"What?" he mumbled, as a hand shook him by the shoulder. It was the black of night outside, only a lip of bronze cresting the horizon. The sight pained his eyes, sending a bolt to his forehead, and he squinted in the darkness. Too early for the morning summons, and the servants knew not to enter his chambers till dawn was well past. Something is wrong, he knew at once. "What is it? Aemond?" Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he saw the scarred face of his twin brother, and felt the stab of regret through his chest. The greatest mark of my failures yet.

"Aye, Gaemon," Aemond murmured. A taper lit his features, the single eye colored of bright lilac boring into him. "You need to wake up at once."

"Why? Has something happened?" The blanket was all atangle, Gaemon realized. When he threw it aside, he saw that he was not alone. The girl was naked, snoring softly in her sleep, sprawled out along her side of the feather mattress. A pale thing, with a shock of red hair, and rather good hips. He tried and failed to remember her name. Not a whore. A servant? He did not know, nor did care. "Give me a drink, brother. To clear my head." To smother my thoughts. The pounding was behind his eyes as he stood, nearly tipping back into the bed.

"Here," Aemond said, pressing a goblet into his hand. Gaemon drank deep. The wine was lukewarm. Stale. He drank until there was no more to be had. Then his brother took it and threw something at his chest. Gaemon only managed to catch it. "Dress, now."

Gaemon pulled the trousers over his smallclothes, head pounding all the while. "You're not dragging me out to help you retrieve our brother again, are you?" Thinking about Aegon didn't help his head. Another failure of mine. For years he had tried, toiled, and worked, and what had that gotten him? There was only so much that could be done when the odds were so heavily stacked against one's favor. The thought of leaving the Red Keep and heading down into Flea Bottom again to retrieve their older brother curdled his stomach.

But Aemond shook his head. "No, this is not about Aegon." His mien was serious, revealing nothing, and that worried Gaemon all the more. He dressed himself in the clothes at hand, trying to recall what event had occurred which would warrant such action from Aemond all the while. The memories were all a blur, so faded they were meaningless. A blessing and a curse.

"Then what?" he asked, finishing the buttons of his doublet. He yanked on his hose and boots next. "If this isn't about Aegon, then someone important had better be dead, because I don't… see…" Oh, gods be good. Gaemon looked up at his brother, realization striking him across the face like Ser Criston Cole's morningstar. How could I have forgotten? How could I have been so blind? "Father." The word felt like a mailed fist to the gut. A lead weight in his stomach, one that took out his legs, sending him to his mattress. "He's dead."

Aemond didn't say anything. He needn't have, for Gaemon understood. And now the dragons dance, he thought, remembering the phrase dear Helaena was so wont to say. It made him chuckle. The war was all but assured now, even after all he had gone through to avoid it. A mere futile gesture in truth. Were the gods so cruel as to laugh at his efforts? Gaemon shook his head as the grin crept to his lips, pulling at his face. The laughter escaped him suddenly. Sharp like squawk. His brother's reaction only had him laughing harder. If only you knew, brother! So loud was Gaemon's laughter that the girl in his bed awoke, looking uncomprehendingly at the two of them for a moment, before yanking the blanket round her apple sized breasts. No need for modesty now, dear one. The king is dead. We're all fucked.

Only when his laughter crumbled down to pitiful sobbing, the tears running down his cheeks tasting of salt, did Aemond take him by the arm, hoisting him to his feet. "Return to your sleep," he said, and Gaemon had half a mind to do so. But it was the girl his brother spoke to, and she obeyed his command, worry stretched across her heart shaped face. Gaemon wanted to yell at her to run, to leave King's Landing and get as far away as she possibly could. Only a wet cough escaped him.

The Red Keep was dark and quiet as they went. Aemond kept them at a brisk pace, boots ringing against the stone floors and the empty halls. He held firm to Gaemon's arm, forcing him to match stride, and making escape the less viable option. His older brother was always better at the sword than he was, taking to it like a babe took to a fat teat, and there was no doubt he was stronger as well. The grip felt like a vice.

Gaemon tried to free his arm from his brother's grasp. "Let me go."

"Not until you stop acting a fool," Aemond said, leading them down hallways on a path Gaemon knew. The small council chambers led this way. A place he loathed to visit, for all it remained was another mark of his failings, richly furnished in schemes and plots.

"A fool? I am not the one who ripped you from your bed, informed you of our father's death, and now am marching you to the small council for some reason only the gods know. If I am the fool, then you are the monkey, and this is all just some mummer's jape!"

