Aegor II

Itwick Moss ordered Aegor to approach his father, the King, and ask for some coin for the Bracken party to return to Stone Hedge. "With them brigands they've been talkin' 'bout, make it a bit more. Mention the horse we lost on the way."

"We didn't lose a horse, you stupid," Aegor replied. He was still sullen about having to leave the horse he thought was his. Lord Benedict would not allow him Freedom.

As the rest of the Bracken party tended to the horses and dismounted for a respite from the ride, Itwick began to lead Aegor on foot through the streets of the capital.

He cornered the boy against a daub and wattle corner shop selling trinkets and bowls, and pressed the issue of begging to the king further. "He don't know that," Itwick said with a smirk, likely from how clever he sounded to himself. "C'mon, lad. Them's your orders and we ain't leaving without the coin to return. It was waste enough to ride down here in the first place. At least you get to stay here. The rest of us need ride back."

"I don't care about you or your ride back, you stupid," Aegor said as he sloughed off the man's fat hands from his shoulders and shoved him away, reaching into Itwick's pocket.

Then, Aegor ran.

Itwick was too busy ordering Aegor to beg for coin with the first words he'd ever utter to his father to notice the boy's hands pulling the missive bearing the King's seal from his pocket. The message was Aegor's ticket into the Red Keep, and as he ran, a wide smile across his face, he couldn't have been more pleased with himself.

"Hold on," the lumbering fool yelled as he checked for the King's message, finding nothing but lint and air. "Come back with that! Come back you, bastard!"

Aegor prayed to the seven hoping it would be the last he heard of Itwick Moss' gurgling voice. The crowd beyond the King's Gate began to thicken, and before he could realize, he was swimming in a sea of common folk, wet with sweat, spekcled with mud, and smelling of death and defecation.

He almost retched in his mouth.

King's Landing was said to be the most populous city in Westeros. It had the Red Keep, Maegor's Holdfast, the nearly completed Sept of Baelor, and the Dragon Pit. All landmarks Aegor learned in his history lessons with Septon Hatten, or what he remembered from when he wasn't wandering in his imaginings.

Yet, none ever claimed King's Landing to be the greatest city in Westeros. Some said Old Town. Some would say Lannisport. Northmen would likely claim White Harbor.

None would say King's Landing was great. It smelled of shit and fish.

Forcing his way through the crowds, causing a ruckus in his wake as they cleared, he already liked it better than where he'd been raised. Stone Hedge had been the only place he'd known.

But it was never his home.

Bursting into a clearing in the crowd, Aegor nearly stumbled to the dusty dirt road beneath him. He knew not if he was on the Street of Silk, or Fleabottom, or the Hill of Rhaenys, or anywhere, really. He didn't know a fig of the capital save the names of things he'd heard the adults mention. Of all the things he could see, there was only one thing he recognized.

The tall red brick walls surrounded half-hidden spires of the same red, lancing the clear, light blue sky with sharp peaks, fringed with the crenelations of the tall battlements of the outer wall. From every pole flew the black and red banner baring the sigil of the Targaryens, laced in cloth of gold so the colors stood out against the similarly colored bricks that built their stronghold.

It was Maegor the Cruel that had finally erected a castle for House Targaryen, and though Aegor hadn't seen other castles to truly compare, this one was already his favorite.

The Keep was quite a distance away. Aegor had almost forgotten about his traveling party, hoping they had foregone following him through the crowd, but he didn't want to relent for the fear they hadn't.

None of the busy bodies around him paid him much heed, stepping by him as if he weren't even there. The Brackens awarded him no finery of dress, so he was in a riding tunic and plain boots that blended in with the commoners well, and it was as if he belonged there, a usual fixture the locals trudged past without a second glance. He took a deep, foul breath in.

My new home.

Aegor began to run again, not out of fear, but in the joy that pushed each new step forward. He was as giddy as he could ever remembered being. No more Septon Hatten sermons to fight to stay awake through. No more blame or berating from Lord Benedict. No more calls of -

"Bastard!" Itwick screamed from behind him. The lurch was taller than the rest of the common folk, and the lumbering Bracken Guard was somehow squirming through the crowds toward him.

