I

Aegon can hear the frantic beating of his heart roaring in his ears. He can feel the sweat clinging to his skin, can taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth as he bites down on his tongue, can smell the dozens of other sweaty bodies in this stifled Meereenese pyramid. But none of that matters, because he can see the girl sitting upon her modest throne, just a wooden bench at the top of a dias, with her silver–gold hair braided tightly and her amethyst eyes surveying her subjects, pale skin glowing as the sunlight hits her. An old man dressed in the garb of a Westerosi knight stands beside her.

Daenerys Stormborn. The Conqueror of Slaver's Bay, the Queen of Meereen, the last living member of House Targaryen besides himself. Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains. His aunt. His future wife should all go well.

She's saying something to the man who stands before her, but Aegon isn't processing any of that. He can only trace her features and try to find similarities to his own. They say the Targaryens have more often than not been devastatingly beautiful, and looking at Daenerys, he can see where they drew that assessment. They say his father, their Silver Prince, was the same. He wonders, distantly, feeling separate from his body and overwhelmed all at once, if this is the closest he will ever get to knowing what Rhaegar Targaryen looked like.

There's a pressure on his shoulder and Aegon's gaze shifts to Ser Jon, who stands beside him. The deep blue of both their hairs has been washed out now, his returned to its original silver–gold, his would–be–father's to its fiery red. There's gray by his temples, going on to streak through the rest of his hair and his beard has hints of silver, but he's smiling, really smiling, and as the lines around his light blue eyes crinkle, Aegon thinks this is the youngest the man who has raised him has ever looked.

"Calm yourself, boy," says Ser Jon. His tone is gruff, but he squeezes his shoulder in reassurance. Aegon forces his body to relax. He takes a deep breath. Beside him, Septa Lemore offers him a sympathetic glance.

"All will be well, in the end," she whispers. "You'll see."

Queen Daenerys has stopped conversing with her subject. She waves her hand, motioning for the next people to be brought forward. Feeling sick, Aegon realizes that's them.

So many things could go wrong. His aunt might not believe him, and banish him from her domains. She might set her dragons on him for, in her mind, daring to impersonate her dead nephew. She could make his death slow and gruesome, if she so wished. But that is not what Aegon fears; Aegon fears the disgust on her face, the doubt, the hatred. Aegon fears revulsion from the last member of his once great house, fears the last of his father's family will cast him out. It is rejection which has him shaking as he steps towards her, not terror for his life or for political ramifications.

"Your Grace," he begins, bowing deeply, "it is an honor to finally meet you. I have waited a long time for this moment."

Queen Daenerys smiles kindly. "I am always glad to meet one of my subjects." She observes him carefully, and he knows she's taking in his Valyrian features. "Tell me, what is your name?"

Aegon's mouth is dry. He opens it once, closes it, and then opens it again. Then he feels two presences slip beside him, to his right Ser Jon and to his left Septa Lemore. "My companion is not nervous by nature," says the latter, "but he has important information he thinks you will want to hear. Would it be too much to ask for everyone– save your guards, of course– to leave the throne room?"

The young queen's smile fades. Her eyes, so much like his, narrow. One of her guards, an Unsullied, by the looks of it, begins to say something before she raises a hand sharply. The eunuch stops talking. "Leave us," commands Daenerys Targaryen. Everyone obeys, save for her men who stand astute and at attention. "Speak." The warmth is gone from her voice now, though her tone is not hostile.

"My name–" he draws in a deep breath. "My name, Your Grace, is Aegon."

The queen of Meereen raises an eyebrow. "That is a Targaryen name. I was not aware that my forefathers had such reach even all the way here."

"I am not sure if that is the case either, Your Grace."

There's a pause. "Explain," says the queen.

Septa Lemore and Ser Jon step forward. "I am sure you know," begins the former, "of the sacking of King's Landing. Of the murder of your father at the hands of the Kingslayer and the murders of your niece and nephew and goodsister at the behest of Tywin Lannister."

Daenerys stiffens. "Of course I do," she says. "Where is this going?"

"Your Grace, there are two people in this room whom the rest of the world believes to be dead. The first is myself. I am known as Septa Lemore, but before that, I was Ashara Dayne of Starfall." The queen leans forward, lips drawn tightly together. "The second is–"

"The second is myself," Aegon interrupts. He needs to be strong, needs to be seen as strong. Ser Jon did not raise him to be craven or weak. Said man gives him an approving look. Emboldened, he forges on. "For years, I grew up as Young Griff, son of Griff. But I am ready to reveal myself to the world, now, Your Grace."

"And who are you?" his aunt asks despite herself. Suspicion is etched across her face. He braces himself.

Be brave. Be a dragon.

"I am Aegon Targaryen, Your Grace. I am the son of your brother, Prince Rhaegar, and Princess Elia Martell."

For a beat, silence reigns and time stands still.

Then pandemonium ensues.

The Dragon Queen is on her feet in an instant, features twisted by fury. "You dare!" she seethes. "You dare claim to be my brother's son? When all know his head was dashed against the walls of the Red Keep for the benefit of the Usurper and his dogs?" At the rage in her voice, her men stiffen.

Aegon resists the urge to flinch, but her words are like a blow to the heart. His hands curl to fists, biting into his palms so hard the skin breaks.

"Your Grace," calls Ser Jon, "I am Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost. I was a loyal friend to your brother and served as Hand of the King to your father. I say to you now, as does Magister Illyrio Mapatis, the man who offered you and the late Prince Viserys shelter, the man who sent us, that he speaks the truth."

"Ser Barristan," says Daenerys, "Do you recognize the septa and this man? Do they speak the truth of who they are?"

"I thought that was Selmy." Ser Jon curses the man beneath his breath, so quietly that Aegon strains to hear him.

The old knight's wide-eyed gaze is trained on Septa Lemore. His face has drained of color and his mouth hangs open. He looks as if he's seen a ghost. "Aye, Your Grace," he breathes.

The queen reels back. In her shock, the hardness of her face recedes somewhat. When she turns back to Aegon, her anger is still evident, but something else colors her features. Something conflicted yet thoughtful. Vulnerable, even, before her lips curl into a snarl. He does not dare to call it hope, or anything of the sort. "Leave me. My men will escort you to apartments. If you speak the truth, then we have much to discuss. But if I find you are lying to me–" her voice goes steely"– then mark my words, you will rue the day you decided you would try to make a fool of me."

A/N: Hope no one was too OOC. I'm still getting used to these characters.