Gaemon stumbled forward two steps as Aemond released him. He caught himself against an enameled suit of steel plate and turned to his brother. The expression he saw on Aemond's face was one hewn from stone. Yet in that single eye, a war of emotions raged. "This is no jape, brother. The small council is meeting, and they have barred the doors. No one is allowed in or out."

"Why wake me then?" demanded Gaemon, stepping up to his brother. They were of a height, identical in nearly every way, yet to Gaemon, it seemed that Aemond towered over him. "To help you barge into the meeting? One more pair of hands won't help you get through the doors. Even if we get in, what of it? I don't sit the council and neither do you. None of them will listen to a word you have to say. They won't listen to me!" They never have.

Gaemon didn't expect the slap. He didn't see it coming. It was so sudden that for a moment, he didn't know why he was reeling back, his right ear ringing like a bell. The splitting in his head ceased sharply. His cheek smarted.

"Don't tell me you've turned deaf as well as a drunk," Aemond said, and Gaemon scoffed. He was no drunk, merely indulging in the wine when his latest and final attempt had failed him. All that work had been for nothing. Why should I not enjoy my final days? Was it too much to ask of him? When the war loomed over them all like a great black shadow? Mayhaps it was. "You know what they have been planning."

Gaemon frowned at his brother. "How could I not? Last night's dinner proved a sharp reminder." Disaster as it was.

It had been going so well. Their dying father had united them. The two halves of the family had reconciled, if only just. An uneasy peace had been forged, only to be shattered by his nephew Luke's poor jape, and Aemond's razor thin temper and his veiled insults. Right there in the palm of his hand, Gaemon had the pieces to smother the conflict dead, but before he could act, they were snatched away. It had happened so quickly he hadn't even realized till the fight was all but over. So close at hand, yet so impossibly out of reach.

Aemond did not look ashamed of his actions. Not even a little. Gaemon didn't expect it of him. Not after he had been so grievously lied to, when Aemond had snuck out to claim Vhagar in the dead of night, all after Gaemon had provided a suitable alternative. "Take Silverwing," he had offered his twin. Vermithor had only recently become his own dragon, claimed in a feat of bravery that had even drawn praise from their kingly father. And with one twin riding the Old King's mount, Gaemon had reasoned, the other could ride the Good Queen's. No harm would come of it, he knew. But second sons never did like being pitied, even less so by third sons. That night had ended with Aemond losing an eye, their mother gaining a new hatred for Rhaenyra, and Gaemon another mark on the list of failings.

I am the fool's fool for being so blind. No. I am the fool for thinking I could trust any of them to change.

Gaemon turned to leave and found he could not. Something held him in his place, amidst the dark hallways of the Red Keep lit only by flicking candles and the haze of dawn. Gods be good, I am to play the fool once more. "I do know what they plan," he said to Aemond. "What do you mean to do about it?"

Aemond's reply was simple. "I mean to take a seat at the table."

It was a simple statement, said in the same tone that a man might use to say, "I've decided that the color red takes my fancy today." But Gaemon could only worry as he followed his brother's determined pace. The men on the small council were schemers all, grasping at any and all power they could, and tonight they would be taking the lion's share of the prize. A poisoned prize, he thought quietly, as the image of King Viserys with half of his face missing was still fresh before his mind's eye. But when has ambition ever been tempered by reason?

They continued the rest of the way in silence. Gaemon found himself running through his memories of what was to come, muddied as they were by time and wine. Luke's death would be the spark for a full-blown war, that he knew for certain. He did not need to remember to know the hatred Aemond held for their nephew. It simmered in him even since Driftmark, roiling like magma, unabated by anything Gaemon had tried. They could not be allowed to face one another alone, for it would only end in death, and war would follow. Then there was Aegon, marred in depravity and impulsivity as he was. Our king to be. The thought made Gaemon chuckle, and he pitied them all for what was to come if he failed this last time. Especially Helaena and the children. There's a beast beneath the boards.

Standing on either side of the doors to the small council chambers were knights of House Hightower. Sworn to defend and obey, the Hand of the King's men watched as they approached in silence, standing taller with hands resting on their swordbelts as the princes neared. When Aemond stepped to grab the doorhandle, the knights blocked his path. "No one is to enter the small council chambers until the business of the small council is finished."

Aemond's smile was a thin one. He looked at the knight on his right. "Step aside, ser, or do you truly wish to know what a dragon's flames feel like when they roast the flesh from your bones?"

"The Lord Hand-"

"We are princes of the realm," Gaemon reasoned. "Did our grandfather tell you to forbid us entry as he did for everyone else?"