I should have known I wasn't rid of it yet. Maybe I'll never be.

He was beginning to tire, and though he knew the lunk behind wouldn't last much longer himself, Aegor held the missive. All he needed to find was . . .

A Goldcloak!

Off to the side of the street, whispering to a man in front of a shop, stood a red-haired young man dressed in Gold. Aegor ran screaming towards him. "Ser! Ser! Help me!"

"What is it, lad?"

"That man there. He's chasing me!"

The Goldcloaked stepped in front of Aegor, drew his sword from its scabbard, and gleaming in his polished golden armor, raised his off hand to signal Itwick to halt.

As always, Itwick Moss failed to pull his own sword, never even reaching to touch it, as if his hands could only yield. "This boy is the King's Bracken bastard. I've brought him to the city from Stone Hedge, as per the King's decree," Itwick replied, gasping for breath. "He's a willful child, and ran off. Thank ye for stopping him."

"Is this so, child?"

"I'm nearly eleven, Ser. And no. This man just started following me and I ran," Aegor lied, smiling behind the Goldcloak's back, but in full view of a terrified and enraged Itwick Moss.

"That's not true!" Moss yelped, guarding his face as if he were about to be hit.

"Oh, it is you," Aegor admitted. "You're so ugly, I've never really looked at your face. I only just recognized you now as you cowered in fear."

"Why do you waste my time, boy?" The red-haired Goldcloak demanded. "This isn't some game to play. These streets can be dangerous. Thank you, Itwick, for bringing the boy. The King thanks you, as well. I will take him to the Red Keep from here. You have traveled far enough already."

"But, m'Lord," Itwick murmured.

"I'm no Lord, Itwick, as I assume you are no knight."

"Aye."

Moss stood awkwardly, and the three were in a silence far too long.

"Good day, Itwick." The Goldcloak sheathed his sword, turned to Aegor and began to walk with him.

"Wait, Ser," Itwick called, as if hadn't just been dismissed.

"I am no knight either. I will take the boy."

"No, uh," Itwick studdered, "Goldcloak."

Nice, Aegor thought, chuckling at the buffoon the Brackens paid to guard them.

"We need coin for the return. And a horse," Itwick pleaded.

"A horse? You're dropping someone off. How could you need another horse?"

"Because we lost one on the journey."

"And now you're less one rider," the Goldcloak reminded him.

Itwick stood still and wordless, slowly working out what to say next. "And the coin?"

"It was the Bracken's duty to bring the king's son to the capital. It should be at their expense."

"But, I-" Itwick stammered. "We must get back first for that."

"Here," the Goldcloak said, throwing Moss a coin purse. "Take it and go. Coppers enough for the road. Leave before I believe the boy's nonsense for the sport of it."

Itwick missed and dropped the purse to the dusty ground. Scrambling to his knees like a roach, he crawled, scooping it into his chest as if it mattered.

As they walked away, the Goldcloak gave Aegor a stern look, "He's clearly an imbecile, but I will have no foolishness, boy. Try anything and I'll clout you!"

"Why would I run away from you? You're the finest knight I'd ever met."

"I'm not a knight, lad. Follow me. I'll bring you to your father. By the way, I am Willem Wylde. Not a Ser. What's your name? That fool never said it."

Itwick hadn't. He had only called him a bastard.

"My name's Aegor. Nice to meet you Willem. Thanks. He wasn't wrong, but he wanted me to beg the King for coin. He's a beggar as much as any of 'em."

"I could tell. You can sort of smell it on him."

Aegor laughed. He liked Willem Wylde. Even if he wasn't a knight.

Crossing the portcullis into the Red Keep felt like a homecoming. Beyond the clinking of the drawbridge chain, and the frightening dry moat it lowered down over, was a place he hoped would be as welcoming to him as it looked. He had never been treated as royalty, even though he was by blood, and imagined attendants serving him, leaving him with a, "Your grace." Aegor couldn't wait to hear that.

