Author's Note:
Sorry for the delay! Real life, again. (Or maybe I'm just giving the authentic asoiaf experience? Please finish the books George). Next chapter will definitely be up a lot sooner though. As ever, thank you to everyone who has read the fic, or kindly left comments. I really appreciate it.
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Ashes were strange, Aegon decided. Little more than powder, it settled like dust, jet-black, and ghostly grey, and sometimes white as snow, but still…strange. He could scoop those ashes up, and they would cling to his skin, and fall through the cracks in his fingers, to scatter on the ground below, to be discarded, or swept away, and forever ignored thereafter. How many times had he spied ashes in the hearth, or left underfoot, and thought nothing of it, cared nothing for it, saw nothing at all but just the remains of a fire once burnt?
To think, the ashes before him were once his uncle. How strange, how surreal, how utterly bizarre that was. How could this meagre pile be the sum of a man? How could they be all that remained of a life? Everything he was, his laughter, his grace, the warmth of his gaze, the wisdom of his words, his love and hates and wants…all of it, gone, in an instant. Those ashes were all that remained of a man who had lived more than any other ever had, all that remained of a man who blazed, who burned so bright, so fiercely, so much greater than any other.
And now, there was nothing left. Nothing, but ashes, and the remains of a fire once burnt.
Aegon dug his nails into his palm. They were bitten to the nub, leaving jagged edges that caught at his hand, inciting a soreness that did nothing to distract him from his hollowness. Nothing left but ashes.
Though truth be told, he had no way of knowing whether he knelt before his uncle. Perhaps it was a servant girl's ashes, or a ratcatcher's, or a soldier's...or just wood. Only the Seven knew. Fire paid no homage, and knelt to no Lords, and cared not for men or beast or stone or timber. It was all the same to the flames.
Aegon knelt, fingers hovering over the ashes, as a cold breeze to the North carried droplets of rain that fell softly on his cheeks. It felt an odd dream. It all did. Everything. He expected his uncle to be around every corner. How could he be there one day, and gone the next? It made no rhyme or reason. Perhaps Aegon never learned. He had felt this before, this strange sense of loss, when his mother died. Perhaps, he mused, this feeling should not have felt so queer to him. Perhaps he should have been better at managing it, but he was not, and he did not think he ever would be. There was naught but numbness in his heart, and the strange, surreal sense that something was missing, taken from him, and it would never be returned.
"We must go," whispered his sister.
The sky above was a dull grey, overcast with great, bloated clouds as thick as wool. To look up at them felt yet another injustice. In Dorne, the sun would be scorching his skin, and there would be specks of desert sand on his face instead, with the scent of salt and fire on the wind, and Oberyn would be home. Home, where he belonged, surrounded by his daughters. Dornish Vipers were meant to bask in the sands.
Instead, he was here, as a cloying chill clung to Aegon's bones. He had no right to kneel here. He had no right mourn as Oberyn's daughters did, before all that was left of their father, while they sobbed and grieved wherever they were, scattered across Westeros. Oberyn Martell was not his father. Yet it felt just as it did when Aegon lost his mother. His heart hurt just the same.
Rhaenys reached to grip his hand when he eventually rose. Her skin was cool to the touch. When Aegon glanced up, he saw the tracks of her tears on her russet-brown skin. Aegon had no tears. The Gods had taken them. In the distance, he spied his mother's uncle, Ser Lewyn, standing vigil. The man had been his constant shadow since the Night of Maegor's Inferno.
"Where next?" Aegon asked dully.
His sister's dark eyes roved over him. His mother's eyes. Oberyn's eyes. Martell eyes. But not his. Something passed over her face, and for a moment Aegon saw through the mask, to the misery and sorrow within, and he feared she would reach up to caress his cheek, but instead she took a shuddering breath and turned. "To the Throne Room," Rhaenys said softly, then. "For Ser Arthur."
"I do not wish to go."
"You must," She insisted imperiously. The Princess of the Seven Kingdoms returned as if never gone. It had always been so easy for her. Aegon loved and hated her for it. "You are the Crown Prince."
"Why should I?" He kicked the ground.
"Because Ser Arthur-"
"Aemon will not attend. Why should I?"
"Aemon is not the next King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Six. Five and a half. And Aemon was closer to him than I. If our dear bastard brother cannot bother himself to attend, why should I?" A bitterness roared to life in his chest, sudden as it was strong, like a dragon unfurling its wings. It felt nourishing, and he feasted on it like a starved man, quick and ravenous. Aegon's brother had departed a week ago, with a cadre of soldiers and knights and the Kingsguard Ser Jaremy Rykker, to prepare the way for their royal father and his armies.
Another strange look passed over his sister's face. "Father sent our dear bastard brother away. He could not stay."
"As you would know," Aegon muttered, tone dark and moody. It felt good to feed the dragon. "Given how close the two of you have been, as of late."
His sister merely sighed. "Aegon, are you eight or eight and ten?"
"He did not bother to attend," Aegon reiterated. "Did not bother to even bid goodbye. Did not bother to even-"
"Brother…" Rhaenys turned once more, brows furrowed. "As I told you, he could not wait-"
"Not even a week?"
Their closeness had evaporated with the passing of time, Aegon knew. They were not boys, and never would be again. That could be the way of things. His brother had changed, as Aegon himself had, in the past few years – and then changed again, after Summerhall. His father said a dance with death could do that, to a person. There was a wall as large as the one in the North between them. Aemon was the Rebellion, and Lyanna Stark, and the Blackfyres, and his mother's last words, and his father's rare smiles, and Aegon was the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
Gone were the days where they practised at their swordplay in the yard, just two brothers, who knew nothing but the love and friendship of the other. He could still see it, see them, even now: "Behold, for I am the Prince Daemon, the Rogue Prince, and none can bear my blade!" Aemon would shout, sword high in the air, his face a noble mask of grim determination. "Behold!" Aegon could duly reply, running across the yard, slicing, and slashing, face already splitting into giggles. "For I am the Princess Rhaenys, and none can bear my smell!"