The knights exchanged a look. "He bid us let no one enter."

"Thankfully for you, neither I nor my brother are what you would call 'no one', so please step aside."

"We cannot-"

Aemond ignored the man and simply pushed his way through. The knights had their orders, but Gaemon suspected that they would not dare lay a hand on a prince, orders be damned. He followed his brother as the doors to the small council chambers were opened by a sliver, just enough to squeeze through. The knights did not stop him, and when he was past the threshold, the sight around the center table that met them had Gaemon wanting for a strong drink.

We're too late. He shut the doors and spared the corpse of Lord Lyman Beesbury slumped against the table a momentary glance, noting the way the man bled from his head wound. I'm too late. The silence from the rest of the room was uncomfortable as it was sudden. Aemond broke it by with a little hum of acknowledgement, stepping around Ser Harold Westerling and Ser Criston Cole, both knights of the Kingsguard bearing steel at the other. It was all Gaemon could do to not simply turn and leave. Instead, his feet found their way towards a side table, with its empty glasses and flagons of wine and water.

He poured himself a glass of wine. To quell his uneasy stomach, he told himself. The lie tasted sweet.

"Aemond." Their mother's voice sounded hoarse. Gaemon spared her a glance and found that her eyes were red from crying, her skin was pale with fear, and a tiredness clung to her like a shawl. When she found his gaze, brown eyes wide with emotion, Gaemon looked away. He didn't wish to see the grief and devastation and confusion in her eyes any more than he had to. "Gaemon. What are you two doing here?"

"The king is dead, mother," Aemond said, rounding the table. Gaemon watched as his brother dragged two chairs from their place by the window, placing them beside the seat of their grandfather, the Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower. He sat in the one next to their grandfather. "Now the small council means to crown Aegon as king. Ought the rest of the family have a say in this?"

No one spoke. The sheathing of swords filled the silence, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard eyeing Ser Criston with distrust. Gaemon could only agree with the man. Rhaenyra had him besmirch his honor, and now he clings to what oaths he has left like a drowning man. He couldn't even fault the man. What other course of action was there for him to take?

"What is there to say?" Gaemon asked, gesturing to the room with his glass. Some of the wine spilled from the brim onto the stone floors. "Our father is dead, as is Lord Beesbury, and now here we all are speaking of treason. Plotting to usurp Rhaenyra's crown and throne, giving it to… to Aegon instead."

"It is not treason, my prince," reasoned Lord Wylde. Called Ironrod by the smallfolk, the master of laws was as stern in his administration of the law as he was now in his tone of voice. "The king changed his mind and wished for Prince Aegon to succeed him."

"When was this?" Gaemon threw his wine aside and made for the table. He grabbed the back of the Grand Maester's chair to steady himself. "This is news to me, my lord. As of last night, my eldest sister was still Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne. If you mean to tell me that my father changed his mind on a matter so important as the succession without consulting anyone-"

"Gaemon." Otto Hightower rose from his seat. "The king made his wishes known to the queen, and her alone."

Right, how could I have forgotten? Gaemon looked to his mother and found that she had tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. The Alicent Hightower he knew as his mother was a regal woman, always composed and stately, yet here he found a widow grieving for her husband.

"So, you all truly mean to crown Aegon as king?" Aemond asked.

"He is the king's firstborn son," said the master of coin, Ser Tyland Lannister.

"The son that His Grace wished to succeed him," added Ironrod.

"We can't," said Gaemon. He gripped the crown of the Grand Maester's chair, knuckles white. "We all know that Aegon has no wish to rule." And gods save us all when he is crowned anyway.

The Lord Hand retook his seat. "Whether he wishes it or not is of no matter to us. King Viserys declared that Aegon was to succeed him to the Iron Throne as his heir, so it shall be done. Your brother will sit the Iron Throne."

"Would that be for the betterment of the realm?" Aemond asked. "Why not crown someone who is more suited for the responsibilities of the throne? Someone who has not wasted his time on drinks and whores, shirked his duty at every chance, but has actively worked towards them. I ask you all, would Aegon truly be a good king?"

"What are you saying?" asked Ser Tyland. "That you should be crowned as king?"

"I would be a far better king than Aegon ever would."

"You are the second son," said Ironrod. "What you speak of is impossible."

"I beg to differ," Aemond said. "Aegon has said many times that he does not want for the Iron Throne."

"What of Rhaenyra?" the Queen said. "She would never allow for Aegon to take her crown, to usurp her throne."