Wylde led him through, explaining who Aegor was to the men of his order stationed there. They greeted him warmly, encouraging Aegor to join the Goldcloaks. "A strapping young lad like yourself might already be a fine enough guard to join us," one said.

"What are you, boy? Thirteen? Four-and-ten?" another asked.

"I'm nearly eleven." Aegor's nameday was only a few days away.

The group of them roared at that. "So, you're only ten, then? Wow! The King's seed is strong indeed."

"More proof the Prince Daeron is falseborn," another replied. Aegor didn't really know what that meant, but he smiled along with them as they chuckled softly.

"Remember, lads. It is not our place to criticize royalty. Think in your head what you wish of the Prince, but keep your tongues quiet. The wrong ears hearing such could lead to trouble," Willem warned, as if he were their superior, despite looking younger.

"He's back on Dragonstone by now. He'd have to have some fine ears to hear that."

Willem shook his head and urged Aegor through. The boy couldn't help but imagine wearing shining golden armor, a flowing cloak, and castle forged steel on his hip. I could be a Goldcloak. Better than being just some bastard.

Once inside the Keep, they walked past the throne room. The city had ignited a zeal for life Aegor had never felt. With this vigor came confidence, almost a brash defiance, and where he would once have kept his thoughts to himself, he spoke up: "I'd like to see the Throne Room, please."

"Very well. If only for a moment. Peek inside. You'll see more of it soon enough."

When he looked in, he saw the twisting steel sculpture of swords they called the Iron Throne. It was huge.

Rising from the marble floor in an angry arrangement of sharp edges and blades, it rose higher than the walls of Stone Hedge. A winding stairway climbed to the seat, and as dangerous as it looked, it was as awesome, even better than he imagined.

"Come on now, lad. I have a post to return to, and you have your father to meet."

With the widest smile he'd ever worn, Aegor hurried behind Wylde through the tall, elaborate halls of the Keep. There were so many paintings, carvings, details, and displays, he couldn't concentrate on anything for more than a moment. Everything was dragons.

Much better than a hall full of horses.

"Wait here," Willem ordered him politely as he entered into the room he said the King would be in. Outside the door, a white knight of the Kingsguard stood sentry in his white enamel armor, his helm tucked under the crook of his arm, and his wide head focused straight ahead at the wall across from him. Aegor studied him in awe, amazed at the fine edges of the folds in his armor. It was scaled, and each individual scale had a beveled edge, which made each chink sharp, like a blade. The knight's chest plate was inlaid with the gold outline of a crown, etched with seven white swords around it. The man stood straight, righteous even, and Aegor couldn't help but feel he was in the presence of a hero.

"Excuse me, Ser?" Aegor asked, still unusually brave in his new surroundings.

"Yes, lad?"

"What's it like being a Kingsguard?"

The man snickered, paused, looked down at Aegor and smiled. "It's mostly boring, but sometimes, it's the best job in the realm. You must be the Bracken boy. Welcome to the Red Keep. I'm sure I'll be seeing more of you."

"I'm Aegor Rivers, Ser. I'm no Bracken."

"I'm Ser Blake of the Bay. I've got no family name. If it wasn't for saving the right people in the right spot at the right time, I wouldn't even be here. Well met."

"Well met, Ser Blake." Blake was as tall as most men, and as broad, but he stood with a stance that suited the order. He looked regal to Aegor, and strong, and he was a knight with no name, forging glory for himself with only his hands and his heart.

He said he saved people. I wonder who he saved. I wonder how many. Aegor swore to find out that tale as soon as he found someone to share it with him.

The door opened next to the white knight, and Wylde poked his red head out of it. "Come here, lad. The King wishes to see you now."