Playing at swords, running in hallways. Laughing over stolen blackberries, joined in a secret conspiracy against servants and sisters alike. Aemon, frowning as he peeked over the balcony. "Your Uncle doesn't like me," He was saying. How old was he? Seven? Eight? Young, and looking younger still, face drawn, shoulders hunched. Aegon had never seen him look so small. "Did I do something to wrong him?"
"Aegon?" His sister's frown had deepened.
"What?"
"Please do not be wroth at him, or me, for that matter," She frowned. "Time was short-
"Not even long enough to be here, with us?"
"Aegon…"
"I still thought he would stay," Aegon muttered. I still thought he would stay here. With me. For This. He stormed off, to avoid meeting his sister's eyes. It would be easy to seethe, and easier still to dismiss his brother. What was Aemon, but his father's errant bastard, the threat to his throne, the symbol of his father's sins? Why should Aemon even care that Lyanna Stark's son wasn't here?
Perhaps the guilt was why he cared. The guilt that washed away his bitterness, accompanied as it was by the memory of his mother's disappointed face. Aegon clenched his fists. His mother had left him, just as Oberyn had left him, just as Aemon had left him.
"Will you slow down?" Rhaenys ran up next to him, panting slightly. "The gods did not grant us all legs as long as yours."
"Walk faster then," Aegon gritted out.
"Stop being such a cunt," She replied archly, scowling. "Do you think yourself the only one grieving?"
The walk to the Throne Room felt a long one. He marched on, eyes fixed on the cold marble floors, even as his sister greeted the Lords who came past with her easy smiles and courtly words, even as she tutted under her breath at him, or made apologies, even as those Lords clearly scowled, or otherwise gossiped to their neighbours once left behind. He could feel the heavy weight of their stares, and his mind gave voice to their snickers and whispers. There goes the Crown Prince, he thought. See how his knees shake and his shoulders tremble. See how he barely looks like he could lift a sword, much less sit the Iron Throne. Not like his brother. The Hero of the Red Keep. Did you hear?
"Back straight," His sister mumbled.
Aegon slouched further and smiled grimly at the clenching of her jaw.
Ahead, his destiny awaited. His namesake's creation loomed impossibly high to him. It always had. They said it was the product of a thousand blades. Rhaenys had once counted, though Aegon had long since forgotten the number. A long row of steep, iron steps led all the way up to a painful, cold seat, with spikes and jagged edges jutting and prodding and slicing from melted, twisted swords.
And before his own destiny, was the destiny of all. In the middle of the darkened throne room, on a hastily raised platform draped in white cloth, a man laid still. His hands stiffly clasped a greatsword as pale as milkglass, and the silent sisters had cleansed the body and dressed it in the finest of spotless white armour, with the man's white cloak providing it with a bed on which to lie. As they moved closer, Aegon resisted the urge to hold his nose. The air was thick with incense – myrrh and juniper - and flagrant herbs and salts to mask the Stranger's scent – and the body was surrounded by candles, which flickered with a quiet, warm light that caused small, misshapen shadows to burst in all directions.
It also cast a heat that made Aegon's clothes more than stifling, and he quickly moved his hand to wipe the forming sweat at his brow. His sister stood serenely, unbothered, as she always did. He followed her to glance upon the corpse.
It was as if Ser Arthur Dayne merely slept. His face still bore his handsome looks, and his jaw still seemed as sharp as his blade, but as Aegon moved closer, he could see the waxy skin, and the stiff hands, and the ballooning neck. The fallen Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had been given the highest armour – to rest beneath the Iron Throne for seven days, for the seven gods - as befitting the King's greatest friend. They had arrived in time for the morning prayers, and a septon stood nearby, whispering holy words of the Faith.
The contrast between the Kingsguard and his Uncle was enough for the bitterness to spike in his heart again. Oberyn had scaled the walls, too. Oberyn had run into the fires too – not for glory, not for oaths, but for love, for his blood, for all that remained of his sister…but for the grace of the gods, it was Arthur Dayne who laid in state. Aegon wanted to tear it all down. He imagined it. It would take one swipe at the candles, and they would all fall, and something would catch alight – the platform, the cloak, even the body – and it would all go up in flames, and then there would be nothing, naught but ashes.
Next to him, his sister was staring hard at the body. He knew why.
In the middle of the throne room, before his father's great iron chair, on a raised platform draped in dark velvet, there was a woman. Aegon felt his father's hands clawing into his shoulders as he pushed him along. Behind him, his brother watched quietly, with Ser Arthur by his side. Rhaenys was sobbing, but the gods had taken Aegon's tears. The woman looked strange. Her skin looked strange – her dark skin too pale, and almost oily. Her hands were folded stiffly over her chest, fingers entwined, but her knuckles looked almost blue. She didn't look right. They had dressed her in the colours of her House, rich fabrics of gold and orange, and there was a thin circlet of gold resting atop her head, with a golden spear piercing a Sun at its centre. The body was slender, and frail, but the face was still beautiful, the cheeks still soft. Aegon still did not understand. He felt empty, as if something had sucked a part of his soul out. Whatever woman that was, it was not his mother. How could that be his mother?
Rhaenys muttered a prayer. Aegon had little knowledge of the Seven-Pointed Star and even less time for it. Instead, he willed the day to pass more quickly. It was if the gods had taken control of his body, and he were merely watching through the eyes.