Otto Hightower inclined his head at that. "The former heir cannot, of course, be allowed to remain free and draw support to her claim."

Gaemon's grip snapped. "If we crown Aegon there will be war!" His head was pounding, and his fingers were pained from the pressure. Gaemon relaxed his grip and the piece of wood he had broken from the Grand Maester's chair fell to the ground. "A war that will divide the realm and this family. One that we might not win."

"Most likely," said Ser Tyland, "for a war to happen that is. If it comes to that, we will most assuredly win on the field of battle. By my count, the Greens control more dragons than Rhaenyra and her Blacks. Prince Aegon rides Sunfyre. Prince Aemond rides the largest of all the dragons, the mighty Vhagar. You, my prince, ride the old king's dragon, Vermithor. Wherever the Bronze Fury goes, Silverwing is not far behind. Princess Helaena has Dreamfyre and Prince Daeron rides Tessarion."

"Tessarion is too small, Helaena has barely ridden Dreamfyre, and I have no command over Silverwing nor her comings and goings." Gaemon shook his head. "The odds are not so heavily stacked in our favor as you might think, Ser Tyland. Daemon has Caraxes. Rhaenys has Meleys. Rhaenyra has Syrax. Her sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes."

"Be that as it may," Otto said, "a war will only come if Rhaenyra refuses our offer."

Gaemon saw that his mother looked as if she did not recognize her own father. "And just what is that?" she asked.

"She and her family will be given the opportunity to publicly swear obeisance to the new king."

"That will never happen," said Aemond. "She has Daemon and her strong boys around her, and none of them would bend the knee to Aegon. They don't fear him."

Grand Maester Orwyle cleared his throat. "Mayhaps-"

"Being feared does not make one a good king," their mother said. "Viserys was a good king, and he wasn't feared by the people. He was loved."

"And so too will Prince Aegon," said Ironrod.

Gaemon scoffed. "Then you, my lord, are blind and deaf. If we crown Aegon as king, there will be a war, and the smallfolk will soon grow to hate their new king. Rhaenyra and the Blacks will not take this usurpation of her throne lying down. She will fight a war for the Iron Throne, and if not her, then Daemon will."

"So," Ser Tyland offered. "Something must be done about that, no?"

Aemond looked down the length of the table to the master of coin. "You suggest to have her killed?"

"It will be an unsavory task," Otto said, "but one that must be done, to ensure Aegon's ascension to the Iron Throne. A sacrifice for peace."

You fools, Gaemon thought, you utter fools. "If we kill Rhaenyra there will be war." He looked to all those sitting around the table. Wanting so desperately to make them see reason. "Daemon will fly to King's Landing and mount all of our heads on spikes around Maegor's Holdfast. Is that what you wish to see, grandfather? The heads of your family on spikes?"

"One way or another, Gaemon, there will be war. Rhaenyra and her children are a threat to Aegon's reign. The opposite is true as well. Were Rhaenyra to sit the Iron Throne, all of Viserys' children by Alicent would be threats to her reign, and Daemon would not hesitate to remove them. You know it to be true, as does Aemond. This way, it can be done quietly, and quickly."

"I…" Gaemon looked around the room again and found that everyone agreed with the Hand's reasoning. Even Ser Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, did not refute it. "I…" Lyman Beesbury's corpse continued to spill blood from his head wound, a steady drip-drip-drip coming as it started to puddle on the stone floor. His throat felt as tight as a knot. They won't listen to what I have to say. "I have no place here. If you all intend to plan a war, so be it, I will have no part in it."

Then he turned and left them. No one called to stop him, not when he walked around the dead Lord Beesbury, and not when he opened the doors and stalked past the knights standing guard. Why would they? The lords of the small council had been plotting to install Aegon on the throne the moment he had been born. Gaemon's feet took him along the hallways of the Red Keep, to where he knew not. He simply walked. This life is a blessing and a damnable curse. Surely, the gods were laughing at him, for all his efforts had been for naught.

In the early years, he had pledged to himself to make changes, to steer the family and the realm away from the war that was inevitable. But only so much could be done, and what little progress he gained was not enough, not truly. Rhaenyra was too old and too distant to make any sort of connection. By the time Gaemon could manage to string a sentence together, Rhaenyra was already out of reach. Aegon was a mess of a child, then a downward spiral as he grew. No amount of time spent together had changed the boy who sought satisfaction and validation from increasingly depraved sorts. Aemond was little better, being the second son to such a brother as Aegon. Curbing the jealousy had been a futile effort, and the continued lack of a dragon had only fueled the growing resentment. Not even the offer of Silverwing had tempered it, only inflaming. Daeron? Gaemon barely had time to get to know him before he was shipped off to Oldtown, fostering with Lord Hobert Hightower in that great city that didn't smell of shit.