Aegor's heart trembled within him, both afraid and excited, and suddenly much less brash. His first move towards the door felt as if his leg and foot were somehow heavier, and he struggled lifting them. The next was a bit easier, but still heavy, and by the time he reached the entrance to the room, he shook in his boots with each step.

He turned to a table of older men, some of them red faced and intense. There was a tension in the room, even before Aegor's own apprehension entered. He tried to remain calm, but his heart pounded and his body sweat, and he searched each face to find his father's.

Only one looked powerful enough to be his sire - the largest man in the room, hunched over the table, his wide hands gripped firmly around the counter's edge, with dark and dangerous purple eyes. He was fearsome and mighty, despite his girth, in a dominant stance as if he'd just been yelling.

As their eyes met, Aegor knew. He shivered for the brief moment the King's face kept its fervor, his brow furrowed and his mouth near snarling. Then, it softened. The King exhaled. A warm smile half grew across his wide face, and Aegor felt a nervous one spread across his own.

"Aegor, my son," his booming voice yelled. He stood straighter, "Come. Let me look upon you." The King gestured and Aegor's feet began to take him to his father.

He looked upon the Lords around the table, their faces still unchanged from the moments before he entered the room. A balding blond man, fat and soft around the neck, looked as if he'd lost his fortune. A chestnut-haired knight with a stiff jaw and proud posture stared, emotionless, past him like he was tired or on milk of the Poppy like Aegor's mother. A man with flaxen hair brushed behind his ears twiddled with his thumbs, his hands together, his body hunched in a defensive posture. And the last one, an old man with grey spots in his beard, sat sheepishly low in his seat.

"My jaw and shoulders I see clearly from even across the room," the King said with pride. "Darker coloring, though those eyes might be the darkest shade of purple than I've ever seen. Almost black." Aegor kept walking closer, his smile widening and his heart less apprehensive with each word from his father. "And you're much more handsome than Dick ever was. I was worried you'd get that long broad snout of his."

Benedict Bracken did have an enormous nose. Aegor had mocked it silently in his mind during many a lecture from his grandsire. He allowed himself to laugh. "That's why they've no hounds at Stone Hedge. No need."

"Ha! Well said, my boy. Careful, Hightower, or I'll have him roast you next," the King pointed to the soft blond man at the other end of the table, whose red face reddened just a tinge more. "How old are you, boy?"

"I'm nearly eleven," Aegor replied. His mouth opened to finish with, My nameday is the day after next, but the King interrupted him before he could say it.

His booming voice drowned him out, "Gods. Has it been that long?" The King rounded the table to meet him, opening his arms for an embrace.

Aegor couldn't remember the last time someone had opened their arms to him. He kept his composure, sinking into the fat hold of his father, but he had to keep his eyes shut tight to hold back the solitary tear of joy.

"I'm glad to have you here, son."

Son, Aegor thought. How I've yearned to be called that.

"However," the King continued, breaking the embrace and backing away, "I am stuck here with matters I cannot ignore for even a moment. It must have been a long, rough journey here. Willem," his father called, turning to the Goldcloak waiting outside the doorway, "take him to the Hand's chambers. For his first night, Aegor will sleep in the Tower of the Hand, with every accommodation Hightower normally enjoys. Have him dressed with some Targaryen colors, and tonight we feast his return!"

Aegor nodded. He knew not how to address his father, and feared his voice might crack from his emotions.

"I will see you this evening, my son. We have so much to talk about."

Indeed, thought Aegor. The boy couldn't wait to be back with his father.

"Come, lad," Willem said. "Let's give these men the room." Aegor followed, as hopeful as he had ever been. King's Landing, despite the stench, was a beautiful city.

The Hand's chambers were massive, and ornately decorated in finery Aegor was too young and poor to appreciate. There were vases he was sure meant something to someone, furniture he didn't even know existed, and the softest rug he'd ever walked upon.

A buxom young servant entered, pleased to hear he was one of the king's bastards. "Are you the one they say saved his sisters on the road against those brigands?"