When the Gods finally listened to his own silent prayers, Rhaenys took his arm to greet the sole member of House Dayne in King's Landing, standing vigil to the side. Allyria Dayne was comely enough, with her dark hair, and blue-grey eyes, though her beauty was a wilder one, nothing like her sister Ashara Dayne's more haunting, breath catching looks. His own sister's handmaiden stood in black mourning dress, with a veil to hide her angular, solemn face. When she saw their approach, she dipped her knees and smiled softly when Rhaenys reached out her hand.
"She should not grieve alone. I worry for her," Rhaenys confessed later, as they began to depart from the Throne Room, just as more Lords entered. The rest of House Dayne were still travelling to the capital, from their keep at Starfall – or from Braavos, in Lady Ashara's case.
"Some prefer to be alone," Aegon muttered darkly. He ignored her frown and squinted his eyes to better spy the sigils of the incoming nobles. Leaping red salmon, black wings on white fess on checkered black and grey, bear paw, brown on white. Houses Mooton, Staunton, and Brune. Yet more Lords were coming to King's Landing first, rather than Harrenhal, so they could see the damage. He vaguely recalled a Mooton had been a friend of his father's, before being cut down by the Raging Storm during the Rebellion. The man's brother nodded to him, and Aegon grimaced back, only to curse himself afterwards.
"You have all the grace of an ass," Rhaenys muttered. She noticed. She always fucking notices.
"And you have the face of one," huffed Aegon.
"Lies." She stopped near the heavy wooden doors, and turned to face him, stretching her arms sardonically. A passing Noble almost walked into the door at the sight of her, though his sister never noticed. "I am the most beautiful of all the Targaryens."
"Dany exists," Aegon murmured.
"I'm more beautiful," She sniffed in return, before considering her words. "Well, mayhaps it is a tie. Joint-most beautiful?"
"I know what you are doing," He said, tone sullen. "Kindly stop it."
"Do you think Oberyn would have you be like this forever?"
"It hardly matters, does it?" Aegon turned away. Slumber was whispering sweet nothing's in his ears, and he wanted nothing more than to give into it. "He's dead."
"There are times," Rhaenys hissed back, voice sharp and low, "when talking to you makes me wish I were as well."
"If only the gods granted such favour. Farewell, sweet sister."
"Why must you be this way?"
He shrugged. "A Prince must rebel as he is able."
Silence followed. When there was no reply, he saw Rhaenys was suddenly staring at him sadly. "What?" He demanded. "What is it?"
"Nothing," She said.
Aegon left her there.
-
"Aegon."
He closed his eyes. The next day had found him tired. He was feeling more fatigued more often, these days. There was a weariness that would set into his bones, and seep through in his bones. His legs felt heavy, as if they were permanently attached to heavy weights of iron. He just wanted to sleep. His new rooms were in the Martell quarters, where the old Kitchens used to be - where once men cooked food for Aegon's ancestors as they plotted the end of the Dornish, now the Dornish stayed, as men plotted the end of Aegon and his descendants.
Yet, he mused moodily, there was little rest for the weary, and less still for the damned. "Uncle," He greeted.
Doran Martell's lips curved into some attempt at a smile, but it was a poor one. It did not reach his dark eyes. Oberyn's eyes. Martell eyes. The eyes of his mother and his sister, but not his. "Nephew," His uncle greeted, his voice a soft murmur as he gripped Aegon's arm. The servants slowly placed the Prince of Dorne onto a soft, plush draped with colours of crimson and gold. "How are you?" He asked, as his hand lingered briefly before reaching for a loaf of freshly baked bread.
Aegon shrugged. Alive. "What is it, nuncle?"
Doran sighed. "Can an uncle not merely wish to spend time with his favourite nephew?"
"I am your only nephew."
"That we know of, I suppose." His uncle shifted in his chair, then winced. His gout tended to be unkind most days, and seemed worse most recently. "There may still be a day when a boy with Oberyn's face shows up at my door," He murmured. "I do not dread it as I used to, now. The sight would undo me, I think. I would weep. Weep, as I do for you now, nephew."
"Then don't." Aegon picked the loose thread of his sleeve. "In times as these, there are more important things."
"In times as these, there is nothing so important," The Prince of Dorne corrected him.
"Because I'm the heir."
"Because you're my nephew." His uncle sighed deeply again. "But yes, you are the heir. And we must protect you-"
"Because that worked so well before." Aegon snapped. He turned away, the dragon was unfurling its wings again. Green fires blazed before his eyes. "Viserys and Blackfyres and stupid schemes-"
"Schemes are like vines. Some wither, but-"
"Some wither, like the one to kill my brother?" How quickly that scheme unravelled, he thought furiously. "First he was a danger, and then he was to die, despite your promise to my mother, despite the fact he is my blood, and now you let him leave. I see no plans, uncle. Only desperate reaches."
His odd dream from the other night came suddenly before him. A dragon, freezing in the snow. Dying, with dark eyes turned blue. He knew not what it meant but feared it all the same. His brother was in danger in the city and out of it. "Aemon is gone, Viserys is somewhere in the city, we are now fighting a war against only the gods know who, perhaps the whole realm, half the Keep is gone, and Oberyn is dead-"
"Aegon."
Aegon took a deep breath. Nearby, a fly was hovering over his half-eaten broth, its sluggish path a lazy arc across the air. Its buzzing came and went, fainter one moment than the next. Even the flies are dying here. "What use are your schemes now?" He asked. "What is there to protect, now?"
"Everything," Doran whispered. "Everything. All is not yet lost. We must guard ourselves. And that starts with the Spider."
"Lord Varys?" Of course, he thought moodily. Whispers and games. That was all the realm was, and all his uncle preoccupied himself with. "What about him?"
