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Aegon hates her.
He doesn’t want to, is the thing. Jaehaera is not at fault for the crimes her family committed, and yet― yet. On his worst days, Aegon looks at her and all he sees are the eyes of his mother’s killer.
Aegon hates her.
Jaehaera is not at fault, eight summers to his ten and one, she has no control over what happened between their branches of family, but Aegon hates her all the same. If it hadn’t been for her father, his mother would’ve still been alive. Hurt and hurting, but taking back the throne she was owed ― that of which her father had declared her the heir to ―, setting the record straight for all that had been taken from them in the war. If it hadn’t been for Jaehaera’s father, Aegon and his mother would’ve found solace at Dragonstone, would’ve found shelter.
His mother would’ve healed, then, Aegon is sure of it. She would’ve been... Not happier, no, she would’ve never been happy again without his father or his siblings, but she could’ve found some modicum of peace. They would regroup and heal, and take back the Iron Throne. The North would’ve kept their banners up for her ― the Vale, too; Aegon would’ve been promised for an army, and he would’ve been happy for it.
Or at least resigned, if nothing else. Accepting of the nature of his status, as his mother’s older living son. They could make it work. They would make it work ― if only they had a chance.
They didn’t.
Aegon is no warrior, and neither was his mother. He couldn’t defend her, when the need for it came. Couldn’t fight for her, couldn’t stand his ground ― couldn’t do anything other than struggle and cry, desperate and hurting, all while the Usurper watched and laughed.
Elinda is no longer around to give him any comfort for that; he’s not sure he would accept, if he were given the chance. All of his brothers have been lost to a war his mother’s usurper brother was the one to wage. All Aegon has is the memory of his mother’s screams and a marriage to a girl he cannot bring himself to stand, whose presence he can barely stomach.
Before the war, mother would sing him to sleep every night.
Father had teased her for it, saying she was spoiling perfectly spoiled princes already, but he never opposed. Aegon had been happy, then. Aegon had been genuinely, overwhelmingly happy ― with his parents and his brothers and his sisters, with the promise of a home and the bright future he was expected to inherit.
Aegon is not his mother’s heir. Was never meant to be. That had been Jace’s place ― kind, bright, brave Jace, who died just like everyone else, lost to greed and madness and the broken oaths of lords who are not worth the sacrifices it took to get where he is right now. Aegon didn’t even get to say goodbye, didn’t even get to tell him he’s proud of being his brother. Aegon didn’t even get to ask him for one last hug, one last prank. Jace had been so good, so brave, the dutiful son to his mother’s legacy, and Aegon― Aegon had been happy, then. Had been hopeful.
If he looks close enough, Aegon can pretend to himself, if only for a moment, that Jaehaera is the sister he never got to hold ― the sister he never got to meet. She has the hair, the cherub cheeks, petite and quiet in ways none of Aegon’s siblings had been ― were it not for her eyes, Jaehaera could’ve been his sister-wife, and Aegon would have one last piece of his family to hold close.
His mother’s smile. His father’s hair. Jace’s laughter. Luke’s kindness. Joff’s bravery. Baela’s fierceness. Rhaena’s strength. Viserys’ heart. Jaehaera could’ve been the best of all of them, someone for Aegon to cherish, to hold on to, to protect like he never got the chance to, with the others.
Jaehaera is the memory of his mother’s burning skin and the defiance with which she held her head high, and Aegon cannot look at her.
His mother’s niece. The daughter of his mother’s killer. Usurper’s kin. Sometimes, when Aegon looks at her, he wants to cry.
Why did you get to live. How come you get to survive when none of my brothers did. Why couldn’t you be Baela or Rhaena, instead.
Aegon knows exactly why, but still.
Sometimes, if he hears her cry at night, Aegon thinks of what Jaehaera lost; the comforts that were pried from her hands for the promise of a crown upon her head when the time for it comes. Aegon will not crown her, cannot bring himself to, but he would― he would, if she were Visenya. If she were Visenya, or Baela, or Rhaena. Aegon would’ve held her close, then, held her dear. He would never leave her on her own again, would never let her be lonely. Jaehaera is not his sister-wife, however, and Aegon cannot bring himself to afford her any more kindness than not being the one to try and kill her.
Cursed be the kinslayer. Aegon wonders if it bothers her, what her father did. He wonders if it matters if it does. She would not apologize for it, Aegon knows ― he wouldn’t accept it if she were to try. Their haunting songs might be similar, their ghosts the memory of loved ones they could not save, but it changes nothing, to him.
Jaehaera is only alive because the Council ordered it. Aegon is only married because he had no choice. If she sings a silly tune to soothe herself at night and he thinks of his mother’s comforting embrace― well. That’s between him and his gods, no?
The illusion of companionship never lasts. Aegon can’t bring himself to care.
(He dreads the day he’ll not remember his mother’s face.)
(He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to forget her voice.)