Aegor hadn't heard of what had happened yet, but she was more than happy to tell him. The story going around the city was that his half-brother had helped fend off an attack, and the party he'd passed on his way to the capital was sent to bring the bandits the King's justice.

He felt jealous. He knew it had to be the Blackwood boy, who was years younger, and, to hear his family tell it was, An abomination even worse than Aegor." He was said to have blood red eyes and skin as white as milk, like some monstrous amalgamation of their weirwood and a raven in human form. But it was him the whole city couldn't keep talking about.

The boy hero of the road. A hero, at seven.

After the serving girl finished telling the story, her pretty mouth smiling as she spoke of the Blackwood bastard, Aegor couldn't help himself. "Well, I heard he's hideous."

"Excuse me, your Grace," to hear her call him so was near bliss, "I mean no offense, but, what's that to do with him saving his sisters?"

Aegor felt embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I guess I just wish it were me that got to be the hero?"

"You're jealous of the boy? I'm sure there's nothing to be jealous about. It sounds frightening. Heroes rarely live long. Only their names survive in the songs."

Aegor thought he'd rather have songs sung of his short life than live a long one singing of others.

"But what does a girl like me know, your grace?" she continued. "I'm only here for the clothes."

"The old ones or the new ones?"

"I'm here for your traveling clothes. I'll bring 'em back once they're cleaned."

Aegor was still wearing them, having spent the quarter hour since he'd walked into the chambers inspecting every impressive detail. "Give me a moment. These are them."

He didn't know what to do. At Stone Hedge, Nestor wouldn't come for his soiled clothes until they were a pile enough to merit washing together. And more importantly, Nestor didn't make him blush.

"That's fine," she replied cheerily. "I'll take them."

"Where should I undress?"

"I'm sorry, your Grace. What do you mean?"

"Can you at least turn around, or something?"

"As you wish," she said, tightening her lips as if she held back laughter. "Though, most of the others I serve just undress in front of me. I'm nothing more than a servant. Don't mind me."

"Um. All right, then." Nervously, he pulled off his tunic, boots, and began to unlace his breeches. I guess if the rest of them do it, I should too. He felt his face flush and his heart begin to beat harder. After unlacing them, he pulled them down, exposing himself completely.

The serving girl squeaked and turned her back at once. "Normally, the people I serve have small clothes underneath."

Oh shit!

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry," Aegor yelled dashing to the privy. "Take the clothes. I misunderstood."

He heard her rush to the clothes and scurry out, holding back giggles. As great as his day had been, he had never been more embarrassed. King's Landing had been drastic highs and lows with nothing boring in between.

Once it was quiet, Aegor left the privy, returning to the chamber. Stark naked, he looked for something to cover himself with, settling for a robe that he'd found hanging in a wardrobe full of what he assumed was the Hand's wardrobe.

Surely he won't mind what he isn't aware of.

No sooner had he done so, women arrived with a tub and hot water for a bath. They asked if he'd prefer they wash him, but enough strangers had seen him naked for the day so he declined. Once clean and dry, a short, thin man with a groomed mustachio appeared with a column of servants, each holding an arrangement of attire as they all walked by him in a procession.

The thin man stood with his arms folded across his silk doublet, lifting one hand to his chin as he pondered on each passing ensemble. They held the clothing up, hiding them from view, so it appeared as if the garments themselves were crossing his path to be judged. Most of them, all mixtures of the Targaryen colors in wool, silk, satin, and furs, he nodded away, dismissing them with grunts or waves of his hand, and once for a fringed set of smoke gray and red, feigned retching with his mouth open and tongue out.

Aegor laughed at that. The man turned around. "You laugh, but imagine wearing a thing as hideous as that."

Aegor watched each arrangement pass the mustached man and thought them all to be finer than anything he'd seen worn in Stone Hedge, even by visitors.

The man nodded to a few, directing the outfits out of the procession and to the side. The first was an open scarlet doublet, embroidered with the outlines of black dragon wings, over a black tunic with golden stitching, a red gem-studded dragon buckled belt with scaled black breeches, and supple leather riding boots.

