Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Daeron I

Confusion reigned in the camp; tents burst into flames, wood creaked, cloths collapsed, and men screamed. A river of boiling blood spurted from Seasmoke's severed head as Vermithor held it in his jaws. It is said that the golden beast raised its massive snout to the moonlight to watch the other dragon and its rider disappear into the darkness of the night sky.

They did not emerge unharmed. The Blue Queen left a trail of blood on the ground, which fell from the sky like a macabre rain, warm and reddish.

This was no surprise; the attack by Ser Addam Velaryon and his mount had shattered part of her jaw and nearly ripped her neck open before Vermithor had joined the fray, giving them just enough time to flee. Some would call this action the ultimate example of cowardice. A prince, abandoning his men, who would perish by burning or by the swords of their enemies. But be that as it may, the onetime bastard and his beast lay dead on the field of battle, while Prince Daeron Targaryen and his dragon had escaped to see another day...

-A Dance of the Dragons, A True Telling, by Grand Maester Munkun.

Daeron struggled out of bed; the scent of the herbal poultices the maester had prepared for him the night before still lingered in the air. He wrinkled his nose slightly, wincing at the slightest touch of the marks beneath the cloth.

The burns still hurt. Barely a moon after the terrible incident, his body was still recovering. Thankfully, the horrible strips of red”hot skin had finally begun to heal, forming new pink flesh that itched uncontrollably and stung slightly when his clothes rubbed too hard.

The prince sighed, pulling on his silk shirt with some difficulty, typical of his condition. However, he gritted his teeth and held back his hisses of pain, refusing to ask for help from the servants. He had spent too much time under other people's constant attention weighed on him, and he was fed up. He wanted to be done with it, at least for that day. Especially for that day.

Carefully, Daeron put on his black doublet, trimmed with gold thread and stitched in the shape of rampant dragons. Dressing became much easier from then on; touching any remote spot on his wounded back was comforting. Finally, in the belt around his waist, he carefully placed the sword that Lord Ormund had had specially made for him, just weeks after he had knighted him after saving his life and those of his men.

The same ones who would perish at Tumbleton, screaming and howling, either from the fire or from the enemy's swords.

Before all this began, he had never thought he would be tested in battle. His lessons had been standard for a boy of his position and birth, and he had been a distinguished squire to the Lord of Oldtown, his cousin. The prince never imagined himself in the heat of violence.

And yet he did it. On Tessarion's back or with sword in hand, he had faced his enemies and defeated them. He had earned the nickname Daeron the Daring, and when his brother had disappeared from the capital after Rhaenyra and her husband had taken it, some of his men had begun to whisper about the Iron Throne, with voices growing louder once his brother Aemond's death at the God's Eye became known throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

Yet Daeron had never cared about such rumors. He had only done what he was supposed to do: fight for his house, for the survival of his family, and for his King.

He had played the roles assigned to him: the hero of the Hightower troops, the warrior of the Greens, even the cunning manipulator when, at Larys Strong's suggestion, he and Ser Rickard Thorne had faked the death of his brother's heir, Prince Maelor, using some bastard from Flea Bottom, cutting off his hair and made to look like the young prince, to be hunted by Rhaenyra's hounds, while his nephew was carefully brought to safety with his sister at Storm's End.

But thoughts of the past were futile. He tried to push them from his mind as he finally slipped on his boots.

The prince stood with difficulty, feeling the weight of the weapon noticeably. It had never been like this, at least not when he was healthy. It was only a reminder of how much things had changed in such a short time.

Daeron knew that carrying it was more a demonstration of power than something he could actually use to combat a threat.

I could hardly hold it in my hands, much less wield it, he thought bitterly. According to the maester, there were at least three moons left before he could even consider starting training again, and that was with some caution. If for some reason his opponent landed a bad blow, the skin would split open again, and then the painful recovery would begin all over again.

Stepping out into the corridor, he took one of the apples one of the servants carried on a platter, no doubt hurrying to get on with organizing the sumptuous banquet that would be held that very day.

It was a special day. Finally, the death of his half”sister, the usurper, and the return of the rightful King to the capital would be publicly commemorated.

In the end, it wasn't armies or dragonseeds that ended this war, but Aegon, his endless thirst for revenge, and a fate given by the Seven themselves. The thought made him smile slightly, despite everything. Daeron set the half”eaten apple aside and hurried back inside the immense castle. He had no intention of lingering, nor was he very hungry, after all.

Finally, he reached his destination. The enormous balcony had a stunning view of the docks, the deep blue of Blackwater Bay illuminated softly by the morning sun, which was slowly turning to the afternoon sun. There she was, waiting for him. The dowager queen was richly adorned, wearing a black gown trimmed with silver thread. It was one of many she had worn since the deaths of her father, brother, and uncle. Certainly, Daeron had noticed a marginalization of the green color that had once been so distinctive in his mother's clothes, though she was always careful not to mention it.

“Good morning, Mother” he greeted Alicent, who was staring intently at the chaos on the dock. The woman smiled slightly.

“My son” she replied, her voice gentle but slightly hollow, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. Daeron did not question it, moving slightly closer until he was at her side, sharing their gaze.

“Is he here yet?” he asked cautiously.

That morning, they had received word that his brother, the King, was embarking for King's Landing.

It had been only ten days since they had learned he was alive. The shock that Aegon was on Dragonstone, so close to home yet so unnoticed, had been surpassed only by the information they had received from the first raven: Rhaenyra was dead, executed and devoured by Sunfyre. Her son and the last heir to her claim, Prince Aegon the Younger, had also died, finally ending the nightmare of war.

And now, the King was finally returning home, to take the crown for which so many members of their family had died.

Alicent sighed, a mixture of anxiety and unease gleaming in her eyes. “Not yet. The arrangements were finalized just a few hours ago, according to the last raven that arrived from Dragonstone. Lord Alyn Velaryon has sent a cog to collect your brother and bring him home”.

Daeron couldn't help but frown at his mother's words. “Cog? Not a warship of the royal navy?“ he asked, his tone was more aggressive than he'd intended. It was not directed at her, of course. But that was something he had no intention of explaining.

The Dowager Queen simply crossed her arms over her chest. “That was what the letter said. I know no more.”

The insult of such unworthy transport for a Targaryen King was only inflamed by the mention of its creator's name.

Daeron didn't know much about Alyn and Addam Velaryon, except that they had both been born in Hull, a small village in Driftmark, that their mother was a simple ferryman who was likely the bastard or bastard offspring of some prince or lord of Dragonstone, and that, while she swore that her two sons were the product of Ser Laenor Velaryon's lust, it was an open secret that the bastards' true father was Lord Corlys himself.

They had been one of many who had answered the desperate call from his sister, the usurper, and while Alyn had failed in his quest, Addam had been fortunate enough to claim Seasmoke, his late "father's" dragon.

But those were words in the wind, stories told here and there that had nothing to do with him. What he did remember related to that name was the flash of flames in the night, of silver scales in the moonlight. The burning pain in his back, the sound of steel against steel, the dragons' horrific roars of pain.

Addam had been responsible for the greatest defeat of his life. And that was something he didn't easily forget. “That bastard and his brother should never have left the mud and sand Rhaenyra plucked them from” he spat with undisguised contempt.

“The Velaryons are our allies now. Be... discreet with your opinions. Your brother will likely need to ratify his legitimation as part of the agreement made to ensure his loyalty, and it could be a crucial step in solidifying his reign” his mother replied in a slightly stern tone that reminded him of the few times she had scolded him before he was sent to Oldtown, almost a lifetime ago.

The prince sighed, trying to calm his flaring temper. He looked around, as if seeing the castle for the first time. And in a way, it was true.

Daeron remembered little of his early childhood, and the place had changed quite a bit since then. It had a more...martial feel. Guards everywhere, closed gates, the tense atmosphere, it seemed to be something that had settled in the heart of his old home and didn't seem likely to disappear soon.

Even the exterior was different from how it had been back then, when his father was King. The emblem that had flown since Aegon the Conqueror had settled in the Red Keep was long gone.

The banner that flew from each of the towers was the golden three”headed dragon on a sable field, one that had been reinstated shortly after Lord Borros Baratheon recaptured the city from the false kings and the rioters.

Rhaenyra's banners had been torn down after her escape, and the bastard who had taken the Red Keep as his headquarters, Trystane Truefyre, hadn't bothered to remove them. Now, however, both the worn cloths and the bastard lay in the mud and ruin of the black cells, awaiting a fate that seemed dark.

Finally, the fragile cog appeared on the horizon. It wasn't even a new ship; the sails were slightly torn from use; the timbers were tattered and looked like they'd been replaced time and time again over the years.

A mixture of surprise and indignation settled in his chest, and he could see a hint of the same feeling in his mother's eyes, even as she remained conveniently silent.

“He commands the warships, and yet he sends his own King on a simple barge... I should have gone after him. He should have returned on the back of a dragon, as is his birthright. The people should have seen him that way” Daeron said, unable to hold his tongue.

That had been a point of long discussion at the councils held in King's Landing in his brother's name. Most of them agreed that the return of the rightful King should not only be celebrated, but an event worthy of the importance of the event, symbolizing their faction's final triumph over the Blacks.

Organizing the reception had been the easiest part. The people might not remember Aegon with particular fondness, but they did remember his late wife, Helaena. A simple speech from the Dowager Queen herself, reminding the smallfolk that Rhaenyra had murdered their beloved queen, and the entire population seemed ready to celebrate the King with spirit and joy. She had even managed to bring the necessary resources from Storm's End for a banquet like no other, which both commoners and royalty could enjoy.

However, that was only the beginning. By then, news of Rhaenyra's death had reached other ears, and Ser Alyn Velaryon, one of her last supporters, had assembled his fleet and threatened to dock at Dragonstone and destroy the small garrison that stood between him and the man he called "Usurper." Not only that, but rumors had also begun to circulate that Aegon, enraged by the death of his dragon from wounds inflicted by the beast Moondancer, intended to execute its rider, Lady Baela Targaryen.

Of course, panic had gripped everyone in the Red Keep, and they had tried to come up with solutions to the conflict. But, to their nervousness, they had found their hands tied. Lord Borros had no ships, the Triarchy had long since returned to Essos, and the Crown had no way to send troops to aid the King against a Velaryon assault. Even the prince's own suggestion had been rejected; Tessarion had been so weak that flying would have been madness, and they would have risked following Jacaerys Velaryon's fate and falling into the sea.

Only then had Larys Strong proposed a singular solution. One that took place in the hands of a man in chains and imprisoned by Rhaenyra herself in the bowels of the Red Keep. And though Lord Corlys Velaryon had been a wiry and weakened man when they'd first brought him from the dungeons, he had proved a tough nut to crack in negotiations. And now, they were bearing fruit.

Alyn Velaryon promised the King safe passage back to King's Landing. And that is what he has done. The bastard mocks us, careful not to break our pact Daeron said in his mind, not daring to raise his voice, though his purple eyes glowed with suppressed rage. Daeron could feel his mother's gentle hand placed on his shoulder, a conciliatory gesture.