"Have you seen him?"
Aegon resisted the urge to sigh. Or fold his arms. "Only in the Small Council meetings."
"And what news had he, of the attack?"
"Little," Aegon frowned. "But you do not need me to tell you that."
His uncle dipped the bread into his own broth of dried peppers and crushed coriander, complete with shreds of roasted lamb. The scent of it wafted up pleasantly into the air. "You find no issue with this?"
Aegon watched him eat for a moment. Slow, and measured. Everything his uncle did was considered. He knew not whether it was the gout or merely Doran Martell's nature that made him that way. "Only the gods know," He reiterated, to his uncle's deepening frown. "We have enemies everywhere. Why do you speak with me? Surely, my sister-"
"Cease that." Doran moved Aegon's hand away from the loose thread. "You undo fine work. And while your sister possesses a mind as sharp as any woman I have ever known, Lord Varys has had her embroiled in his webs as surely as he has had so many others."
He found himself torn between the instinct to defend his sister and the twisted joy in their Uncle's criticism of her. In the end, he offered neither and settled for a grimace. "You blame the Spider?"
"Partly." His Uncle leant back, to gaze upon the ceiling. "Do I think he lit the flames? Perhaps he did, perhaps he did not. Do I fear he did nothing to stop them? Hmm. I certainly blame him somewhat. Someone knew where to find the hidden caches wildfire. Very few would have known. And it was his job to know."
Aegon frowned. "I know he may be dangerous, but you can't possibly be suggesting-"
"Let us assume his innocence, then. Still, the realm has never been weaker. Not since Robert Baratheon smashed three armies in one day. Am I to believe he has heard nothing? No whispers? Not one?""
"He was attacked-"
"So he was," The Prince of Dorne noted wryly. "Struck, sliced, but not slaughtered. Dead Gold Cloaks, dead royal guards. Oberyn, and Ser Arthur, and two of the Kingsguard brothers in white alongside the beast Clegane. Some men of mine own, as well, I am sad to say. Yet, he was spared."
"They spared Viserys, too-"
"So they did. But why? Why spare them? Did they wish to send a message? Was it a warning? To them, to us, to your father? Were Varys and Viserys struck to scar, but not to slaughter, Aegon? Was the plot theirs? Varys was Aerys's first. And Aerys always wanted Viserys. Perhaps old loyalties still thrive."
"Mayhaps, mayhaps, mayhaps," said Aegon. "We don't know much of anything."
His uncle moved uncomfortably again as he reached for a glass of strongwine. "True enough. But think on this, Aegon. Why did Varys not know?"
"He can't know everything."
"Nor can he know nothing," Doran stressed. "What is worse, do you think? A spymaster who knows nothing, or one that says nothing?"
"I know what you're doing." Aegon scowled. "I don't care-"
"You should." Doran gazed at him more sternly, now. "Varys is a clever man. There are none more dangerous."
"The world is full of clever men," replied Aegon. "Clever men, and murderous men, and angry men-"
"And lazy, spoiled, almost pointless men," His uncle concluded calmly. "I know well enough you are none of those things, no matter how much you wish the world to think otherwise." His gaze was steady and sharp, and Aegon looked away. "You will be King, one day, Aegon. And you must know such men. All of them. These is the questions you must ask yourself. A King must know himself, to know his realm. He must also know the men around them. Not merely their faces, or their names, or their sigils, but their minds. How they think. If you cannot do that, you cannot hope to trust them-"
"If we can't trust our spymaster-"
"You should never trust your spymaster," Doran said sharply. "Spymasters are scorpions. Small, easily overlooked, alive in the shadows. They serve well so long as it suits."
"I hate this," Aegon said simply. His head seemed to throb. "I can't think like this, nuncle."
"I know." His uncle looked away, dark eyes clouded. "I know you never asked for this cup to be handed to you. I know, Aegon, that you do not live for the burden you will bear."
He paused to trace his fingers over the rim of his goblet. "I know you do not enjoy the scheming, and the plotting, and the dance of war and crowns and whispers. In better times, I would allow you all the freedom you yearn for. But these are worse times, and worse still await. You cannot look away. You must not." His voice grew firmer. "The gods have fashioned you a crown to fit your head, and they do not care for how you feel for it. This is your future. Your life, when I am gone. When your father is gone, and his Hand and all that seek to shield you are no more than memory." He laid one hand on Aegon's. "And then it will only be you."
"And my sister," Aegon reminded him.
"She will be in Highgarden."
"She shouldn't be." It had always felt an injustice. "If we were in Dorne-"
"Would that we were," Doran sighed. "Would that I could take you and Rhaenys away from this wretched den of schemers and vipers - but we are not."
So Aegon has heard, all his life. "Perhaps I will flee North, then, like Aemon," He allowed. "In fact, more north. How high is the Wall, do you wonder?"
"Martells are not for the North. You would freeze at the Wall." Oberyn would have made some sly, cutting remark about pleasures, women, and wine, with a smirk and a shake of his dark head.
"I'm a Targaryen." And Aegon would not even be the first of his kin to don the black.
"By name. But you are your mother's son." His uncle had that look on him. Aegon despised it. It was the look of a brother who saw not the nephew, but the sister's shadow.
"My father said my mother was not suited-"
A flicker of distaste passed across his uncle's face. "Your father says many things. Do not repeat his mistakes."
"I could take the Black, though. I could-"
"And let Viserys take your throne?"
"Perhaps he should," Aegon said. "He has his supporters." Yet he knew he never meant it. The mere image of his father's brother on the throne was enough to haunt him.
"Some," Doran allowed. He reached for a small shred of lamb, rolling it between his fingers. "His father's friends, flatterers, and sycophants all. Would you give him freely what he has sought to take?"