"What about a cloak?"

The man didn't turn back to Aegor, but kept his eyes on the clothing. He cocked his head. "Maybe. Let's see the rest first before we come back to this one. It may be too much for dinner."

Aegor hoped he'd choose that one.

Eventually, the man narrowed down the choices to two. The first, and an all-black doublet, all black breeches, and black boots. A three headed dragon planted prominently across the chest, in a mesmerizingly bold red.

"You choose. Let's see who you choose."

"Who?"

"I name each arrangement after a Targaryen of lore. You should see the dresses," the man said, then, he turned away. "Anyway, pick. Pick."

Aegor liked the first one, but the man might have been right. It was only dinner.He did like the all black, but as plain as it was, it was also striking.

"The red one here," the man said, sensing the boy could use some direction, "will have everyone in the room looking at you."

Aegor thought on that. As fine as it was, he didn't know if that's what he wanted.

"The black one is just as strong of a statement," he continued. "But of a different sort."

"I'll pick the black one."

"Very well." Mustache clapped his hands twice, and the servant laid the garments out on the Hand's extravagant feather bed, which was as wide as a river. "It's likely you would require assistance, so we will dress you."

"I have no small clothes."

"I beg your pardon?" Mustache said, his eyes widening and his mouth agape.

"I came here with the clothes on my back and one sack of my belongings. I forgot my smallclothes."

"And you are of a noble house?! This is an outrage! The Brackens might be hurting for coin, but a son of their line doesn't even bring small clothes to the capital?!"

The man, who never introduced himself, starting shouting orders to the servants to return the rest of the clothes and gather a whole wardrobe for the bastard prince, small clothes and all.

"We have enough time before dinner," the man said to Aegor in a hushed tone between the shouts.

Aegor asked him, "What name did you give the outfit I chose."

"Maegor."

The Great Hall where they were set to sup was as vast as the whole of the Bracken's keep, it seemed, and the arched ceiling looked as if its peak reached the sky itself. Aegor felt so small in a room so large, and seated at a table as long as the Bracken's stables.

He had arrived to the table first, after the mustached man proceeded to supply Aegor with all the clothing he would ever need, even going as far to gift him a wheeled wardrobe that could travel with him to his permanent chambers. He walked to the farthest chair at the long table, and sat, waiting for his father, dressed in the Maegor, and feeling as bold as he looked.

Shortly after sitting down, a group of young women entered, each louder than the next, the loudest a babe in the arms of the youngest looking girl, a beautifully dressed silver-haired, purple eyed woman not much older than he was, with a haggard and tired look to her pretty face. Alongside her were two serving girls, one with black hair and dark skin, and the other with a pulled back mop of brown, her eyes dark and dead, as Aegor saw it.

The dark-haired servant hovered over the pretty girl, flitting about her as if to offer aid in things unnecessary with every step. The dead eyed servant followed, her gait as lifeless as her gaze, dragging her sandaled feet as she trailed behind them.

When the pretty one sat, the dark-haired girl pulled out her chair and arranged her dress around it. She seemed unable to find comfort, though, as the mewing babe squirmed to make it near impossible. She was not bawling, but expressive, yelling and cooing in a manner all her own, and loudly.

Aegor meant to introduce himself, but the pretty girl's sparkling purple eyes barely even noticed the table in front of her, dazed in a stupor that looked more like exhaustion than anything else, and there was a clear apathy for the babe in her arms.

"Excuse me, young man," the dark-haired serving girl called to him from beside the pretty one. "This table is for royalty. You may sup with the rest of the household staff." Aegor didn't appear Targaryen upon one's first glance. His short dark hair looked more Andal than Valyrian, but as he turned to answer her, the bright red dragon across his chest spoke for him.

Before he could even utter the words, she apologized, "Apologies, your Grace. I meant no disrespect, I assure you."

"No harm's been done m'Lady," Aegor didn't know how to address a serving girl. "I just arrived to the capital today."