“Your brother can barely stand, and the same could be said of you. You have been wise to remain here. A wise man knows when to conserve his strength.”

“I'm fine. A couple of burns on my back and arms do not make me useless” he grumbled in disgust.

It was only a burning piece of cloth. Not dragonfire he thought bitterly. While he had never envied Aegon's condition after returning from the Battle at Rook's Nest, which he had learned of from a letter Lord Ormund had shared with him, it had always been emphasized that the King's wounds had been symbols of honor and bravery, after he had defeated Meleys and her rider. His were little more than reminders of his defeat and shame.

“Still, you have not recovered. Nor has your dragon. Subjecting you both to such an effort would have sapped your strength for nothing. And for what? For a show of power?” His mother took his hand and squeezed it gently, as if trying to imitate a comforting gesture. “The imposter is dead, and your brother lives. That is all that matters”.

The prince clenched his jaw.

“Of course. That is all” he whispered, not wanting to say anything more that might be insulting.

There was something within him. Worry, perhaps? He couldn't quite describe it. But he was sure of one thing: his mother probably suspected something he knew for certain. That despite the apparent victory, the Realm was far from at peace. Just like his own brother.

Aegon had never looked at his best since that first battle, it had been rumored. But now he seemed even worse. In more pain. In more anger.

Daeron had read the letters from the Maester of Dragonstone. That last fight against Baela Targaryen and her dragon had not only added new burns to the old ones, but had also broken both of his legs and an arm. His brother would never walk alone again, much less wield a sword.

But the prince knew that was not his King's true torment. What the monarch mourned most was the loss of his dragon.

The sadness and anger Aegon seemed to feel overshadowed by any semblance of judgment. And it might well happen again in the future.

“Come. We must meet him at the castle gates” his mother instructed, gently tugging at his robes. Daeron took a deep breath and tried to mentally prepare himself for what was to come. He sensed it wouldn’t be pleasant.

Gods. How right he was.

The sun beat down on his face when the sound of the carriage on the flagstones finally announced the expected arrival. There, standing, were his mother, himself, and Lord Borros Baratheon, who so far seemed to have earned his place as one of the most loyal to their cause. The horses stopped at the entrance, and a group of servants ran with an open palanquin, in which they planned to take Aegon to his chambers, avoiding the embarrassment of being carried directly by one of his guards.

Daeron gulped as he watched his brother descend from the carriage. He looked noticeably thinner than he remembered, though that wasn’t an extraordinary starting point, as he had last seen him as a child. The marks from his past burns made him shudder slightly. Where once there had been strands of silver hair like his own, now there was only flesh, somewhere between yellowish and blackened, resembling a melted candle. It was a sight that chilled him.

Still, he did his best to hide all those feelings behind a mask of cold tranquility. When his brother's palanquin was finally ready, he bowed to it with respectful reverence. “Welcome, Your Grace. Your throne and crown await. We have commanded the bells to ring in your honor.”

Aegon raised his head and frowned, or so Daeron thought. The violet in his eyes was still perceptible, though they were completely red. His voice, likewise, was husky and deep. “The sound alone gives me a headache” the King growled. He seemed to be scrutinizing his figure, as if trying to see beyond the fine robes and serene face. “I've been told you now bear marks similar to mine.”

That statement took him by surprise, and it showed in his expression. He quickly tried to compose himself.

"I fear I gained them without the honor and glory of battle," he replied in a neutral tone, discreetly trying to ascertain his intentions. Was his brother trying to test him? To pressure him to see if he would react?

The King grimaced, further distorting the features on the right side of his face, as he let out a sarcastic, humorless laugh. "There are no such things. While fleeing your post and abandoning your men is probably not like them, if they did..."

The words hit him hard, and anger boiled in his chest.

His Grace seemed to notice, and before he could respond to his barely concealed insult, he preempted his words.

"What other preparations have been made for my return?" Aegon asked sharply. The young prince took advantage of the change of subject to try to breathe and gather his feelings.

He’s your brother. And your King he reminded himself, regaining his diplomatic expression.

“Our lady mother has prepared a banquet to rival those our father used to host. The people will feast with wine and celebration,” he replied in a surprisingly gentle voice. This seemed to unsettle Aegon, whose frown deepened. His gaze, as sharp as it was icy, pierced him completely, like a crossbow bolt.

“And what exactly will they celebrate?”

The question was odd, to say the least, and Daeron was momentarily perplexed.

“Your name, of course. You are their King and have returned to your rightful place,” he finally managed after a few seconds of awkward silence.

His brother’s expression was… unreadable. Daeron tried to discern the thoughts in his mind, without success.

“I have heard there is more than one King under these roofs,” the Aegon said harshly.

 Daeron nodded, still a little confused by the direction of the conversation.

“Pretenders. Thieves and bastards. Lord Borros has locked them in the black cells. They await your trial, of course," he said with a little more conviction in his tone, hoping for his brother's approval. It didn't take long for him to do so.

"I will hand it over them," Aegon promised, his voice cold as ice. His eyes bore into his. "I will not tolerate traitors."

With a signal, the servants began to lift the palanquin onto their shoulders, and his gaze momentarily shifted from the King. However, they hadn't even taken the first step when their mother halted the procession.

"Your Grace," she called in a measured but clear voice. His brother gestured with his good hand, and the servants carrying him halted.

"Mother," he said impassively, barely looking at her.

The Dowager Queen seemed to ignore this lack of affection, even taking her hand and kissing it gently. "I am glad to see you safe, my son. We prayed day and night to the Seven that the usurper would find a just end and you a way back to our arms".

Aegon looked her up and down, as if she were a vile peasant. This enraged Daeron again, who unconsciously clenched his fists tightly. "It seems you prayed more fervently for my brother, Mother. After all, he returned to you before I did. Perhaps it suited you," he said rudely, without a trace of respect.

The prince felt his control slipping, and despite his own injuries, he felt the burning fire coursing through his veins. His Grace's face took on an amused expression, as if he were impatiently waiting to see what he would do.

The tense situation seemed destined to escalate. But then Lord Borros stepped forward, ready to mediate between the royal family.

"A fortuitous blessing from the gods," he said in his thunderous voice. "Though you should blame me more, Your Grace. After all, Prince Daeron arrived at my castle when he was wounded at Tumbleton, and it was I myself who brought him here in the hopes that his injuries would be better cared for once we retook the city." The enormous man knelt then, in a gesture of respect. "I did not think you would mind. I apologize for that."

Aegon's gesture finally seemed to soften slightly. With his hand, he gently touched Lord Borros's shoulder, who was so tall that even on his knees he was at the same height as the palanquin. "You have been a great ally, Lord Borros. You need not worry about trifles."

He gave Daeron and his mother one last contemptuous look before indicating once again that he would be lifted. "Let us go inside." I want to see the state my traitorous sister left my throne in."

The palanquin began to move away, until it was lost inside the enormous fortress. Only then did the prince realize he was trembling.

"Daeron," his mother's soft voice said, taking his hands, both balled into fists, trying to reassure him.

"He speaks to me as if I were his fucking enemy," he spat with a mixture of disbelief and anger. The young prince had known Aegon wasn't the boy he remembered, but this was far more than she had imagined. It was a direct insult, to him, to their mother.

Alicent sighed, gently taking his chin, forcing him to look at her. "He's spent months on the run. Taking shelter in Gods know what kind of holes just to avoid dying. It doesn't surprise me he sees enemies everywhere," she explained calmly, as if that justified everything. She seemed overwhelmed, though she seemed to be in control of it far more than he was. Her eyes bore into his, with something more than a plea. A statement he seemed to believe wholeheartedly. "But you are his brother. You will prove your loyalty to him. Just give him time."

And Daeron wanted to believe her. For the sake of all.

The celebration inside the castle was as grand as he had anticipated. Lord Borros had not skimped on the food and abundant wine.

Daeron was discreet, to say the least. He had eaten barely a few bites of the roasted wild turkey, hunted that morning by a host of knights in the royal forest, and had drunk barely a cup of wine.

The King did not seem to share his light appetite. Aegon devoured the pieces of meat within his reach, gorging himself on bread and cheese. And the drink...

Daeron was sure that in all his years of existence, he had never seen anyone drink so much, and above all, not faint. But Aegon, far from looking ill, seemed definitely in his element. For once, his brother seemed happy to have his new means of transportation when the servants carried him out of the dining room in the palanquin, almost lying on it. The prince doubted he could have walked even on his good legs, so drunk was he.

Still, against his better judgment, he forced himself to follow him. His mother had told him that wine always softened Aegon's mood. And the recent tensions seemed to have left both of them with a sour taste, enough for Alicent to push him to seek reconciliation.

So, much to his chagrin, the prince found himself waiting outside the room while one of his brother's newly appointed Kingsguard that evening, Ser Gyles Bergrave, awaited the King's authorization. Finally, the man emerged from the room with a serious gesture, indicating that he could enter.

Cautiously, Daeron got inside the dark room, barely lit by a few candles. The stench mingled with alcohol and the aroma of herbs similar to those he himself used, probably applied by the maester to soothe the King's pain. His brother lay on the bed, a jug of wine conveniently within reach.

Trying to maintain a respectful image, Daeron bowed before him.

"Your Grace," he greeted him with extreme caution, trying not to inflame his temper. Aegon's senses seemed slightly dulled, though his tone was definitely icy when he answered.

"Prince Daeron."

That didn't bode well for his purpose. Still, the promise he made to his mother lingered, and Daeron didn't want to disappoint her. So he tried to start a conversation as smoothly as possible.

"I'm glad you had an excellent appetite at dinner. The maester says it's a sign of improving health," he began, making sure to choose a neutral topic. Aegon seemed momentarily intrigued, though he quickly played along.

"I wouldn't say the same about you. You barely touched your plate. Sick, brother?"

The prince swallowed nervously. The question was harmless, but his answer was not. He certainly knew that his lack of appetite went beyond his recent annoyances with the King. But was it a good idea to mention it? Or would it be better to make up something to try to avoid the subject?

Finally, he opted for honesty.

"I haven't eaten well since I returned from Tumbleton. There are events that leave a constant bitter taste in our mouths, no matter how much time passes."

Aegon narrowed his eyes, his expression hostile again, though not as much as that morning. "Such shame shouldn't be surprising," he said sullenly, with a sharp edge to his voice.

Daeron sighed. He knew he should remain calm. Sooner or later they would have to talk about this, and why not now when the wine seemed to have dampened the force of his brother's anger?

Carefully, he positioned himself near the bed, never taking his gaze off Aegon's for a second. "I'm not condoning what happened. But it seems too much, my King." You yourself should understand that when it comes to survival, we sometimes forget certain honorable precepts."

That definitely lit a spark in his brother. Had he been healthy, he probably would have risen from the bed in indignation. Instead, he simply glared at him, like daggers stabbing him.

