II
The throne room is quiet as the boy who claims to be Dany's nephew is escorted out. She watches him go, her knuckles white as her fists clench. She does not relax as he makes his leave. Ser Barristan stands stunned beside her, and Grey Worm, while he cannot yet understand the common tongue, has noted the fury emanating from her. He grips his spear stiffly.
"Ser Barristan," Dany says again, quietly, dangerously, "you are confident that those people beside the boy were who they said they were? You are confident they were Jon Connington and Ashara Dayne?"
"I would recognize that face anywhere," her queensguard breathes, and she gets the impression he's far away.
"Ser," she barks, and his eyes snap to her, "I need you here with me now, not wherever your mind is."
He flushes and nods, attentiveness returning. "Of course, Your Grace. Though if I may suggest, the throne room is not an optimal place to have this discussion. Perhaps we could go to your chambers?"
Dany bites the inside of her cheek. She does not want to wait until they reach her chambers, she wants to speak of this now. The boy strode into her seat of power, with her brother's faithful man and dared to claim to be her dead nephew. She wishes to address this now.
But Dany is not a fool. She understands the need for secrecy. And so she nods, stands, and says, "Let us be on our way."
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.
The trek to her chambers is a tense one. They set off at a brisk, terse pace, and Dany strides forward as quickly as her legs can carry her. Guards salute sharply as they pass but she spares them no mind. They arrive at her chambers quickly. Upon entry, the queen whirls on her companion.
"Ser Barristan," she says, "first and foremost, I must know: is there any chance that the boy speaks the truth? That he is indeed my brother's son?"
The Lord Commander of her Queensguard furrows his brow. "I'm afraid I'm not the best person to consult, Your Grace," he says apologetically. "I was at the Trident with Prince Rhaegar when he fell, and so was not at King's Landing when the city was sacked or even directly after it. I do know that Princess Rhaenys' corpse was confirmed to be her own, but Prince Aegon's was too brutalized to identify."
"Of course it was too brutalized," Dany snaps, "Tywin Lannister's dogs had his head dashed against a wall!" She's lashing out, she knows, and it's not fair of her, but she can't bring herself to care.
She doesn't know what to feel, what to think. The possibility that another Targaryen walks this earth is a tantalizing one. The thought that she is not the last of her House, that the line of Aegon the Conqueror and the dragonlords of Old Valyria before him will not die with her, fills her with joy and desperation of which she hasn't felt in since Mirri Maz Dur had promised she would save Drogo, and–
Dany remembers how that turned out.
On the other hand, there is anger within her to complement the positive emotions because if this boy is lying– and he most likely is– he has given her false hope in the cruelest way. Not only that, but he has spat upon the memory of Rhaegar and House Targaryen and the innocent, murdered babe he is posing as, and she will not have that.
Beneath everything warring inside of her, deep within her, something else lingers. Dany has come so far. She went from a helpless princess at the mercy of Viserys to the wife and khaleesi of Khal Drogo to the Mother of Dragons and the Queen of Mereen. And all this time, the Iron Throne has fueled her, the knowledge that she is its rightful heir has been her driving force. "I will go home," she has told herself over and over again, "if I look back, I am lost."
The thought that she might not have the right to the Iron Throne-
Dany pushes the thought away. First she must discover if the boy speaks the truth. Then she can think about how to broach that topic.
"Perhaps we should arrange a meeting with Ser Jon and Lady Ashara," Ser Barristan says. The queen blinks, remembering his presence. "We could see whether or not is plausible. Then we could move on from there."
"A wise suggestion, good ser," Dany says. All the energy leaves her and she feels numb. Running a hand across her face, she wonders where Ser Jorah is. If he were here, would he have comforted her or drawn his sword to meet the boy and his party? Then she remembers he is a traitor who conspired to have both herself and Rhaego killed and her mouth draws into a thin line. "Leave me. I wish to have time alone."
"As you wish, Your Grace," Ser Barristan bows. "Shall I send the word that you are not to be disturbed for the rest of the day?"
Dany's mind flashes to all the Meereenese still waiting to be heard. She withholds a groan. "No," she mumbles. "I'll be back within the hour."
Her Lord Commander nods and leaves her to her thoughts.
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.
Dany can't focus. Not for the rest of the day. She hears petition after petition and tries to be as fair as possible but the world feels like it's a thousand miles away and far too overwhelming all at once. She has a hard time comprehending what's being said by who, but the sounds of clicking boots and jostling bodies and quiet murmurs are like a thousand spiders crawling across her person, ready to bury her beneath their weight and eat her alive.
When the day is done, she stands from her throne and stretches her legs and pours herself some wine. Dany's not a heavy drinker, but the feeling of the goblet in her hands and the taste of it on her tongue soothes her nerves a little. She misses Daario. She wishes he was here beside her, but her captain is far away from her, off at Lhazareen. She misses him terribly. He would not comfort her, she knows, but he would smile, his golden tooth glinting, blue curls framing his face, and tell her he would kill the boy who claims to be Aegon– and that would incense her and touch her heart at the same time, the former more than the latter– if she so wanted and take her to bed.