"You still think he tried to kill Aemon." Rhaenys still refused to believe it. He's not mad or bad enough to kill his kin, she'd said. He's just a cunt.
"I still fret he may have tried to kill you."
Aegon shook his head. "But even he would never have dared to burn the Red Keep-"
"Perhaps. I doubt he would have risked himself-"
"Or Dany." No-one truly ever escaped Viserys Targaryen's scorn, but if he were truly fond of anyone, it was the shining star of the Seven Kingdoms, the Princess Daenerys. Aemon had always accused Viserys of envy. Aegon could well believe it.
"Hmm," Doran considered it for a second before tearing off another piece of lamb. He chewed it thoughtfully, savouring the bite before licking his fingers. "And yet, all he does is complain of your father. I hear he wines and dines his father's friends even now, telling all that this is the King's weakness coming home to roost-"
"Even a liar tells the truth, from time to time," Aegon muttered, at that.
"The trick is telling the truth from the lies." His uncle sighed deeply. "Aegon, one day you will need to step up to the Iron Throne. You cannot look away forever. I would have hoped, after last week-"
"You hoped wrong." Aegon stretched and stifled a yawn. "Forgive me, nuncle. I would quite like to sleep, now."
His uncle pressed his lips into a thin line. "You will have time to rest when you are dead," He said, before sighing. "And if the gods are good, and if I am too, that will be when you are far, far older than I."
-
Days later, Aegon was meandering up the steps of the Tower of the Hand, having prolonged his journey to the next meeting of the Small Council as far as he was able, when the strangest of sights blossomed before his vision.
"Father?"
The King did not look up. Aegon found his royal father in the Hand's solar, sat at the head of the council table, pursuing unseen texts, with his head so low his long, silver hair was brushing the papers. The King had seen better days. He was dressed in fine clothes of velvet the colours of their house, dark tunic, and breeches with red linings, but there were great shadows under his eyes, and Aegon thought his father looked thinner than usual.
King Rhaegar shot him a sparse glance. "I fear my attendance is rather necessary," He replied. The text before him bore illustrations of small, dark daggers. "Matters of great import are to be discussed today."
Compared to any other day? "Am I still to attend? If you are here…"
His father raised an eyebrow. "Why would you not be?"
"Well…" Aegon frowned. "Usually, you do not-"
"You asked to attend these meetings, and so you do. You may attend this one as well, if it pleases you," interjected the King. "I did not think you only attended to make up for my absences."
All those books and you cannot see beyond the end of the pages. "What will we discuss today?"
His father turned back to his texts, tone distant. "It behoves a Prince to be patient."
Aegon turned to sit at the far end of the table, as far from his father as he could manage, his fists balled up where the royal eyes could not see…but his father always knew. The King broke through his seething with a weary sigh. "It also behoves a Prince to mask his face."
"I am doing nothing," protested Aegon. In vain, as he always was. "I am just sat here."
"You are pouting." His father glanced up again, brows furrowed. Aegon knew that look well. It lived on his sister's face: patronising married with frustration. "Kings do not pout. Remember your lessons. To be a King is to be as stone – men need only see strength, and little else. Mask yours now."
To be a King was to know his men. To be a King was to be like stone. To be a King was to be like his father, but not like his father, and certainly not like his father's father, but also not like grandsire's father, who was sickly, or his grandsire's grandsire, who was too compassionate, but not like his father, who was too distant. The whole thing was a riddle he couldn't solve. It all made his head ache, and always had.
Still, he could almost hear Rhaenys laughing darkly, long, and loud, at his father's last words. "What if I wish to copy you?" He asked instead. "Or is it do as I say, not as I do?"
"Mind your tongue. But yes. Precisely." The King turned a page, steadfastly focused on the text before him, his words distant. "I would hope you endeavour to learn from all my mistakes. Every King should learn from the last one. Every King should strive to better the last one."
"Easy for you to say," Aegon grumbled. "It would have been difficult for you to be worse than the one before *you*."
His father paused at that, and looked up, brushing errant locks from his eyes. There was a wry, but almost brittle smile on the King's face.
"Yes," His father murmured. "You would think it would be, wouldn't you?"
Five minutes of silence followed. The King read. Aegon tapped his fingers on the desk, beating a senseless tune, before standing to review the tapestries depicting hunting scenes and Hands of old, before scanning the shelves and then the cabinets, and then the scrolls and books that littered them, and then, when time had moved no further, the large, golden round window to the far side. In the far distance, he could see someone climbing the winding serpentine steps.
"You have not asked what I was reading," The King remarked suddenly.
"Should I?"
"I would have."
I'm not you. The age-old problem, for both. Aegon found himself restless. He did not like to sit still. It unsettled him and rendered him somehow both weary and freshened. While the King still read, Aegon turned once more to Connington's desk. A great, mammoth text laid half-open. He leaned closer, squinting to make sense of the script, and then frowned. An entire text about who was wed to who, from a hundred years ago – gods, I pity whoever wrote this, Aegon thought. Nothing bored him like the lineages of the Great Houses.
"Ah, it is a fine text, is it not Your Grace?"
Aegon jumped, startled. Little Tyrion Lannister, as small as he was clever, was suddenly in the doorway, flanked by the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the old, but still strong, Ser Barristan Selmy. Both men nodded to him as they moved to sit at the desk.
"Dragonglass, from Dragonstone," Tyrion was saying. "Dragonglass, Dragon's breath. Dragonseeds. Dragon pepper." More like rambling. "Dragon's mercy, I hope."