"Are you comparing what I went through with what you did? I was forced to leave to save my head! To live like the vilest of men! I had no choice!" he shouted sternly, with a hint of resentment.

That was new. And it surprised him.

"None of us did," he replied calmly, maintaining his composure. "And yet you seem to hate me for it."

Aegon paused for a second, as if pondering his words. Or as if trying to gather his thoughts in the drunken haze he was enveloped in.

"I have traveled the most vile paths in this Realm. I've lived and slept in the most vile and filthy hovels, trying to save my life. Places of thieves, mercenaries, but above all, common people. Almost all of them talked about the same thing. War," he began in a raspy voice. Somehow, with his good hand, he poured himself a glass of wine filled to the brim. From his skill, Daeron knew it wasn't the first time he'd done so. His brother drank it in three long gulps, without a single grimace, and wiped his mouth with his hand before continuing. "Of course, they cursed Rhaenyra's name and mine. When Aemond continued burning the Riverlands, they soon spat on his own."

Daeron frowned. Was that the cause of his brother's unease? The whispers of the hungry and thirsty people? "Many suffered for it. The common people only wanted to blame someone. You shouldn't have taken it so personally," he said simply, not wanting to evoke his anger.

 He knew full well that most of the common people had valid reasons to hate the Targaryens. Their villages had been reduced to ash, they had suffered from famine and disease, and great armies had plundered what little remained.

The King's eyes narrowed, meeting his own with a gaze filled with deep resentment. "But you... When they spoke of you, you were the great hero, the one who feared no one, brave yet gentle, almost a god to the naive fools..."

Daeron bit his tongue with effort, holding back his words. He had certainly heard similar things at the beginning of the war. But after Tumbleton? He was sure that when they spoke his name, they did so with hatred.

With an effort, the King raised his arm, pointing accusingly at him.

"How many times do you think I've heard people say how much more deserving you were of the crown than any of us? That father wouldn't have hesitated to give you the throne if you had been the firstborn?"

The accusation momentarily perplexed him. Of all the things that had crossed his mind, this hadn't been one of them. Instinctively, he took a step back. “My King, I would never..." he stammered, unable to form a coherent response. Daeron wasn't sure how to respond to that, and he had the feeling that anything he said would be taken as treason.

Taking advantage of his hesitation, his brother continued to attack. "And now, I find you here, with Mother and my entire Council surrounding you, like little dogs... Perhaps praying that I never show up, after all?"

The implication was malevolent enough to snap him out of his momentary stupor and put him on the defensive. “You know I would never do that." I am your brother, for the love of the gods! You are my king...”

“Do I truly know that? Aemond and I were raised together under this same roof. He may have been the monster everyone feared, but I could read his every move. What he thought” Aegon laughed bitterly. “But you, you are a fucking riddle. You may have my blood, but I don’t know you, or your ambitions. And for all I know, you could be an equal threat as Rhaenyra, our uncle, and their brood of bastards.”

Daeron was immediately outraged. I have fought for him. I have bled for him. And now I am equal to those who demanded his head and murdered his firstborn son and his wife? He screamed inside his head.

The young man drew himself up to his full height, his height, even if Aegon had been standing, surpassing his own. And he was certainly stronger than his brother had ever been.

"I didn't ask to be sent away. But even though I was raised in Oldtown, I'm as much a Targaryen as you are, as our siblings were! I'm loyal to my family. I always have been," he argued vehemently.

Feeling isolated from his Targaryen heritance had always been one of his weaknesses. He'd gotten to know many more people intimately: Uncle Gwayne, his cousin Lord Ormund, his distant niece, the beautiful Lady Bethany... Many times, House Hightower had felt like family. But despite all that, he'd always known he was a dragon. That his place was with his brothers and sister, with true Targaryen blood. And yet, his brother questioned him. As if he'd voluntarily asked to leave.

Aegon, however, didn't seem moved at all. "Loyal? Is it loyalty to abandon your post? To leave your own men?" One of Rhaenyra's rabid dogs attacked you when you had command and the superior numbers, and instead of protecting your people, you ran like a fucking coward!

Daeron's words caught in his throat. He couldn't immediately say anything to it. It had been something he'd reflected on himself. An image he'd repeated over and over again in his mind.

"They attacked us in the night. They took us by surprise, that was..." he began, but couldn't finish the sentence. How could he even begin to describe what he had experienced in Tumbleton? Everything that had happened? From the conquest of the city, to...what came after. No. He couldn't say it.

"You weren't there, brother. You didn't see the things I saw," he said firmly, refusing to reveal anything more about it.

Aegon waited for the silence to become awkward enough before asking his next question. "Do you regret letting them die?" he said seriously, staring at him, as if trying to discern whether he was telling the truth or not.

Daeron felt slightly pressured, but he didn't give in. "I would have died myself if I had stayed. It was Tessarion who saved me. The same way Sunfyre did with you," he said, hoping the mention of his dragon, perhaps the only being he had ever loved, might soften him.

Aegon's face changed at the mention of Sunfyre, but it didn't do much for his already grim mood. In fact, it only seemed to darken it further. "I'm going to kill Baela Targaryen for what she did," he said vehemently, as if the girl's name alone could produce a sick rage in him.

Daeron cleared his throat slightly, realizing his mistake. "House Velaryon is our ally now," he whispered, repeating his mother's exact words.

But unlike himself, Aegon was immune to her reason. "I don't fucking care. She killed Sunfyre and she deserves to die," he grumbled, taking the flagon of wine and drinking directly from it. The reddish liquid trickled down his chin and neck, soaking his shirt.

Perhaps the wine would momentarily improve his brother's mood, but it could also definitely do the opposite and fuel the flames of his fury.

"Mother believes we should put such matters aside for more pressing ones. Like marriage," Daeron said, trying to abruptly change the subject.

It took Aegon's dull mind a couple of seconds to comprehend her words. "Marriage?" he asked cautiously, as if the word burned his tongue.

It was to be expected. According to the Dowager Queen, Aegon's first marriage to their sister, Helaena, had not been pleasant for either of them. Their differing personalities, his brother's unbridled lust, and the fact that it had been a union forced by their father to uphold Valyrian tradition had doomed them from the start.

And now, even as King, that decision seemed to be out of his hands once again, ironically.

"When Lord Borros took the city, Mother and he spoke about it. They both thought that after what happened with Helaena, and since you only have one heir, you should have a Queen." Daeron explained as calmly as possible, Alicent's words coming from his own mouth. His mother had been adept at instructing him in the art of dialoguing with His Grace, and it seemed to be working decently.

"Who?" his brother finally asked with a frown, probably bored by all his chatter.

Aegon wasn't beating around the bush, that was clear. And perhaps the news would please him. At least a little longer.

The prince coughed slightly before answering. "They both agreed that Lady Cassandra Baratheon was the best choice," he replied slowly, gauging his reaction.

The King considered this for a moment, during which he remained awkwardly silent, his face unreadable. Finally, he sighed. "Well, she's pretty enough. I can't say I'm complaining," he replied simply. The prince was sure he would have shrugged if he could have.

Daeron raised an eyebrow, momentarily surprised. Of all they had discussed, this seemed to be the first time Aegon had shown any sign of... positivity. Something that wasn't downright aggressive. "So you approve?" he asked cautiously, trying not to show that he was even slightly defensive. After all, the King's attitude seemed as changeable as the wind.

Aegon snorted, as if amused by the simple question. "Does it matter? We need Lord Borros nearby. He's the only one with a large enough army. To offend him would be suicidal," he said with a dismissive gesture, taking the flagon back into his hand. "Now begone. This wine is sweet, and your company only makes it bitter."

Daeron wasn't surprised by his words. The King had returned to his usual personality, and he had no intention of provoking him further. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, bowing before walking toward the door, with no intention of wasting the opportunity to escape from that place.

His recent tortuous conversation distracted him so much that he barely registered any more words than the white cloak said as he left, and he nearly collided with the knight in front of him, a tall, broad-shouldered man. He raised his gaze, and although it took a while, he was finally able to connect the name with his house crest, engraved on the breastplate of his armor. "Ser Alfred Broome," he greeted him with all the kindness he had left. The man bowed respectfully to his presence. "My prince," he said with a sullen but polite gesture.

The prince looked at him curiously. Even dressed in his light armor, he seemed to be wearing the finest clothes available. Probably seeking the King's ear.

Daeron wanted to spare him that awkward stumble. No one deserved to be at Aegon's mercy in such a horrific state. "If you wished an audience with my brother, I warn you that he is terribly unwell. I suggest you do so tomorrow."

Ser Alfred seemed to search for any sign of mockery or deceit in her eyes. Finding none, the slight defensiveness seemed to leave her. "Thank you for the warning, my prince. His Grace deserves to rest. You have been through much."

Daeron nodded gently. He wasn't sure what he meant, but he was certain that his words were true. He had known the boy. Not the man Aegon had become. And something had definitely changed for that smiling, joking child to become...this.

An idea flashed through his mind momentarily. For some reason, he decided to risk it.

"Would you mind sharing the wine with me, Ser?" he asked firmly, extending his hand in a clear invitation of friendship.

 The knight didn't hesitate, clinging to her offer with singular enthusiasm. “It would be an honor”.

In his own chambers, the wine flowed, though never as easily as it had flowed down his brother's throat. Ser Alfred seemed to have a good thirst, though still rather moderate.

When the warmth of the alcohol finally broke the ice between them a little, he finally dared to speak.

"You lived with him on Dragonstone. Has his mood always been this gloomy?" he asked cautiously, knowing that at any moment he could tread on fragile ground.

Ser Alfred stroked his cup gently, thoughtfully, as if delving into his memories.

"He wasn't at first, if I'm honest. He seemed to have become deeply bitter since his dragon died," he confessed truthfully.

The prince didn't question him further. He knew he was being honest, and after all, he already suspected it. The mere mention of Baela Targaryen seemed to drive Aegon mad.

"Of course. The taste of his victory was darkened by such a tragic event," Daeron said with a hint of sympathy, taking the flagon to refill both of their wine cups. "You were there, weren't you? When the King finally won his crown. When Rhaenyra breathed her last."

That was a lost episode of the war. Something that hadn't been widely discussed. Sure, reports of the Black Queen's death had reached every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, but not all the terrible tale.

The knight looked suddenly proud of himself. "His Grace instructed me to be the one to whet Sunfyre's appetite with my sword," he said with a tinge of arrogance that made his stomach churn.

That sounded rather... grim. And he was sure he didn't want to know the details. Daeron tried to shake off the unpleasant feeling. "The Realm thanks you for your loyalty," he said simply, trying not to sound too disgusted.

Still, he had plenty of doubts in his mind. He tentatively tried something else.

"I never asked, how did Rhaenyra's last cub die? Was he devoured along with his mother? Or was his throat simply slit?" he said in the most casual tone he could muster.