The pretty-eyed princess, who Aegor assumed was his half-sister Daenerys, perked up hearing Aegor speak, and looked beyond the glaze of her eyes down the table.

"You must be Aegor!" A sudden warmth filled Daenerys' demeanor, and her eyes brightened as a sincere smile stretched from cheek to cheek. "Take her, Emmy," the princess said as she passed the babe to the dark eyed silent servant, who took the babe, sat, and immediately opened her robe to offer her breast to it.

Aegor quickly looked as far away as he could. He'd been embarrassed enough, but as he turned back, the princess was already in front of him.

She was tall for a girl as young as she must've been. Before departing for the capital, Hatten drilled him on the royal family, their ages, and known facts, so he could be better prepared to gain their favor. He hated it, but that time taught him his half-sister was only twelve. She appeared much older than Aegor in person, and she was everything he imagined a Targaryen Princess to be, and more.

Her long wavy hair shone like fine jewelry, swaying atop her shoulders, in place despite looking as if she hadn't been prepared for dinner as Aegor had been. Though she still looked tired, her bright lavender eyes still grinned. The fair skin of her face was as soft as a feather, and her wide, honest smile was framed with plump lips, like his, something they may have both gotten from their father.

Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around him, "Good to meet you, brother."

Aegor couldn't reply. He just held her tighter and buried his face into the shoulder of her dress to hide what his eyes might do.

He took a deep breath in. "It is so good to meet you too, your grace."

"Call me Dany. We're kin, you and I. Let the rest of them call us by our courtesies. But we're Targaryen. You need not call me anything other than my name."

As the wet nurse fed the babe, Daenerys remained at Aegor's side of the table, filling his ears with her sweet words and wonderings. She asked so many questions, he barely had enough time to ask his own. The Princess seemed genuinely interested in him and who he was.

They spoke of Stone Hedge. He made sure to paint them all in as positive a light as he could, except for Hatten. When he told her of the time he threw the horse dung at him twice, she chortled and slapped at his shoulder in a laughing fit. No one else had laughed at that.

I knew it was hilarious.

"Do you know what we're eating?" Aegor eventually had to ask. He had nothing but salted meats and stale water from Stone Hedge to the capital, and he was as excited as he was hungry.

"Buttered something, I bet. The new cook butters everything, like he'd rather be a baker than a cook."

The Brackens barely even buttered their bread. They were not cattle people. They were horse people.

"I can hardly wait," Aegor replied. "Will father be joining us?"

The princess' face turned at that. "He's as likely to show as he is not, and if we do see him, it may only be a brief appearance. Though he's making more of an effort since the deaths, I don't know if he has it in him to be more than a king. At least he had you brought here. Your home doesn't sound all that welcoming, if you forgive my saying so."

That was never my home.

"Not at all. I too am glad he called me here." In truth, he wished it were only he that was called. Those Blackwoods could have stayed at Raventree Hall.

Soon after, amidst the adorably loud calls from the babe, a kitchen staff far too large for the two they'd serve paraded in with plates and utensils. Aegor had been served at feasts before, but never like this.

He ate bread, parsnips, candied carrots, and buttered peas. Everything was buttered, actually, and those were only the garnishes.

For the main course, he ate a honeyed duck that's skin cracked in his mouth as he chewed it, and a sizzling ham shoulder dripping in grease and even more butter.

The Princess ate almost as much as he, and once the kitchen staff had left after they finished carving and cleaning what remained, she let out a loud belch. She smiled across the table, and continued ripping into the ham.

His father never showed. Aegor tried not to think of it, but with every step outside the dining hall, he looked up nervously, hoping for it to be him. Every time was a member of the staff.

Every time Aegor looked up, his head sank back down in disappointment.

When he had finished, he had eaten way more than his fill. He almost felt like he could barely stand, but when he thought of the climb to the apartments at the top of the Tower of the Hand, he wished he had eaten just a bit less.