The King closed his book with a thud, stood quickly, and turned to the Lannister with a roll of the eyes that had Aegon frowned. His father was rarely so casual. "Calm yourself, Lord Tyrion," He admonished, reaching out to grab the dwarf's shoulder with a smile that never reached the eyes. Few of his smiles ever did, though others did not seem to notice. "You have served the realm well. The realm, and your King, and most of all, your friend. And what greater service is there, than that?"
Something was afoot. What are you up to? "Father? Why is he here? No offence, Lord Tyrion, but…"
"But hostages should not be attending the small council." Tyrion ran a small, misshapen hand across the back of his head. "Most particularly, a Lannister one, in these times. Yes, my Prince, well, I-"
"Tyrion is here for matters of great import," The King said, with a pointed look. "And you will find out in due course. Ah, yet more friends! Jon, Richard, and Lord Monford. Well met. Please, sit down."
The Hand of the King. Lord Velaryon, and Ser Richard Lonmouth were each standing at the doorway, startled, eyes roaming from the King to the Imp and back again. Aegon would have laughed, were he not so confused himself. "Your Grace?" Connington asked hesitantly. "I…Not that I am not most pleased to see you here…"
"All will become clear in time," declared the King. He waved a hand at the Hand's chair. "Please, take your seat. And Lord Varys too. Greetings. That should be all of us, now, I believe."
All of us. All but one. The empty chair for the Master of Laws suddenly loomed high, and Aegon had to turn away at the sight of it. The gods were granting no door away from the grief in his heart.
"Your Grace," The Spider simpered. He inclined his bald head low, soft velvet robes rustling, his soft hands folded. There was a scarring slice marring the pale, doughy flesh of his left cheek, but the Master of Whisperers seemed entirely unbothered by it. His uncle's words from earlier in the week reverberated in Aegon's mind.
"How it pleases me to see you grace us with your kingly presence…And Lord Tyrion, too," Varys smiled at the dwarf with twinkling eyes. "I wondered when you would join us."
The King shook his head. "You are too clever, Lord Varys."
"You speak too kindly, Your Grace. If that were truly the case, our Lord Lannister would have no need to attend today at all."
He was missing something, Aegon knew. His father clapped his hands together. "So, I came for only one reason, but I suspect we have other matters to discuss first. Jon?"
"Yes, yes.." Connington sat up straighter, his bulky shoulders stiffening under the King's gaze. "Yes. I suppose I should not be shocked you came, given…well, yes." The Hand cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "As you know, men are amassing at Harrenhal. The Whents have sent word-the Prince of Summerhall is expected, within the fortnight. Lords from the Crownlands have already arrived. We know also that the Tyrells are marching from the Rose Road, and the Dornish are also on the move…but first, we must make the Kingsguard whole. We must find four able knights worthy enough to don the white cloak: men loyal and true, and so on and so forth. Ser Barristan, have you any in mind?"
The old Knight smiled grimly. "A few. I am most impressed by Balon Swann-"
"A Stormlander," The Hand cut in sharply. Around the council table, frowns deepened. Aegon clenched his jaw to better stay silent. Both Connington and Selmy were Stormlanders, themselves. What a mummer's farce.
"I squired for Ser Balon's grandsire," Selmy continued, undeterred. "The Swanns stood loyal to the King during the Rebellion-"
"That means little for now," snapped Connington. "We should not hand Renly Baratheon any hope of a spy in our midst-"
Across the table, his father's old squire, Lonmouth, shook his head. A third Stormlander. "Connington, for all we know Baratheon and Swann have never spoken-"
Aegon shifted his gaze to his father, seated silently at the head of the table. The King was looking away, gaze distant. Just look away father, Aegon thought bitterly. It's not as if they discuss the guard that protects your throne and blood.
"Let him come to Harrenhal, then, and we shall judge his person," Connington said brusquely. "We will need to keep at least one place open for the Tyrells."
"May I suggest advertising for three spots, my Lord Hand?" Varys's soft lilting tones carried across the room. "One for our friends in Highgarden, And then, a competition. For three brave men to prove their valour."
"Agreed. And since you have chosen to speak up, Lord Varys – have you discovered any more on the caches?"
The Master of Whisperers inclined his head. "A trifling amount, I am afraid. The alchemists report only men in hooded cloaks. No faces. Our foes, whoever they were, are not without their wits."
"Would that they were," The Hand muttered. He turned to Velaryon and Lonmouth. "Any evidence from the Holdfast?"
The two looked at each other and then rushed to speak first.
"We are making good progress-"
"Not as of yet, it is taking too long a time-"
They both stopped and then glared at the other. Aegon stared glumly at the desk. His uncle would have said something particularly dry, at that.
"I shall take that as a no." Connington sighed. "Well-"
"Are we done?" The King rose suddenly and smiled at the Hand's quick and flustered nod. "Excellent. Let us not then ignore the great beast in the chambers. The Old Lion. Tywin Lannister."
And then there was silence, and shared stares between them all. It seemed to echo. Aegon sat up, ignoring the dull, uncomfortable ache of the wooden chair on his arse, as his father smiled serenely. "Shall we bring in our friend?"
Connington rose at once. "Ser Barristan, if you will-"
The Kingsguard left with a brisk nod.
"Father," Aegon said, frowning. "Who?"
He was soon answered when Barristan returned quickly with a Lannister soldier in tow. Lord Tyrion rose, frowning at the sight of him. The man bore ornate armour of crimson and gold, with the Lion of Lannister on his chest and a rippling, red cloak at the back. "Vylarr," Tyrion greeted, clearly surprised. "My father sent you?"
The Lannister man bowed his head, before turning to Aegon's father. "Your Grace."
"Vylarr, is it?" King Rhaegar offered his hand as the man knelt. "The captain of Lord Tywin's household guard, as I am told. Welcome to the Small Council."