Irri and Jhiqui prepare her for bed. Her mind plagued by thoughts of Daario and the boy–who–claims–to–be–Aegon both, she does not sleep well.
III
If Aegon stays confined in this room for much longer, he's going to go mad. He paces to and fro, back and forth from one side of the room to the other, and then left to right until he's sure he's going to wear a whole through the floor. Ser Jon and Septa Lemore– he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to think of her as Ashara Dayne– went to meet with Queen Daenerys what seems like hours ago and have not yet returned. He was not invited, and as much as it burns him and bruises his pride, what upsets him more is the helplessness, the not knowing.
Aegon has been hiding from the Usurper for almost his entire life. He is capable of patience. He is capable of biding his time. But in this instance, all he wants to do is burst from the doors and find the man and the woman who raised him and ensure their safety and learn about what in the seven hells is happening. He is Rhaegar Targaryen's son. He is the rightful lord of the Seven Kingdoms. He should not be twiddling his thumbs like some little boy while the adults do the talking as a prisoner in all but name, especially considering Daenerys is his junior by two years.
In a fit of frustration, he throws the pitcher of wine which has been supplied to them across the room. It lands with a clang, the dark red liquid spilling out across the carpets. He swears.
I wish Duck and Haldon were here, he thinks. Duck would rage beside him and Haldon would calm them with sound reasoning. They're somewhere in Mereen now, maybe even in the Grand Pyramid, but not here. Ser Jon had thought to only include himself, Aegon, and Septa Lemore in their original party to magnify the effect of their identities.
Aegon runs his fingers through his hair. His hand itches, twitching for the sword he doesn't have– the queen's men do not allow armed petitioners to pass through her doors. He lifts up the pitcher of wine he threw and observes the damage it's caused. The gold–and–green carpets are soaked with red. They look like they've been splattered with blood. Aegon grimaces and turns away.
He moves to a chair and fiddles with the knife he was given for his meal this morning. Out of sheer boredom, he twirls it against his fingers. The small blade is a tricky thing to handle, but he catches on how to use it quickly. Performing as many trick as he dares– he doesn't particularly fancy getting his fingers cut off– staves his boredom for a while, but he's back to agonized waiting soon enough.
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.
Finally, finally, the doors to the apartments in which Aegon is staying open once more. He leaps to his feet when he catches sight of Ser Jon and Septa Lemore. "You're back!" he says.
Septa Lemore smiles tiredly. "So we are, my prince."
"What's happened?"
Ser Jon grunts. "Queen Daenerys wishes to meet you alone like she did with us in the coming of days. She gives us free reign of Mereen until then, but requests that we don't stray too far from the pyramid."
Aegon laughs, his heart lightening. "That's splendid news," he says, "tell me, what did you discuss to make her agree to this?"
"Food first," replies his pseudo–father. "We can get down to the details later.
.
.
They dine that night, better than they have in moons. Mayhaps now that his aunt's anger has cooled, she is sending them this as a token of peace. Mayhaps Ser Jon or Septa Lemore simply requested it themselves. Either way, a grand meal is spread out before them. Chicken and boar laced with hot spices are presented before them, along with thick, sour wine. A spread of greens has been left at the side along with apple slices, drizzled with some sort of sauce. A pie that tastes of lemons and blueberries both is heaven to bite into, and Aegon closes his eyes and tilts his head back when the flavor hits his tongue. Ser Jon gulps deeply from his goblet as he eats, his face red. Septa Lemore laughs.
"Even after so many years, my Dornish palate remains," she says. She looks proudly at Aegon. "It seems you've proven once again that you inherited Elia's natural ability to eat fire itself."
The prince tilts his chin up, puffing out his chest. He is a Targaryen, but he is Dornish as well, and that is something he has not forgotten. The blood of the Conqueror and the Rhaenys who was slain at Hellholt runs through his veins, but so does Meria's and Nymor's and Deria's, and he takes immense pride in that.
The atmosphere is cheery, even with Ser Jon laboring to get through the supper, and Aegon makes a mental note to see if the Meereenese have anything easier for him to eat. He goes to bed that night with a happy disposition. He recalls his best memories as he sleeps, dreams full of sparring with Ser Jon and learning with Haldon and praying with Septa Lemore. He dreams of drinking with Duck and getting stories of his parents from those around him and clinging to them tightly. When he wakes up he is rejuvenated and though he is nervous and shaking, he sees opportunity as well. And he goes to meet Daenerys Targaryen.
A/N: This chapter isn't as long as I was originally planning, but it's something. Hope you guys like it. Not a lot happens, but I'm trying to establish Dany's view on things and doing my best to get a grasp on Aegon's character.