It was already dark, and the journey and food left him weary. Daenerys had finished as well. The only one still eating was the babe.

"What do you plan to do now, brother?" Dany asked, slouched in her seat.

"I don't think I can move for a bit," he replied.

"You had thrice what I had, and I feel the same. Where are you staying? Is it far?"

"The Tower of The Hand. It's not how far it is, but how many stairs."

"Lord Hightower must be in some trouble for you to be staying there. Wonder what he's done now?"

Aegor didn't want to get involved with those kinds of things. Not yet. "When do you think I can see father?"

The Princess sighed. "You poor thing. Don't expect too much of him in that role, at least. I've lived in the same keep my entire life, and I barely see the man." Her tone softened after seeing the sunken look on Aegor's face. "Like I said before. He did call you to be here. That's more than many out there."

She meant bastards. His sorrow turned sour. And I thought she saw me as a Targaryen.

He refused to say anything else until his anger calmed. He couldn't let the bastard out in King's Landing. Not unless it's in the yard against that Blackwood half-brother of mine.

"Would you like to hold our newest sibling?" Dany asked, referring to the babe.

Aegor was too distracted by everything else to think of the babe and who it was. When he had left Stone Hedge, there was no babe in the capital. There was no talk of the Queen or the King's mistress from Lys being with child, so it could be a child on a common woman in the capital, or someone else.

"Whose is it?"

"It?" the princess replied, her nostrils flaring as she looked back at him with fire, "is a she. And she is your sister, Shiera. She's the daughter of the Lady Serenei, who passed upon giving birth to her."

"The Lady was with child? Was it known?"

"It all happened very quickly. She was always hooded and robed, so no one was said to notice until a few months ago, but she was, and this is what happens after," she said mocking his understanding. "So?"

"So what?"

"Do you want to hold her?"

"I've never held a child before."

"Do you have hands?"

"Yes."

"Just don't be stupid. You look smart enough," she said as she walked toward him with the girl in her arms. She was such a little thing, wrapped in a black and red swaddling blanket, only her tiny pink face visible. "Here. Make sure you have hold of her head, like this," Daenerys guided his arms to hold the fragile thing gently in his arms. "There. Aegor, this is Shiera."

She mewed in his arms, her pink lids closed and her mouth still puckered from her turn at the wet nurse. A rush of something profound washed over him as he looked at her, terrified and empowered, as he held her little life in his hands. He'd had family before, and had come to know kin.

But he had never truly felt love before holding his little sister. Her warm weight was heavier on his heart than his arms, as if it had never beat before she was placed there. How could such a weird, loud little thing mean so much so quickly?

"She's precious. Isn't she?"

Aegor could only smile. He was so focused on not dropping her, he was too scared to form words to reply. Love is stressful. "Can you take her, please. I'm scared she'll jump."

"Just hold her a bit longer," Daenerys replied. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Aegor had never seen a babe so young before, especially not this close. She wasn't. Babies were not beautiful. They were splotchy and pink and veiny. They looked weird. Their eyes were closed. Their mouths were wet. They were dirty and smelly and gross, from what he'd seen before.

"Yes," he answered. "but I'm nervous holding her. I've never held something so important before."

"Just a little bit more."

Aegor kept looking at the girl's pink face. Her eyes never opened, but she moved her mouth and brow around. Mostly, he kept his eyes on her to make sure he didn't drop her, his hands near shaking from the dread of danger, but he kept studying her, entertained by every little twitch in her features.

The babe's face tightened, and suddenly his arms were wet as the little face reddened. "Hey!" Aegor yelled softly, still fearful of dropping the babe.

"Rhea," Dany called, "the babe's ready to change." The dark-haired girl rushed over. "Welcome to King's Landing, brother. She does it to me every night. It means she likes you."

When the girl Rhea took the babe, she began to bawl, loudly. "She misses you already," the girl said to Aegor. "She only cries like that when we take her from the Princess."

His clothes were warm and wet, stuck to his skin.

What more could I expect from family?