Ser Alfred settled back in his seat, staring into the crackling fire. "The princess arrived on the island's shores in a simple boat, my prince. One of our crossbows pierced the boatman's neck, a little too soon, but it was necessary to prevent him from fleeing," he began, his voice thick with wine. "When she saw our banners, she pushed her son, urging him to dive into the waters. "Go, Aegon! we heard her shout earnestly. The boy jumped into the sea and began to stroke, as if his life depended on it."

Daeron couldn't help but intervene. "And in a way, it did," he added.

Alfred Broome seemed amused by the notion. "By the time we managed to secure the boat and its passenger, the boy was beginning to get a little too far out for my liking. So I ordered the archers and crossbowmen to open fire. He only came up for air once more before sinking forever into his underwater grave," he finished, a smile playing on his lips, as if the feat had been something unforgettable.

The prince was visibly shaken. Still, he forced himself to continue.

"And the body? Was it hung on the battlements of Dragonstone for the people to see?"

It wasn't what he would have done, but he remembered Aegon being given to such displays of power. According to rumor, he'd done it to the rat-catchers of the Red Keep, and he'd probably done it to the last pretender to his throne.

For the first time since they had begun speaking, Broome's face darkened.

"No, my prince. We could not find him. A bank of fog rolled in and prevented us from seeing any further. But I can assure you on my life, my honor, and the King's that his body was swallowed and lies at the bottom of the sea like that of his brother, the bastard."

For some reason, that sent an inexplicable chill down Daeron's spine.

No.

Rhaenyra's son was definitely dead. He had to be. There was no reason to think otherwise.

Ser Alfred took advantage of the cessation of questions. Slightly swaying, he stood, gently setting his cup aside. "A thousand apologies, my prince. But the hour is late, and I've drunk too much wine," he excused himself, stumbling toward the door when the young prince gave a slight hand signal for his departure. Daeron watched him as he calmly left the room.

His face turned back toward the flames of the fireplace.

Now, completely alone, he had no choice but to listen to his own ghosts.

He remembered his brother's words again, spoken just a couple of hours earlier. Do you regret letting them die?

Daeron wanted to say yes. That it was their screams that woke him at night, that it was their hopeless looks when they had seen him leave, leaving them to their fate, that tortured him. But was it really that? Or was it something else that tormented him? The women in the streets beneath his own soldiers, the men slaughtered like cattle, the children... His own voice, demanding an end to the atrocities. The mocking laughter of Hugh and Ulf, stroking the snouts of their dragons, significantly larger than his own, as they said that in war and under their banner, men could do whatever they wanted.

And then there was Addam Velaryon. The bastard of Hull had seen three dragons, and instead of retreating and taking cover... he had attacked. He had sacrificed his life.

And that night, on Tessarion's back, when he had seen the contorted faces of those men he had led, those he had seen running children through with their swords, humiliating women, torturing men.

When he had seen them suffer, die... it had felt almost like justice.

 But not his own, had it? He had only played the role of the one who abandoned his host to their fate, while the true avenger, Addam Velaryon, delivered the justice of the gods.

Daeron had lost his honor at Tumbleton, certainly.

But I didn't lose it that night his thought accused him.

And wasn't that the bitterest thing? He hated Addam Velaryon, yes. For the scars on his back, for Tessarion's wound. But that man had had the courage to throw himself to his death to stop the atrocities. He had sacrificed his own life to save the innocent people who had been mercilessly slaughtered, and he hadn't hesitated.

And that was what Daeron couldn't forget.

The sound of shattering glass broke the silence, and the reddish wine spilled onto the tiles, swirling like a pool of blood. The prince watched it, as if it were some dire omen. Or a memory from the past?

He wasn't sure. And like so many things that day, he wasn't about to find out.

Tomorrow I'll go see Tessarion, he thought to himself, as he settled into the soft silk and linen sheets.

And with that slightly comforting thought, he fell into a troubled sleep.

Chapter Text

AEGON I

"By the penultimate moon of 130 AC, the chasm between the surviving children of King Viserys I and Queen Alicent was clearly visible.

King Aegon II's dislike of his younger brother, Prince Daeron, was becoming all too evident. Many believed that if his brother had died like Aemond in the Gods Eye, His Grace would likely have found a place in his heart to forgive, mourn, and miss him.

But there, alive, growing stronger, and with a dragon, he seemed to slowly become a threat to his reign, only overshadowed by the Black troops, commanded by Lord Kermit Tully, Lord Cregan Stark, and Ser Corwyn Corbray.

To everyone's surprise, upon learning of their Queen's death, the hosts had not turned tail and fled home, but had continued their inexorable march toward King's Landing. Whispers said that their goal was to eliminate the Green loyalists and place Lady Baela Targaryen on the Iron Throne, who, according to nobles and commoners, remained rebellious in the face of her grandfather's surrender, still claiming the name of the deceased Rhaenyra as the rightful Queen and cursing Aegon's as that of a usurper; or failing that, her twin sister, Lady Rhaena, who remained high in the Eyrie, safe from Green hands and with dragon eggs she continued to put by the hearth fire each night, praying for a miracle..."

-A Dance of the Dragons, A True Telling, by Grand Maester Munkun.

The morning sun fell directly on the enormous stained-glass window, casting colorful shadows on the oak table. Around it, the nobles were gathered, engaged in lively conversation.

The King would be lying if he said he didn't feel terribly.

Aegon had slept with difficulty. The excruciating pain in his legs had awakened him since the hour of the wolf, and he had refused to drink milk of the poppy, trying to mitigate any dullness in his mind as much as possible. Even wine had been severely limited to his daily consumption.

A little more than a moon had passed since his arrival in King's Landing. And little by little, he had restored stability to the capital.

The golden cloaks had been rearmed, the food reserves had been replenished, and he had had the opportunity to fill his Kingsguard with new loyalists.

Even so, many places around the city were still far from peaceful. Villages sacked and burned, towns abandoned by famine, epidemics of chills and other horrors had claimed hundreds of his subjects.

But from the Red Keep, he finally regained something resembling the sense of security he had long lost. And that was a brief respite, a stark contrast to his life as a fugitive that had left him alone and bitter.

Though it was true, he had many more reasons to feel miserable.

The pain, the loss, simply looking in the mirror seemed like a constant torture. A nightmare he couldn't wake from, no matter how hard he tried. One that caused a searing pain that surged from his pulverized bones and every inch of seared skin, making every tiny movement a constant agony.

Even the simple act of breathing brought a dull ache that was impossible to completely erase.

But amid all the chaos and misery, he had found a small solace. His approaching wedding to Lady Cassandra Baratheon held promise. It had nothing to do with any affection he might have felt for the lady, nor with the lust he reserved for the wenches he sent to his chambers to observe each other while reminiscing about better times when he could have had them both and more.

No. What excited him most about his upcoming nuptials was what it would mean. If he could achieve supreme victory against Rhaenyra, if he could produce more heirs, a full litter of Targaryen kids to heal the wounds his sister and his cursed uncle had tried to inflict on his dynasty by killing Jaehaerys, then it would be like spitting on their graves. A demonstration of his power. Of his victory.

All your pups, bastards or not, are dead. And I will have dozens to replace the one you took from me it was the thought that made him close his eyes to try to sleep, the one that got him up every morning, the one that drove him on.

Aegon cleared his throat slightly, causing his Council to turn to look at him.

"My wedding is upcoming. I want feasts for seven days. You will hunt boar and pheasant in the kingswood. And venison. The feasting table will be filled with the finest delicacies..." he stated, watching as one of the men began to write his demands in fresh ink on a piece of parchment. "There will also be a tourney. With a large sum of gold as the winner's prize," he continued, imagining the event. Hundreds of knights paraded, bowing before him, many of whom would have preferred to see his sister sitting on that seat, yet had to grovel before him, worship his banner and his person.

The men around him and his mother nodded, seemingly relieved by his good mood, unaware of his darker thoughts. "Of course, Your Grace."

Lord Borros seemed especially happy as well. He had a grin from ear to ear, and his laughter, as loud as the sound of thunder in a storm, echoed in the large hall. "I am pleased that the prospect of your future marriage to my daughter is a cause for your happiness, Your Grace," he said cheerfully, taking a large gulp of wine that trickled down his thick black beard.

Aegon smiled slightly, though it translated into a strange grimace on his wounded face. "Lady Cassandra Baratheon will make a fine wife. She will bear me strong children, worthy of the Iron Throne," he said with conviction, subtly gripping the wooden edge of the table tightly. His violet eyes held an almost delirious gleam, something no one seemed to notice, or at least conveniently ignored.

"And how will these... extravagant arrangements be paid for, Your Grace?" Daeron raised his voice, interrupting the festive atmosphere.

Even though his brother hadn't been given any special position within his court yet, his mother had insisted that he join her as some kind of advisor. And of all those present, he was the only one with a grim face.

Aegon gave him a look as sharp as steel. "Traitors' gold. The houses of the Crownlands that dared to defy me must know the consequences of their actions. Extra taxes will remind them of the price of treason."

The contempt in his voice did not go unnoticed by the rest of the councilors, who shuddered slightly.

His hatred of traitors was well known to all around him, as was his denial of mercy. Many of his lords had tried to plead for his forgiveness, believing it might assuage the long-held grudges of the rebel nobles. However, His Grace had steadfastly refused to grant any absolution to those who had fought for his sister.

They rose up against their rightful monarch, pointing the edges of their swords at my neck and that of my family. They must pay the price had been his blunt response to the matter. And he hadn't changed his mind for a second.

Ser Marston Waters, his new Lord Commander, nodded vehemently. "You are right, my King. We cannot let them go unscathed," he said with conviction. His martial mind and stern demeanor reminded him of the one Ser Criston Cole had once possessed, albeit with less skill at arms.

That only helped to fan the flames of his own sense of justice even further. Having him there, backing him up, as Cole had done at the beginning of the war, gave him a certain sense of power.

But his brother did not budge. On the contrary, he seemed stubborn in his resolve to thwart him. "We should end this war first, should we not, Your Grace? I believe that making more enemies before the existing ones are defeated is terribly dangerous."

Aegon's frown deepened, and his hand clenched even more tightly on the edge of the table. He could feel small splinters digging into his palms and fingers, but as accustomed to the pain as he was by now, he paid little attention to it. "And what exactly do you mean by that, my brother?" he replied in a calm, almost sweet voice, but to a more attentive observer, it dripped with venom.

Maester Orwyle stepped forward. The man had grown noticeably thinner in the black cells and looked somewhat aged, though not yet enough to be mistaken for an old man. His hands, still steady, spread a scroll on the table, a letter he had received by way of his ravens. "The Tully and Arryn forces are gathering in the Riverlands. The Starks are descending on the Neck. The host begins to move."

The announcement momentarily silenced the entire room, as if they had held their breath.

Lord Borros frowned, regarding everything with slight confusion. "Their Queen is dead, as are all her heirs. What do they intend?"

