating what his mother had told him. "As the eldest—"
"You are not the eldest," Rhaenyra immediately interjects, her eyes sharp when she looks at him. "I am still your sister. Your mother may try to turn you against me, but the blood of the dragon runs thick. We are both Targaryen, and she is not." She walks slightly ahead of him, her arms crossed at the small of her back; he can see where the wound his mother inflicted has been bandaged, the linens crusted with dried blood. "Do you ever wish you were heir, Aegon?"
The hair on the back of his neck raises, and he senses danger in her question. Sunfyre seems to sense his uneasiness, raising his head in the distance. He swallows. "I do not," he replies, truthful.
"You would not challenge me, even if the Queen pressed you?"
He looks at her uneasily and stops walking. She takes a few more steps before turning to face him. Her head is held high—regal, proud. He would not make a good king, while she is the very image of a queen. "I do not want to challenge you."
Something dark draws over her eyes, formidable and menacing. "I have not ever wanted to hurt you, but there are people out there who would use you to supplant me as heir. If you are put against me, brother, I will not let shared blood stop me from doing what I must to become Queen."
He stands stiffly, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. "I don't want to be King," he repeats, whisper soft.
She seems to relax at that, accepting his answer, and she takes his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. "Always remember that I am your sister." She tilts her chin up, looking to the sea. "Your mother is waiting for you. Go on."
"Thank you," he mutters half-heartedly, pressing his lips into a thin line as he quickly flees toward the ship to meet with his mother.
Dinner that evening is tense—more so than usual.
His father is still clearly cross over what transpired. He is normally quite talkative during meals, but tonight he mutedly tears pieces of roast duck with his fingers. Oil drips from his fingers, fatty and decadent. Aemond and Helaena both quietly eat their sweetbread, not looking up. Only Aegon glances around, chewing on the inside of his cheek anxiously.
The question has been at the forefront of his mind since the dream. He wishes to ask it, but he is sure the reaction will not be pleasant.
"Father," he begins, and both the King and his mother look somewhat surprised to hear him speak. He tears off a piece of bread with his hands, absently picking at it with his fingers. "I have a question about something."
He tries for indifference, but his tone instead belies his nervousness. His father regards him with a stern eye, but he nods his head. "Go on then."
"Were Rhaenyra and I ever supposed to be betrothed?"
It feels as though the air is sucked from the room; his mother's shoulders immediately stiffen, and she turns her face toward him, blinking in bewilderment. His father seems slightly taken aback by his question, and he glances at Alicent before popping a piece of duck into his mouth. "There was a time where that was considered, yes. Before Rhaenyra was betrothed to Ser Laenor."
Gooseflesh erupts across his skin, and his heart hammers in his chest. "Why were we not married?"
"Aegon," Alicent grates, strained. His father leans back in his chair, looking at him seriously.
"It was suggested by your grandsire on your second name day. Rhaenyra was already nearly a woman grown. That is a long time to wait for you to come of age."
"You are to marry Helaena," his mother reminds him, her tone reproachful. "The matter is settled, so I am not sure why it matters or where you heard such a thing."
Defensively, he shrinks in his chair. "I was only wondering—"
"It is settled," his mother repeats, brooking no room for argument.
Though he will not bring up the matter again, it plants a seed in his mind. He had almost been betrothed to Rhaenyra. His dream floods back to him—he would have been her Prince Consort. He had spent his entire life in the shadow of his older sister, knowing that he was not his father's heir; and though he had little desire to rule he had at least wished to have a taste of the favor with which his father gave Rhaenyra. Would it have been different if he had been married to her? Would he make her happy?
It would have been a happy marriage, Rhaenyra had said in his dream. How had a dream told him of this? I would be happier with her, he laments.
Aegon returns to his rooms that night and feels the phantom presence of his sister at his bedside, cradling his face in her hands and smelling of summer grasses. When he drifts off to sleep, he can almost imagine her brushing his hair from his face as she had in his dream.
Aegon does not dream much, but on gloomy days he begins to dream of soft hands, soothing touches, and the taste of honey.