Then there was Helaena. Best not think of his sweet sister for now.

Gaemon sighed as he found himself back in his chambers. Sunlight streamed through the windows, a bright haze alighting the scattered books and scrolls. Last night's wine was where he had left it, resting upon the windowsill overlooking the Blackwater Rush. The headache was abating, yet he still had a thirst. In his bed, Gaemon found the girl asleep, looking peaceful in a world that was about to dive face first into chaos. He sat on the edge of the mattress and shook her by the shoulder. "Wake up."

She blinked awake, brown eyes meeting his own. "My prince?"

"Your name?"

"Larra."

The name didn't spark any memory of the time they had spent together the previous night. "I apologize for what you saw earlier, and for forgetting your name."

"I-"

"Come." Gaemon stood and searched about the room for her clothes. "You need to get dressed. No doubt someone is missing you right now. You are a servant in the Red Keep, right?"

"I am, my prince." Larra covered herself with the blanket as she stood, dragging it off the bed as she went. Gaemon could still make out the shape of her hips, see the pale slip of her leg. "Handmaid to Princess Helaena."

"You best move with haste then," he said, finding the discarded clothes underneath an overturned chair. He tossed her the wrinkled dress and smallclothes, righted the chair, and ran a hand through his hair. "It's about time for the castle to awake. My sister will need help with the children."

Gaemon watched as she hastily dressed and scurried out of the room. Alone, with only the words of dead men to keep him company, he sighed. There's a beast beneath the boards. Gaemon didn't exactly remember what that was supposed to mean, but he knew it wasn't good. None of Helaena's premonitions lead to good things. By the windowsill, he gazed down at King's Landing, to the Hill of Rhaenys where the Dragonpit stood, and to the Hill of Visenya adorned with hundreds of little homes and shops. There was no great sept to be found. Gaemon finished off last night's wine and went about arming himself. A dagger would do for now, for a sword would only invite undue attention.

The Red Keep was awaking all around him as he made for his sister's shared apartments. Serving wenches and young pages went about the day's business. Targaryen guardsmen in black mail and red cloaks bearing the three headed dragon marched with purpose about their rounds, saluting as he went by. He saw none of the minor lords and ladies of his father's court, nor any of their servants. All he saw were the men of the household guard.

Gaemon found his sister where he knew she would be. Her rooms were large and open, most of the furniture pushed to the walls for a large open floor covered in Myrish carpets. It was there that the children played, the little twins Jaehaerys and Jaehaera with their painted blocks, and the year old Maelor beside them toddling about. Off to the side, Helaena sat with her embroidery, stitching yet another bug with her colorful thread. Gaemon sat beside her and took her hand, squeezing softly when she jerked up to meet his gaze. "Helaena."

Her purple eyes were wide and searching. Her hand squeezed back. "Gaemon? You look tired."

"Aye, I am," he said, a grin tugging at his lips. "I feel tired as well."

"You need to rest more."

Gaemon smiled at that, knowing of how little sleep he would be getting in the days to come. "I shall take your words of wisdom to heart. But I've not come for polite talk, Helaena. I'm here as the bearer of sad news."

"You're leaving, aren't you?" The tears came forth suddenly, and her arms were round his own, the embroidery of an incomplete spider forgotten to the side. "Please, you can't go. You promised to stay. For our-"

"Helaena." Gaemon took her face in his hands, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. "Do not speak of what you know is not true." Gods damn me and the wine to all seven hells if it is. "I'm not going anywhere. My place has always been King's Landing and the Red Keep, always."

Still, Helaena wept, clinging to him. Gaemon held her close, an arm wrapped around her shoulder, her face buried in his neck. The children noticed their mother's distress, the twins peering up from their colored blocks, Aegon's deep purple eyes meeting him with their confusion. It took little convincing to return them to their play. Helaena tears turning into the occasional sniffle, her prophetic words mumbled under her breath. There's a beast beneath the boards. Little Maelor crawled over to them, ignoring his siblings, and Gaemon watched as he clambered uneasily to his feet.

Those eyes of bright lilac were wide and curious, too familiar for his liking. It was like looking in a mirror. He turned away, to the other children, to his dear sister.

Gaemon took an unsteady breath, tightening his hold, brushing the silvery locks from her face. "I'm sorry, Helaena," he said softly. "Our father is dead. I'm sorry." I've failed us all.