This time, it was Lord Larys who raised his voice, with an eloquence and calm that contrasted with the sudden nervousness of the atmosphere. "Revenge. There is still the possibility of a Black royal line. Lady Baela and Lady Rhaena Targaryen were Rhaenyra's stepdaughters. I have no doubt Lord Cregan would want to put one of them on the Iron Throne if it meant destroying Your Grace," he explained with icy logic, which was certainly not without meaning.

To Aegon, it seemed not plauisible. Certainly, he still doubted that any army would rise up for a woman. But those of the traitors? They might attempt something so ridiculous if it meant removing him from his rightful place.

His brother seemed surprised to find the Lord of Harrenhal supporting his own concerns, but quickly regained his composure. "If they go south, they will encounter little resistance before reaching King's Landing. Much less if the Houses around us join them instead of fighting," he nodded, pointing on the map to the precarious state of the city, surrounded by houses that had once sworn loyalty to Dragonstone.

The Dowager Queen also seemed to wake from her stupor, joining the discussion. "What do we have to negotiate? To delay their advance?"

Those words immediately dented the King's pride, causing his anger. Negotiating seemed almost as humiliating to him as groveling before his enemies. And that was something he refused to do, much less with Rhaenyra's dogs, who had abandoned her to beg and perish, and who were now approaching the gates of his city to fight over the scraps.

But before he could express that strong opinion, Lord Larys spoke first. "Lady Baela. But even suggesting a threat would earn us the enmity of the Sea Snake and House Velaryon. And the gods know we need them."

His words rang so true that the entire Council fell into a hopeless stupor.

Just the night before, Lord Corlys had finally departed for Driftmark with the parchment, sealed by His Grace's own hand, ratifying Ser Alyn Velaryon's legitimation and his appointment as his supposed grandfather's heir. Aegon himself had taken that as a defeat, though he hadn't voiced it out loud. Even now, the ears around the Red Keep were many and unfamiliar, and the Seasnake had always seemed one step ahead of their schemes, even when they were on opposing sides.

"What do you propose, then?" Aegon asked with barely concealed bitterness. He knew where this was going: the talks, the negotiations, the search for peace. And he didn't like it at all.

Surprisingly, Lord Borros was the first to rise to his enormous stature, his blue eyes shining with determination. "My army is encamped in the city because I brought them here when we sought to recapture it. A little out of shape, but they'll be ready to fight soon," he stated forcefully, pointing to the neighboring houses around him on the map. Staunton, Darklyn, Stokeworth..."With the aid of the Crownlands, I am certain I could muster a force sizable enough to defeat the traitors," he concluded.

The suggestion finally stirred some approval in the King's chest. Preparing for battle was, in his eyes, far more honorable. Even if it meant the deaths of many.

The men of the Crownlands might be far fewer than elsewhere, but united with the stomlanders, they would constitute a formidable force that could crush his enemies.

Though there was a downside, he quickly realized. And he could see it in Daeron's slightly haughty gaze, which he was quick to emphasize.

The prince looked him straight in the eye, speaking calmly, though with a glimmer of defiance. "Then no ransom in gold. No hostages. Only the goodwill of their King, to assure us of their loyalty."

Aegon clenched his jaw tightly. Had he been sane, he would have wiped that foolishly smug expression off his brother's face with his fist. However, in his state, he merely faked a smile. "Of course. We wouldn't want them to turn on us."

Daeron seemed to sense his insincerity, though he didn't say a word about it. And when the Council broke up, he was one of the first to leave the siege, almost in a hurry. Aegon took his time stretching, trying not to make any sudden movements.

His right leg, reinforced with the wood and rope Orwyle had placed in an attempt to keep it in place so it could knit, had slowly strengthened, at least enough for him to bear weight from time to time. His left, on the other hand, had been rendered completely useless.

A mass of bones turned to dust that can never be put back together the Grand Maester had said when he had examined him shortly after returning from Dragonstone. A grim promise that had only increased his resentment toward the world and toward Baela Targaryen, for having left him little more than a useless cripple.

Finally, he felt sufficiently prepared. With his hand, he signaled to his Kingsguard to assist him in leaving the place. Barely a week ago, he had abandoned the cumbersome palanquin, at least on trips within the castle. He preferred to lean on the knights, a task that, according to the maester, would strengthen his legs.

But before his guards had a chance to approach, a voice interrupted them. "I wish to have a few words with my son. Alone."

His mother, until then invisible to his own attention, rose from her seat and approached his.

Aegon's guards regarded him doubtfully. He dismissed them with a disdainful gesture."Wait outside," he said simply, focusing his attention on the female figure in front of him.

Alicent retained the appearance she had had since before the war, as if nothing that had happened had made a dent in her. Certainly, her once auburn hair had a bit more silver threads, and her face was slightly more wrinkled with grimaces of worry, but these were more like simple flaws of age than any reflection of the conflict they had endured. She was the only one without visible scars. And in a way, that made it harder to look at her than if her wounds had been open and festering.

Since he'd returned, she seemed to have this overwhelming need to reestablish some kind of relationship with him.

Aegon didn't pursue it. In truth, there was a kind of resentment harbored deep within his chest, rekindled every time he saw her.

His mother's affections had always been elsewhere. In his childhood, Aemond had been her favorite, always under her wing, while Helaena escaped into her own world and he himself learned to drown himself in wine cups. In their youth, his sister had been the prey of her affections, much more so after what happened with Jaehaerys. And now it was Daeron, the prodigal son who had spent years away and finally returned to her arms, who enjoyed her support, while he, as always, languished in his shadows.

His mother stepped forward, her voice as firm and sure as ever."Your brother needs a bethrothal. Even with Maelor, your line of succession is weak."

Aegon almost laughed at the irony of it all. Here he was, believing she would try to offer some explanation, some words of encouragement in the face of his sorry state. And yet, as always, she acted only with cold calculation.

"He has never expressed a desire to marry. Besides, he is right. We have a more important problem than planning weddings," he said flatly, without any consideration.

Alicent sighed, as if she had expected his reluctance but still found it infuriating. "You need allied Houses that you can win through Daeron," she explained cautiously, as if speaking to a child. "Or perhaps peace? Agree to marry him to Rhaena Targaryen, make her sister a septa, and end the legitimacy of their claim."

The proposal caught him off guard, and for a moment, he was perplexed.

To an outsider, this might have been a good deal. Rhaena Targaryen was infinitely less savage than her sister, much more obedient and controllable. It could unite the two enemy lines, and it could also help get rid of Baela in Oldtown, a girl who would kill any Green husband they tried to give her to.

But Aegon saw beyond the immediate benefits. He saw Daeron, transformed into a symbol of the unity of House Targaryen, a harbinger of peace. And he could see the Blacks and Greens giving him a support he would never receive. One that might compel him to replace him.

He burst out laughing, completely devoid of any mirth, his tone incredibly sarcastic. "What exactly are you seeking, Mother? Allies? Or a better compromise that could put him on the throne?" he accused without reservation, heavy with resentment.

His mother seemed genuinely offended and hurt in equal measure. "Aegon..." she said in a much softer voice, reaching for his hand. He immediately withdrew it, as if her touch were burning embers.

"I will see to it in due time. And I assure you, I will take your every...concern into account," he replied in a voice as icy as ice. He tore his gaze from hers, and, anticipating her making another move, immediately called for his men. "Guards!"

From outside, Ser Marston and Ser Gyles rushed in, placing the King's arms around their shoulders, allowing him to walk as much as possible, and to be carried if necessary.

But before leaving, Aegon cast a disdainful glance at the Dowager Queen, heavy with all the emotions he had built up over the years. Everything he had bottled up inside, from the first moment Alicent had invested him with the weight of his inheritance without regard for his opinion or wishes.

She had never treated him like a son, or he couldn't recall it. Even in his escape, that desperate attempt to push him out of Rhaenyra and Daemon's clutches, had been planned by Larys himself, while the Dowager Queen's hopes were still pinned on Aemond and his return to the Riverlands.

Have you ever considered, Mother, that Daeron might be easier to deal with because he didn't bear the burden of your upbringing? Of your expectations? he thought, as he was led through the corridor. He could remember those deep brown eyes, from the earliest days of his childhood. But had there ever been tenderness in them for him? He couldn't remember.

These bitter thoughts accompanied him once he was settled into the soft chair that had once belonged to his father. It was as useful to him as it had been to King Viserys in his time of illness, extremely comfortable. From his position, the light warmth of the fireplace was comforting, and his eyelids were beginning to feel heavy.

But his musings were interrupted by a knock at the door and the sound of one of his guards entering.

Aegon looked up at Ser Marston questioningly. "What is it?" he asked. The guard was quick to answer. "It is Lord Larys Strong. He wishes to speak with you."

The King sighed, any trace of sleep fading from his eyes. A slight irritation crept up his spine, but he did his best to control it. "Get him in," he finally whispered, his voice hoarse.

The distinctive sound of the Lord of Harrenhal's staff echoed through the room. In the past, his ailment had struck him as amusing, even somewhat repulsive. Now, however, afflicted with far more serious injuries, a crooked foot seemed the lesser of two evils, and he would gladly have traded it for burns and broken bones.

Lord Larys used the same soft, measured voice as always.

"Your Grace. I have come to discuss certain... concerns," he began, sitting in the chair opposite him with an almost amused grace.

Aegon was tempted to snort in disbelief. He had learned a thing or two from Lord Strong throughout the war. And that was his knack for over-the-top words.

"And what troubles a man such as yourself?" he asked with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, hoping that, for once, he would get straight to the point instead of engaging in meaningless chatter.

Fortunately, the gods heard his prayers. Lord Strong made no move to preface this. "Rhaenyra's stepdaughter. Lady Baela."

As always, at the mention of Sunfyre's assassin, Aegon's mood turned completely dark. "What about that viper?" he spat without hesitation, deliberately insulting the lady.

Larys didn't seem affected at all. In fact, he seemed amused. "As you may know, it seems the Blacks intend to crown her. There are rumors that your sister placed her in the line of succession alongside her twin, only below Prince Joffrey and Prince Aegon, seeking to ensure the loyalty of the Velaryons and maintain a secure line," he mentioned, while watching the fire intently.

Aegon shook his head. There had been various rumors during the war, many of which he had heard firsthand. From Lucerys surviving as a fisherman to Jacaerys sleeping with a Northern bastard.

"I've heard the rumor. It's stupid," he stated with conviction. He refused to believe that Daemon's offspring had any right to his throne, or that his sister would have been foolish enough to grant it to them.

Larys Strong shrugged; his refusal to accept such rumors as truth did nothing to undermine his main argument.

"It could be. But the truth is, having the girl here is dangerous. She could be used as the heir to Rhaenyra's claim. And if, gods forbid, the city were to fall..." he said with a tone of concern.

The King sighed, making a disdainful gesture. "Do you think the Blacks will fight for any of them knowing that House Velaryon has betrayed them?" he responded with complete skepticism.