Several loud cries immediately erupted around the table, but the King raised a hand to silence them. "Lord Tywin sent you. I understand you have already spoken to the Hand, and Lord Varys as well – but if you will, speak again, now, and truly. What message does Lord Tywin wish to send for my ears?"
The Lannister captain frowned nervously, but he stood straight, and his voice was firm. "Several, your Grace. But first….Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, and Shield of Lannisport, former Hand of the King to your own father, His Grace King Aerys II…would like to express his great sorrow at the events of last week."
Aegon bit his lip. Very few people mentioned his mad grandsire. He did not know why Tywin Lannister would. Not for the first time, he lamented that Rhaenys could not attend council.
"His great sorrow," Connington repeated flatly.
"Yes."
Lonmouth leaned forward, jaw set in frustration. "Does he take us for fools?"
"I do not think-"
"Why would you," Lord Velaryon huffed. "Household guards are not paid to think. Why does he send you at all? Your Grace, this is yet another offence. He sends a soldier. A soldier!"
"Why not send Ser Jaime?" asked Barristan.
"Because we already have one son," Connington interrupted sharply. "I suppose Lord Tywin wants him back?"
The Imp's eyebrows rose. The Lannister captain looked nervously at the King again but gave no answer.
"Let it not be said the Old Lion lacks for balls," Lonmouth laughed darkly. "And what else does he say?"
Aegon's father turned to gaze out the large golden window. He waved a dismissive hand at Connington's look. "I am listening. Continue, Vylarr. No more interruptions. Tell me what Tywin intends to tell me. Leave nothing out."
"He offers the full might of the West, in our strike against the Starks."
"So that's his move, is it?" Connington shook his head, the picture of exasperation. "And Edmure Tully turned his cloak, did he?"
Captain Vylarr blinked, looked at Tyrion, and then frowned. "Well, yes, my Lord."
"How convenient," Varys whispered softly. "And he is missing."
The Captain's worried face was confirmation enough, but he spoke anyway. "Yes." Connington turned to the Spider. "You were right, Lord Varys-"
"Still, let us all hear what he has to say." It was not Rhaegar Targaryen's voice but the King's, all iron tones, unyielding and unwilling to brook disagreement. "Continue."
Vylarr shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "The Starks know no sense of honour. They are naught but traitors. Heathens, and rebels. Lord Edmure was working with the Starks. Sending ravens to his sister in Winterfell. When Lord Jaime discovered this, Lord Edmure fled. There are men searching, but we fear he has fled to the North, or else, to the Rebels, such as the Fury, which are-"
"Near Maidenpool," Varys sang sweetly. "So I hear."
"Yes, and so the Lady Cersei-"
"Panicked." Tyrion had a strange expression on his face. "And in her foolishness, sent her bastard goodbrother to pretend. Because she is an idiot."
Vylarr was staring hard at the Imp. "She feared for the fate of her husband, who she loves dearly."
"Of course," Tyrion quipped. "Never has a woman loved a man more."
"We've no proof it was the Starks." Ser Barristan's frown was deepening. "Save for the word of Prince Viserys."
"We have heard the rumours, Ser Barristan." Captain Vylarr inclined his head. "My Lord believes the Prince speaks truly. Why else claim it was to avenge the wolves?"
"Why else indeed." Connington turned to Varys again. "It echoes what you've been hearing from the Westerlands," The Hand noted, his great red brows furrowed.
"They all sing the same. It could be a sign of truth."
"Or a message well heard," Connington said dryly.
"It is the truth, my Lords. Your Grace."
"Hmm." Rhaegar waved a royal hand in dismissal. "What else, good ser?"
"Lord Tywin…beseeches you to remember the service he rendered to the Crown, and to your House. He swears that you forgive him for his daughter's foolishness, and that you do not look badly upon House Lannister, especially as your son will one day take his granddaughter to wed. House Targaryen and House Lannister will soon be bonded by marriage, and that bond will bind the Seven Kingdoms whole again."
Aegon did not want to think about Joanna Lannister, and betrothals, and binding the realm with his marriage bed. He looked at his father nervously. The King merely smiled. "Thank you, Captain Vylarr. Ser Barristan, take him back to his quarters."
"Complete bullshit," Velaryon declared, as soon as the two left. "He expects us to believe-?"
"Oh, it is certainly plausible, My Lords." Lord Varys smiled softly at them all. "The bonds between siblings do not break at borders. And none have seen Lord Edmure, and a man is only dead when there is a body, after all. No man could reject the story comfortably."
"The word about the Lady Cersei – is that true?"
"She has a certain low cunning, if I recall," The King said. "Tyrion?"
"Your Grace," blustered Lord Velaryon. "We cannot trust the word of a Lannister-"
"Tyrion," the King said more firmly. "Your view?"
"She's a fool, but even she'd not do this unless she had to."
"Just say he ran and be done with it," Velaryon agreed reluctantly. "Little point sending imposters. Unless she was playing for time."
"What is happening at Riverrun?" asked Aegon. The others turned to him, as if his presence had been forgotten. Connington frowned at him. "The last we heard, Lord Tywin was there, wasn't he? He went there a few days before the attack?"
And how interesting, that was. Rhaenys had paced for an hour when Aegon informed her.
"He did, my Prince," Varys nodded. "And he is still there."
"Why?"
"The Lord Edmure has many loyal friends," purred the Spider. "If only we all had such steadfast companions as he. And they remain there still, refusing to leave. I hear tensions are ever more fraught. The castle is crowded. Lannister men, Tully men, and men from a dozen Houses around them. My little birds sing that Riverrun is not a happy place to be."
"So he can't leave?" Lonmouth asked sharply. "The seven favours us, then."
