Disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF and I make no profit writing about it.

(AN): This is the only way it could have ended, as proposed by Last Falconry.

The roar of the smallfolk echoed in his ears, and Aegon wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His entire life had been moving towards this day, from the very moment he was born and his royal father laid his inscrutable lilac gaze on his squalling form.

"Are you ready, brother?" His grey eyes narrowed, pinning Aegon with a hungry stare. The wolf's stare that he had inherited from his mother. The other Aegon might have the look of old Valyria, but Aegon knew that he was the one that would triumph. He had the strength of dragon and wolf both in him, and his blood was the blood of ice and fire.

"I'm ready." Aegon replied, clenching his jaw and running an anxious hand through his tangled silver strands. Truth be told neither wanted to fight to the death, but that was what their father had decreed, and so that was what the had to do. To the victor went the crown, the adoration of the Seven Kingdoms, and the right to their name. The loser would be less than nothing, an abject failure stripped of his very identity.

In unison the two brothers drew their blades, and then began the dance of steel. Around and around they went, feet stomping into the cracked earth of the Dragonpit as their swords clashed with grating screeches and sprays of molten sparks.

The thumping of his heart thundered in Aegon's ears, beating hot and heavy as it pumped the blood through his trembling body and into his aching limbs. How long had they already fought? How much longer must they continue to fight? It felt like they'd only been struggling for a moment, but at the same time, for their entire lives.

And then it ended, not with a great flourish or charge for glory, but with a simple misstep. Aegon stepped backwards, tripping over a sharp-edged stone, and that was enough for Aegon to step forward and open the other prince's throat with his blade.

Crimson fluid spurted as blood continued to rush through shorn arteries, soaking the dirt with gore as Aegon sunk to his knees. His face was slack and disbelieving, one hand instinctively clutching at his neck as if he could somehow seal the wound shut with willpower alone. Blue tinted lips moved soundlessly.

Good luck, brother.

And then Aegon died, collapsing bonelessly as the other Aegon looked on, torment twisting his face into a rictus of despair.

Silence hung in the Dragonpit until it was broken by King Rhaegar rising to his feet, grinning beatifically at his pale-faced queens. "I give you my heir, Aegon of the House Targaryen, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms!"

And the smallfolk broke into cheers.

"Aegon."

"Aegon!"

"AEGON!"

"AEGON!"

Then Rhaegar held up his hand, urging the common folk to quiet. They instantly did, eyes shining as they gaze up at the Silver King standing atop his platform. "And as for this other boy, he is Aegon no more. Let it be known to all and sundry that henceforce he is to be referred to as Objective Failure. He is a stain on the royal line, and no heir of mine. Do what you will with the body of Objective Failure."

And then the smallfolk cheered, and they howled, and before Aegon's eyes they descended like a ravening tide to consume the flesh of his once brother.

"Goodbye, Aegon." The Prince whispered, turning away.

(AN): ?