If he had seen anything in war, it was the lack of forgiveness among Rhaenyra's bannermen, especially the northerners, very similar to his own. That had been reflected in the fate of Ser Criston Cole, who had offered to sacrifice himself, and the Winter Wolves had paid his offer with arrows, slaughter, and blood. What would they give the man who had changed cloaks as soon as he learned of the death of the Queen he had sworn to defend? A throne for his blood seemed an impossible reward for such treason.

Lord Larys seemed to think otherwise. "The Seasnake's granddaughters are not him. Both have shown themselves resistant to their grandfather's surrender. It will be seen as a symbol of honor by the Blacks," he agreed decisively.

Aegon had to admit that he was right about that. Lady Rhaena remained in the Vale, sheltered from any army, and silent before the ravens that had been sent to her and Lady Jeyne Arryn demanding her surrender. And as for her sister... the wildling Baela had been confined to the most secluded chambers of the Red Keep, surrounded by guards loyal to the King, a vigilance that even Corlys himself seemed to support, fearful that his granddaughter's recklessness would pose some risk to the fragile peace.

After all, Daemon's eldest daughter had made no secret of her intentions to spill the blood of any Green sympathizer who came too close. And not only that, rewarding a treacherous vermin with an honorable title was something Aegon wanted to avoid at all costs.

And it was that same foundation that made him firm in his decision. "Baela Targaryen is uncontrollable. I will not let her out of my sight as long as there is an army willing to fight for her. I will use her for negotiations if necessary," he indicated, still not a hint of doubt.

Larys sighed, feigning distress. However, his performance was quickly followed by an ingenious idea, one that obviously must have been considered from the beginning."The walls of Oldtown remain as strong as ever. The city was unwounded during the war, and it is full of our allies," he whispered cautiously, testing the waters. When the King remained silent, he continued. "A pair of your Kingsguard could take her there, easily avoiding the bulk of the enemy army if they traveled by ship, and deliver her to our loyalists. She would be sufficiently guarded there, and in such luxurious quarters that the Sea Snake himself might approve." His brown eyes bore into his, and his voice grew higher, almost pained, even though his gaze remained as emotionless as ever, as if his body were in fact a soulless puppet. "I beg you, my King. Losing her would be something from which we might never recover. And while we have her in our hands, the Blacks will not dare to proclaim her sister Queen. She is the eldest, after all."

But Aegon was not swayed by the speech, nor by the theatrical performance. As good as Lord Larys was, the anger that boiled in his veins every time Baela's name was spoken, the pure hatred that seemed to course through every inch of him at the mere memory of what had happened with Sunfyre, was enough to mantain his opinion.

Had he been able to, he would have stood abruptly. Instead, he just glared at him with steely determination. "She will remain here. And that is my final word."

Larys's mask seemed to waver, and an angry glint appeared in his brown eyes. However, it disappeared just as quickly. The man gave a calm smile, rising from his seat and bowing slightly. "As Your Grace commands. You have a sharper mind than mine. I have no doubt you will not make mistakes," he said softly before leaving the room. The King's satisfaction, coupled with the warm atmosphere and comfortable seat, was enough to lull him into a deep sleep.

When he awoke, it was mid-afternoon. The servants provided him with a hearty meal, which left him full and slightly drowsy. However, the constant state of alertness he had developed after his year on the run prevented him from allowing himself more than a short nap during the day, so he forced himself to get some fresh air. Gently, his men guided him to the massive wall outside the great hall, overlooking the parade ground, as bustling as it had been in his father's reign.

He noticed the shadow behind him long before it appeared, and his back immediately tensed, his instincts taking complete control.

However, the fact that his guards didn't raise any alarm signals told him the person posed no apparent threat. From the height and coloring, he knew immediately that who he was, even if he could only discern it out of the corner of his eye.

His voice, as always, was more of a growl than kind words."To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, brother?" he said without a trace of kindness.

Daeron didn't seem surprised, though he maintained a respectful distance, as if he believed that even wounded, Aegon might throw himself at him.

The prince remained silent for a long moment, at his side. He seemed almost... thoughtful. As if observing events that only happened in his head. Or perhaps memories?

Aegon couldn't say he thought much about his childhood. He didn't particularly like to do so. Much less so when those times were now tainted by the bitter moments he had spent with Sunfyre, his greatest adoration.

Nor did he remember much about his brother before he reappeared. He certainly had...glimpses. A bawling baby demanding his mother's attention. Helaena, trying to knit things for the child. Aemond, curious above his younger brother's cradle. And himself, taking his own wood-carved dragon and placing it in the infant's chubby hands, who stared up at him with glowing violet eyes.

But that had been short-lived, like all good things. His brother must have been barely three years old when Alicent had begun pushing Aegon toward his "destiny." Whispered promises of violence and death against him and his brothers, poisoned words against Rhaenyra, ingrained fears against his nephews, the bastard princes.

And when those threats had finally materialized with the loss of Aemond's eye, Aegon himself had long since begun to lose himself among his drinking and brothels, and Daeron had been sent to Oldtown a year earlier, at the tender age of five, in the hopes of keeping him away from danger.

He hadn't seen it, of course. He hadn't witnessed Aemond's violence, Helaena's madness, Aegon's own fall to the basest of instincts.

And that was something the King hadn't been able to fully forgive. How his younger brother had been saved from decay, while they were left to rot. Their mother had chosen one to save from the destructive ways of the Court, and Daeron had been the lucky one. So how could he not hate him? How could he not despise that he was so perfect when he clearly hadn't suffered what they all had?

Helaena, Aemond... all three of them together had been worthy creations of their father and mother, disturbed and imperfect.

Daeron could never understand what that was. Oldtown was a bustling city, but void of the dramas of the court. Of betrayals. Of death.

The King wondered if his brother was so conveniently stupid, or simply blind to the truth. Couldn't he see what was so obvious? That despite his mistakes, dozens looked upon him with admiration and appreciation? That more than one seemed to imagine him with Aegon's own crown on his head?

It kept him awake at night. There had been a time when Aegon had scorned his birthright, taking it as the bitterest burden, the cruelest punishment. And yet now, he guarded and embraced it like a desperate lion.

I have sacrificed too much for this seat of molten steel and spilled blood he repeated to himself every night.

And if it would make his brother an enemy... he was willing to take that path.

"Your Council believes the city is safe enough to proceed with your plans. The prisoners in the black cells still await your judgment," Daeron finally whispered, snapping him out of his own reverie.

The false kings languished beneath the Red Keep, poorly fed and filthy. Lord Borros had suggested delaying the executions, fearing that the accused's allies, who were still too numerous, would rise up against them.

But the situation had changed. With the reinstatement of the City Watch and the Baratheon army's own men, those groups had been quickly dispatched. The few remaining had been hanged that morning, still languishing on the gallows, with orders to raise them within a week.

Aegon turned, his stronger leg helping him lean against the stone wall. "And are these disposable, my brother? Or do you also have some objection?" he said sarcastically, clearly provoking him. The King did not forget, and could hold grudges for years. And he wanted to emphasize that this morning's undermining of his authority would not be easily forgiven.

Daeron didn't look at him, though Aegon noticed his jaw and fists clench at his provocation. "The city should see what happens to traitors," he said simply, looking beyond the walls, toward the bay, which was now beginning to turn a reddish-orange, reflecting the sky. His platinum hair fluttered lightly in the wind, and the light made his eyes sparkle.

The image stirred a memory, the flash of a child gazing at the ships, while Aegon himself carried him on his shoulders so he could gaze beyond the horizon, to where the merchants departed with garments and spices.

But that was quickly dismissed. Weakness was not allowed within the Court, much less for a King. Aegon couldn't afford to be nostalgic or appear vulnerable, much less in front of a man who, for all he knew, could soon become another pretender to the throne.

"Traitors deserve severe punishments. That is exactly what I believe," he pronounced as a judgment, looking away. "Ser Marston," he ordered, calling to his Lord Commander. "Take me to the throne room. Today I will predetermine the sentences before the Iron Throne."

The evening light barely shone through the small windows of the enormous hall, which instead relied on long chandeliers for illumination, creating a somber atmosphere, with enormous shadows cast on the stone walls.

The throne room had always been darker than any of the other rooms in the Red Keep, despite constant efforts to make the windows larger. Even the air seemed heavier, harder to breathe, the feeling of oppression further accentuated by the number of people gathered there, Lords and Ladies who had returned when the city had become safe again, eager to be part of His Grace's Court once again.

The Iron Throne loomed imposingly behind Aegon, with the enormous skulls of Balerion and Meleys flanking it.

Attempting to climb the steps would have been a futile attempt; the wooden planks on each of his legs prevented him from bending his knees, and the space was too narrow for his Kingsguard to carry him safely. Not only that, but the risk of a cut, given his delicate health, was something he couldn't risk, much less in the eyes of so many people.

So he had chosen not to. The chair he sat in was less comfortable than the one in his chambers, but far more so than the throne had ever been. And from there, with the crown upon his head, he was ready to pass judgment on his enemies.

His Kingsguard surrounded him, their pristine white cloaks trailing behind them. A few men from the City Watch flanked both the door and some spaces in the hall, alert to any strange movement.

"Trystane Truefyre, squire to Ser Perkin the Flea," one of the heralds announced in a deep voice, saying the name of the first prisoner to be judged. The sound of chains and footsteps echoed as guards brought in a man who looked like a beggar. His platinum hair was caked with grime, and he had a long, wiry beard, gray from the combination of mud and nasty things that had stuck to it over the days he'd spent sunk in the squalor of the black cells.

His men pushed him to his knees, causing him to fall to the floor with a surprised gasp.

Aegon raised an eyebrow, looking at Ser Marston questioningly. "The crimes?" he asked with icy calm.

His Lord Commander signaled to Orwyle, who began reading the parchment in his hands. "He took the Red Keep. He occupied the Iron Throne. He issued edicts in his own name. He claims to be the illegitimate son of King Viserys I."

Aegon examined the man critically. Even with his colors, his common features were clear in his broad nose and eyes, more blue than purple. Although that hair betrayed an ancestor with Valyrian blood, no man could be further from the image of his own lord father, and it was obvious that his claim was as foolish as it was silly. "Something you have to say in your defense, bastard?" he asked sarcastically. The boy's eyes widened in defiance, but his tongue stopped as soon as he saw the man at his side.

Ser Perkin the Flea, a former knight-errant, had been appointed Lord Commander of the City Watch under Aegon's blessing, after he had surrendered the castle and handed his squire over to Lord Borros during the fall of the three false monarchs. And now, this man, who had once served in the Court of the fool before him, now stood at the side of the rightful King, ready to witness his fate without lifting a finger to stop it.

Aegon could see the hope drain from Trystane's eyes, leaving only a flicker of mild defiance. His gaze shifted from Ser Perkin and instead addressed him. "Nothing. I will not plead innocence or beg for mercy like a coward."

The King raised his eyebrows, amused by the audacity. And yet, the action was not without honor. Many men of higher birth had groveled, seeking forgiveness to save their miserable lives. Yet this bastard accepted his fate with his head held high. He had to be recognized, he had to admit it. "Very well. You will be executed for high treason. Ser Alfred..."

The tall, powerful man took the sword and drew it, the Valyrian steel of Blackfyre illuminating in the light of the candles and torches.

Aegon himself had given it to him to use as his executioner, when he had cut down his own sister for Sunfyre to devour. Since then, Ser Alfred had wielded it solely to exercise his will, while preserving his own, worthless steel for fighting and training.

Alfred Broome stood as the guards placed Trystane's head on a stump. Despite the havoc it would cause, Aegon had decided that the final executions would take place there. The heads, mounted on spikes on the city walls, would be sufficient sign that the impostors were dead, and the people would see it anyway. Right now, he was more interested in shocking the nobles present at Court, who watched as the traitors met their fate.

Broome raised his sword to the boy's neck, ready to strike, when Trystane finally began to resist. Aegon almost laughed at this. So much for bravery he thought, watching the guards try to hold him in position.

The young man raised his head, searching for the King. "Though I must make a request, Your Grace. If it be in your will to fulfill it," he said, still struggling with the men holding him.

Aegon looked at him curiously, signaling for his soldiers to loosen their grip slightly. "What is it?" he asked, now expecting the classic retilia of whispered apologies.

But there were no pleas on the lad's lips. "I served as a squire for many years. I wish to be knighted and die as such," he replied with genuine conviction, which drew sympathetic glances from the nobles, who murmured among themselves.

Orwyle leaned slightly over his shoulder, whispering softly. "I believe it is a just request, my King. And they'll see you as kind for granting it."

Aegon needed no further convincing. The lad's courage was commendable, even if his audacity in trying to crown himself was about to cost him his life. "Granted," the King uttered distractedly. "Ser Marston," he said, calling to his loyal guard.

The Lord Commander of his Kingsguard drew his sword, draping it over Trystane's shoulders. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent. In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women..."

Aegon had heard the oaths sworn many times during his father's reign. Hundreds of knights had passed through these same halls not long ago, though now it seemed almost a lifetime ago. Ser Criston Cole, his loyal Hand, Ser Harwin Strong, the father of Rhaenyra's bastards. Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk Cargyll, the twins tragically at odds with each other...

Each and every one had played a part in history. Their names had been written, for better or worse, to be remembered for all posterity. But what kind of stories would be told about Aegon? Would he be the villain, the hero?

I still have time to rewrite everything as I please. Rhaenyra will be completely erased, and in a few hundred years, she will barely be remembered as the traitor who failed, he thought with a certain sense of triumph.

Sunken into those thoughts, he barely detected the sighs in the room as the sword fell upon Trystane's head, severing it with a single blow, nor how his brother had turned away so as not to look at it. Aegon watched the blood flow, staining the cobblestones on the floor.

Was this my grandfather's last moments? he wondered as the soldiers dragged the body outside, leaving a reddish trail beneath their feet.

Not that he cared much. Ser Otto Hightower had played the role of a presumptuous puppeteer in his life. His death at Daemon's hands had barely surprised him, much less affected him, in the pigsty where he had had to take refuge that night.

Soon, Ser Trystane Fyre's head would be positioned on the wall, perhaps on the same spike as the former Hand of the King was. The thought intrigued him.

"Next," he ordered in a determined voice. The guards were quick to fulfill their duty.

The boy, thrown to the spot now splattered with blood, was a little over five years old. He stared at the crowd and Aegon with wide eyes and a pounding heart, like a lost animal. The child seemed oblivious to what was happening around him, clinging to his own body, as if seeking some comfort.

But aside from a few anguished words from the ladies and lords present, he didn't receive much sympathy, perhaps because they were afraid the King himself would take a dim view of him. Again, the only one who seemed willing to speak out for the child was Daeron himself, who looked worriedly at the scene unfolding before them.

"Gaemon Palehair. He served as a false king, with a court of sellswords and whores, passing him off as Your Grace's bastard son," Orwyle said firmly.

"However, his mother has confessed that he was fathered by some Lysene," Ser Perkin added, his tone indifferent.

Aegon knew it wasn't true. He remembered the lad's mother, or at least the sounds she made on the nights he had paid to sleep with her. Gaemon was, in his line of legitimate and bastard children, his secondborn. He remembered holding him in his arms, a pink, squalling thing, just a few weeks after his birth. He had stopped frequenting that brothel for a while, not wanting to have the woman's demands on him. Fortunately, she had never asked for anything, even though his paternity of her son was so obvious. And he himself had never offered any help. In fact, this was the first time he had seen the boy in years.

"Where is she?" he asked curiously. It had been a while since that incident. The whore had lost his attention since then, and the few encounters by pure chance had ceased even before the war broke out.

Ser Marston shrugged. "She was hanged this morning along with the rest, Your Grace," he said simply, without further ado.

The King couldn't say he felt sorry. She had been just another face among the hundreds he'd lain with, and the fact that she had given birth to his child hadn't made her more important in his eyes.

But there was still the matter of the child. Bastard or not, the boy was still his blood. And beyond the taboo his execution would bring in the eyes of the gods if the order came from his own mouth, the punishment seemed excessive. After all, he had only served as a puppet for his mother's plans.

The same as I had for mine, he thought bitterly. That was finally what made him make the decision.

"The boy will be pardoned by the Crown. He is too young to know what he was doing. The perpetrators of this farce are dead, let the boy live," he said calmly, earning light applause from some nobles, who certainly welcomed this show of mercy. His own brother, the prince, seemed to sigh in relief.

"Your Grace has a good heart," whispered one of the women, tears welling in her eyes. Many heads joined in slight nods and words of comfort.

The King signaled with his hand for silence. "He will remain in the castle. He will be a ward of the Crown. He will receive the appropriate care."

The child was quickly scooped into the arms of a gold-cloaked man, a little more roughly than necessary. Aegon watched as he was almost dragged outside, unaware that he had nearly lost his life.

"And the last..." announced the Grand Maester, as the final prisoner was led away. Of all them, he was the one who drew the most gasps of surprise and disgruntled whispers.

The old man before Aegon seemed anything but a threat. He was so thin that even his chains seemed loose. He hunched over, and he needed the guards' help to reach the hall.

Orwyle quickly presented him to the crowd. "We don't know his name, but everyone knew him as the Shepherd. He was the one responsible for organizing the dragon massacre in the Dragonpit."

Aegon's anger was mixed with a hint of disbelief at the man, who looked so precarious, yet had been responsible for such a heinous crime. "My sister was truly a complete fool if she let this old codger, who is more bone than flesh, eliminate our legacy," he whispered cautiously.

It was apparently his voice that brought the old man out of his momentary stupor. His eyes, tinged with red veins, fixed on him, and his voice rose above all others. "King of whores. King of lies. Deformed cripple. Your appearance is a sign of the gods' punishment upon you and your ilk of monsters!"

His shout caused several of those present to take steps back, completely fearful and shocked at the same time. Daeron froze in place. The guards placed their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to strike him down if he approached the King.

Even Aegon himself remained perplexed for a couple of seconds, surprised by the audacity. However, that shock quickly dissipated, giving way to a burning anger. "Who the hell does this son of a bitch think he is?" he screamed furiously, liquid fire coursing through his veins. "Teach him a lesson," he ordered Ser Marston, who immediately stepped forward. The guards holding the old man tightened their grip on him as the sturdy knight landed a powerful punch to the man's ribs.

The Sheperd hunched over, coughing, at which point the white cloak delivered another direct blow to his face, sending a pair of teeth flying into the shocked audience.

"Enough," said Aegon, noting that his brother seemed distraught at the spectacle of brutality, and knowing that it had had the desired effect nonetheless. Now the Court seemed to hold its breath as the Shepherd spat blood onto the ground, carelessly wiping it away with the back of his hand, raising a bony finger at him, pointing. "Your heir will die. You will die. Your line and your reign will be eternally overshadowed by others of your own blood. That is your curse."

That was the final straw. The King no longer cared if it was seen as an act of pure, unbridled violence. It had been a direct threat to him and Maelor, and a humiliation to the Crown. And he wasn't about to allow it. "Cut out his tongue. I don't want to hear any more nonsense," he said without a hint of remorse.

Ser Marston only seemed to hesitate for a few seconds before drawing a dagger from his belt. The soldier at his side took it to warm it over the fire, while the rest of the guards held the old man, who was shaking with tangible despair.

Daeron finally left the corner from which he had been watching, approaching Aegon's presence. "Brother, you are going too far..." he said with undue concern.

The King looked at him defiantly. "Didn't you say that traitors must be punished?" he asked ironically.

The prince vehemently shook his head, staring at the metal of the dagger, finally red-hot. His hand placed itself on Aegon's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "He's a mad old man. End this with a swift slash of the sword. It will be best for him and for you," he whispered urgently.

Ser Alfred, who until then had remained silent, echoed the prince's request. "I will cut off his head right now, with your permission."

Aegon remained silent. Ser Marston's broad back prevented him from seeing what was happening, but he could hear it. The sizzling steel meeting wet flesh, the muffled screams, the horrified gasps of the people in the hall. When the guard finally stepped back, with the piece of meat in his hand, the King made a decision. "No. This bastard does not deserve a quick death," he finally said.

Daeron took him by the shoulders, lowering his voice to a whisper. "My King, please," he said softly, trying to break his steely resolve.

But his plea fell on deaf ears. Aegon turned to speak to Orwyle with an aggressive hiss."Prepare a space in the courtyard, and build a bonfire. We will show him the fate that awaits the enemies of dragons." With that, the guards dragged the accused out of sight, and the nobles, many of whom seemed sickened by the gruesome scene they had just witnessed, followed with reluctant but compelled steps.

The enormous stake lay in the center of the courtyard, looming imposingly before everyone's eyes. The red of the sunset was beginning to give way to complete darkness, broken only by the reflection of the guards' torches, whose golden cloaks gleamed in the firelight.

The servants had brought the straw and fodder from the stables, forming a large pile of dried grass that formed a thick layer, perfect for their purpose. Aegon had forbidden it from getting wet; he wanted the Shepherd to be fully conscious when his... punishment was carried out. He wanted him to feel every agonizing second. And he wanted everyone to see it.

Aegon found himself in the center of it, standing of his own accord, supported by himself.

The craftsmen had made him an elegant walking stick, which he hadn't had a chance to test, still too early in his recovery to even try, according to Orwyle. However, if he was going to do this his way, he was determined to look every inch the King he was. And from what he could see, that wasn't so difficult.

"I beg you, my lord. You are not yet ready to attempt to walk on your own," the Grand Maester whispered, trying to change his mind. With the crowd was Daeron himself, who watched all the arrangements with disapproval.

Aegon ignored them both, willingly receiving the torch from Ser Marston's hand, holding it tightly. He looked at the Grand Maester defiantly. "Will you try to stop me?" he asked curiously.

Orwyle quickly shook his head. "Of course not, Your Grace. I am only concerned for your well-being..."

The King sighed, allowing himself to be flanked by his two guards, who gently guided him toward the spot where the bonfire would be built. The Shepherd had already been tied to the stake, feet and hands, ready for his fate. The man babbled, his chin dripping with drool mixed with warm blood, dripping onto the straw beneath his feet, turning it red.

Ser Marston and Ser Alfred loosened their grip, letting Aegon lean partly on his right leg and partly on the walking stick.

He seemed about to slip on the first step, but held on firmly, determined that no one would see him fall. The torch in his right hand crackled slightly as he raised it, whispering to the man in front of him. "Now die, you son of a bitch." With his remaining strength, he threw the fire toward the dry straw, which quickly ignited. The orange color reflected in his violet eyes with a sickly glow as the man burned.

For a moment, it was as if everything stopped. His ears no longer registered the sound, his nose no longer smelled the burning meat, his face barely felt the heat. Through the flames, he could see his brother, sense his horror, his fear, his revulsion, his... anger.

His eyes met his own before Daeron pushed the crowd closer to him, withdrawing from the scene, refusing to watch it any longer. That reminded Aegon of the moment he had killed his first man. Blood, the executioner of his own son. The King had participated in his torture, and it had been a blow of his mace that had finished the villain.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had that night. Powerful. Avenged. As if the gods themselves had given him the strength to finish off his enemies.

But it wasn't over yet. Dozens of them were hidden behind walls and gates, swearing peace to him. Half the cowards on his Council wanted to grant them forgiveness. Aegon wasn't about to allow it. Now he saw the path he must take, and he was prepared to do it without wavering.

The next day, he stood on the parade ground early, watching the soldiers prepare while the servants gathered up the remains of the night's fire.

He had risen at first light, assisted once again by his knights, not wanting to tempt fate as he had the night before, but still determined to fulfill his task.

And there was his objective. Lord Baratheon strapped his sword to his belt, while dozens of men followed suit. The bustle of mounts and knights was great. Even so, the soldiers parted at the presence of His Grace and his Kingsguard.

"Lord Borros," he greeted the man, who was waiting beside a massive black stallion. "You look in a hurry."

The Lord of Storm's End turned, acknowledging his presence with a slight bow. "I must begin the recruitment, Your Grace. As we understand, several Houses are willing to open their gates to us voluntarily," he explained, while the squire adjusted his horse's saddle.

Aegon snorted sarcastically, looking at him sharply. "Like a whore, that would spread her legs for anyone who would pay her. And yet, they will do so for the next person who offers them the most gold on consecutive nights," he said bluntly, with no intention of hiding his true opinion.

Lord Borros understood immediately, though he chose to leave no room for doubt. "What exactly is it you wish me to do, my King?" he asked cautiously, trying to better understand his intentions.

Aegon's instructions were clear and precise. "There will be no mercy. Remind them of the King's justice for their sins," he instructed without hesitation.

The Baratheon man swallowed slightly, looking at the guards and then back at him. "Is that wise, Your Grace?" he asked cautiously. Aegon also lowered his voice to a soft whisper. "Aye, if I command it. They do not fear me, Borros. But they will, soon. And with it, will come loyalty," he stated conspiratorially. "And this is the first step toward achieving it."

Lord Borros nodded, still confused, but with renewed enthusiasm. Aegon knew he was the kind of man who couldn't resist the promise of battle and violence. So much like his deceased brother, Aemond.

"If that is your wish, Your Grace, then I promise you I will do everything to fulfill it," he vowed vehemently.

And he would.

A week later, apparent peace had returned to the castle. Aegon was preparing for a hearty breakfast, silently accompanied by his mother and brother, when a tremendous commotion caught his attention.

The prince quickly took up his sword, while Aegon was led by his guards to observe the spectacle.

Dozens of men were roughly shoved into the hall, with soldiers shouting insults behind them as they were led into the castle.

Daeron's eyes bore into his, accusingly. "What does this mean?" he asked, his tone closer to a shout.

Aegon shrugged, surveying the scene with satisfaction. "Punishment for traitors."

The reaction was almost automatic. His brother, much taller than him and still with the strength of youth in his body, grabbed him by the tunic, lifting him slightly. His Kingsguard drew their swords and pointed them at his neck, while their mother screamed. "Stop, you both!" Daeron!"

It seemed to be Alicent, not the threat to his life, that stopped his brother. Reluctantly, the prince placed him back on the ground. The King signaled, having his men put away their weapons and help him back into his chair.

Daeron sighed, raking his hands through his messy hair, pacing like a caged lion. "These men used your banner and opened the gates to your troops, Aegon."

The King spat on the ground in contempt. "The same thing they did to Rhaenyra. Now they pay the price."

"And what is that?" the prince asked, a sour expression on his face.

His Grace seemed incredibly pleased with himself. "Oaths of fealty. Ransoms in gold. And the surrender of hostages."

Daeron glared at him, looking as if he wanted to strike him.

Alicent stepped forward to try to mediate between them. "You put us in a delicate situation. The death of Rhaenyra and her offspring has left us in no better position, and if you insist on uniting them against us..." he admitted, taking the prince's side in the argument.

But Aegon was undeterred by the threatening words. Instead, he seemed seized by a renewed sense of resolve. "Then we will fight. We will tear those sons of bitches to pieces and send them back to their desolate castles and frozen wastes with their tails between their legs."

Those were his sincere thoughts. Nothing could give him more satisfaction than sending Lord Stark and that rabble of rioters back utterly humiliated and defeated.

But neither Daeron nor his mother seemed to share his enthusiasm. "It is not that simple. If they all fight as one against us, we'll be lost," Alicent said, standing next to her youngest son.

Aegon rolled his eyes mockingly, though he didn't mention it. He couldn't recall a single time his mother had agreed with himself. "Then they'll come face to face with my brave brother and his dragon," he finally replied, looking at Daeron with a sharp smile on his lips. "I've heard that Tessarion is improving every day. That her wounded mouth stopped bleeding days ago and that she can now breathe larger and larger breaths of fire. You've even been able to make short flights over it, all the way to Dragonstone and back."

His brother frowned. "Have you been spying on me?" he asked, not a hint of kindness in his voice.

Aegon laughed heartily. "Spying? What need would there be? You do nothing behind your King's back, do you?" he asked with a clear tone of challenge, analyzing his answer.

Daeron's face twisted in a mixture of emotions. Fury, shame, unease. Still, he simply responded in a more measured voice. "Of course not, brother."

The King felt a satisfaction even greater than having seen the traitors being led to the cells. Certainly, he had long since sent Larys to keep his brother under strict surveillance. He knew who he spoke to and what he was talking about, every person around him, and every slightest movement. These were the basic precautions he had to take, given the situation he found himself in. "Good. I assume you will fight for me, then, if the need arises."

The prince swallowed, conflicted. "It is my duty," he replied in a whisper.

Aegon resisted the urge to laugh out loud at the comical image his brother presented. "Do not worry. Even if you fail, we still have the girl. I will cut off an ear, a finger, a tongue if necessary, so long as they stay away from our gates."

Alicent gasped, shocked and horrified in equal measure. "Aegon, you cannot do that. You have sworn peace with her family. Promised that she would be safe. Sh's a traitor, but we need her grandsire and her cousin."

As always, Daeron took his mother's stance, joining her dismay. "I will not involve myself in dishonorable actions. Not even for you."

Aegon leaned in as low as he could, his voice threatening."Too late, brother. You've had enough of them. This isn't Oldtown. The enemies will attack you not with a sword in hand, but with a dagger when they embrace you to sign a peace. And I will not hesitate to respond accordingly."

He could see the visible chill run down Daeron's spine as he took a step back, trying to put as much space between them as possible. "Permission to withdraw, Your Grace. I have lost my appetite."

The King looked at him arrogantly. "Asking permission? You finally seem to be beginning to understand your place," he replied, watching his pale face turn red with suppressed indignation. He shrugged. "You are excused."

His brother hurriedly retreated. The Dowager Queen quickly took his place, her expression disappointed. "Your vanity is your mortal sin," she said condemningly.

 The King showed little interest in her accusation. "I am the King, and it is time you all understand that," he stated simply, as if the entire previous exchange had been nothing more than a game to him. And it was. If anything, Aegon wanted to make the power dynamic clear, for his brother to know exactly where he stood.

But Alicent seemed to have a completely different view. "And don't you think that everything we've done is to keep that crown on your head?" she asked, her voice slightly husky, gently cupping his face in her hands before letting go and withdrawing as well, without looking back.

Aegon stood for a long moment, still hearing the shouting of the Baratheon men. Inside, he felt his emotions swirling, unsure exactly what he felt. Guilt? Anger? Sadness? He had no idea.

"Grand Maester!" he shouted, the echo of his voice ringing in the hall. Orwyle hurried over, not wanting to provoke his anger any further.

"Send a raven to Dragonstone. Tell the dragon keepers to send eggs," Aegon ordered in a cold voice.

The man looked at him, confused. "Your Grace?"

The King gestured to the empty space his brother had been occupying just minutes before. "I will not stand idly by in the face of the obvious threat right under my nose. As long as he has the only dragon, he will grow bold," he said, slamming his fist hard against the wall. "Ask for the most promising eggs to be sent," he finished, reaching out to summon one of the servants. "Bring more wine. A full flagon."

Orwyle didn't argue. Instead, he simply bowed.

"I'll send the message at once, Your Grace," he promised sincerely, hurrying to fulfill his mission.

When the wine appeared on his table, he drained it all, barely taking a breath before placing it back on the table, empty. "Another!" he shouted, slamming the table. The servants ran back and forth, trying to fulfill his whim quickly.

Mind dulled by alcohol, sulking and confused, he simply buried himself in thought. Daeron... He was his last brother. His blood. He loved him. He hated him. He wanted people to see him as they saw him. He wanted people to stop seeing him that way. Could he trust him? Or would he take the crown at the slightest opportunity?

Such notions left him bitter. For who else could he possibly talk to about it? His advisors were cowardly vipers, his friends were dead, his family had been eliminated, and his mother seemed to favor his brother herself.

The King had no one else he could trust. And he couldn't risk being seen as weak. Not when his position on the Iron Throne seemed more fragile than ever.

I will have my dragon. Another Sunfyre, as magnificent and as great. And then, it won't matter if they are loyal or not. I will be their King, their true King... he thought, leaning over the table, falling into a drunken stupor.

In the hall below, he could still hear the voices of the groveling, bound nobles. He knew Lord Borros would force them to make declarations of loyalty. That he would force them to grant him the gold needed to pay for his wedding celebrations. That he would force them to give their sons and daughters to the Court as hostages, encouraging them to fight for him on the battlefield. For what other choice did he have? He would never be loved, he already knew that. But feared? He still had a chance.

And with that conviction, he calmly continued his breakfast. Aegon could feel himself healing a little more each day, his strength returning. And soon, he would be as well as possible again. Soon, he would marry Lady Cassandra Baratheon. And with the children she bore him, along with Maelor, he would form a dynasty that would last for thousands of years.

He was sure of it.