"So it seems. But there are men marching from the West."
There were several deep breaths from around the room at that news. "We cannot tarry-"
"Nor will we," Connington said. "But Lord Darry is outside the walls with his own men."
Velaryon was frowning. "What if he speaks truly? One of the men that night was from the North, we know that. The gods know Prince Viserys is telling all that will hear it. Do we know who he was?"
"Some lowborn. Name of Tom." The Hand's tone was dismissive. "He was a Northerner, yes, but we have nothing to tie him to the Starks."
"Still, perhaps we should not assume in haste-"
"That is what the Old Lion wants," Lonmouth pointed a finger at the Master of Driftmark. "He is clutching for what he can, delaying what time he can manage, on the hope that fools like you fall for it-"
"You dare you insolent-"
"Enough." The King's iron tones silenced them all. "Enough. We will not waste any more time. You have heard his side. You know my view on this. Eddard Stark is many things, but he is a man of honour. I do not believe he would have directed men to burn us. I do not believe Lyanna's brother would have risked her son's life. I do not believe it; I will not believe it."
"How can you be so sure?" The words came from Aegon's lips before he could stop them. "We have fought them since I was a babe-"
"Because I know Eddard Stark." His father turned to sit again, and sank into his chair, his jaw set. For a moment, the image flickered, and the silver hair was brown, and the indigo eyes dark grey. "And I know Tywin Lannister. He was to me what Lord Connington is to you, Aegon. I grew up, watching him govern my father's realm. I know him. Eddard Stark would never be so ruthless. But Lord Tywin?" Rhaegar beat his fingers on the council desk, thrumming an unknown tune. "We have heard his side. Now hear his son's. I wanted Lord Tyrion here, for a reason. Tyrion, tell them what you told me. It serves no-one to keep secrets, now. The Council must know everything."
The little Lannister sighed. Aegon had never seen him look so nervous. His jutting forehead was suddenly sheening with sweat. "Your Grace-"
"Tell them," The King said, "And I shall give you all you are due, and more. On my word, with the Small Council as witness."
Tyrion Lannister sighed, long and deep, and closed his eyes. It suddenly felt as if there were no air in the room, as all, as one, turned to stare at the smallest amongst them. The Imp's hands were shaking, Aegon noted. Shaking, but when he spoke, his words were sure.
"When I left the Rock, my father told me to inform Ser Gregor to heed his last message. I thought nothing of it, at the time, but-"
"Proof!" Lonmouth stood, face snarling. Velaryon stood with him, their outrage joined in concert. "Your Grace, we must-"
"Silence." Aegon's father leant back, face now grim. "Let Lord Tyrion finish."
"…but now I wonder," Tyrion said. He was staring down at the table, his ugly face twisted. Aegon felt an odd pity for him. "But that means little, in itself-"
"It means everything-"
"It means nothing without further proof," Connington snapped. "Shut the fuck up, Lonmouth. Continue, Imp."
A scowl passed the dwarf's face before he continued. "But…my sister…" He hesitated, then sighed, then continued, words slow and measured, with his fists clenched by his side. "Perhaps my goodbrother was conspiring and fled. If he was, I did not know of it. But I know this, my Lords, your Grace. If he is dead…and I am certain he is…I could think of a reason my sister might want him so."
Only the King did not look puzzled. Lonmouth leant forward. "Did he have a mistress?"
Tyrion smiled sardonically. "For his sake, I hope so, but…" He sighed again. "My sister…cucked him."
Gods. Rhaenys had said so, hadn't she? Connington now sat straighter, and his gaze was sharper. "And you know this? For certain?"
"Yes."
"With whom?"
Tyrion gulped again. He looked at the King. He looked at the ceiling, and then out the window, and then to the floor. He was shaking. Aegon closed his eyes. He already knew the answer.
"Your Grace-"
"On my word," The King said simply. "Only the black for him. I will hand him to the Northerners myself, if need be. Stark will honour it. And the silent sisters for her. And no harm, at all, will come for the children. They bear no sins. No child can help how they are born. As the Council is my witness. I promise you, Tyrion, as your King, and as your friend."
Another shuddering breath. Two, then three. Aegon leaned forward. Somehow, he knew the words that were trembled from the dwarf's misshapen mouth. Rhaenys had already given them life, in her own ramblings in his chambers.
"My brother," Lord Tyrion whispered.
And then there was silence. The Lannister closed his eyes, and clenched his fists so hard there seemed to be blood on his palm.
The King inclined his head. "Ser Jaime Lannister," He declared. "Formerly of the Kingsguard."
"Jaime," murmured Tyrion again. It seemed an effort for him to force the words out. "And they are all his. All three of them."
"All three-oh," Lonmouth breathed. "You can't mean – the Tully children are-?"
"Jaime's."
"Bastards!" Lord Velaryon spat. "Abominations born of incest. That is your claim?!"
The man had forgotten his company. The King turned to gaze at him, raising one unimpressed eyebrow. Aegon shifted in his seat the sight of it; he had been subject to that look more than most. The Lord of the Tides wilted, sinking lower into his chair.
A shadow of a smile flitted across Tyrion's face, there and gone in an instant. "Born of a brother and a sister, yes my Lord."
"What proof do you have?" Lord Varys seemed shocked. Yet Aegon could not help but wonder. "Forgive me, Lord Tyrion," He started, high voice soft, almost coaxing. "But if this is so, this would damn both your brother and sister, would it not? How terribly convenient, for you. It would make you…second in line for the Rock, I believe?"
"I am their brother," Tyrion said simply. I am sure he cares as little for Casterly Rock as I do about my bed, Aegon thought.
"You are a second son, and a dwarf, and a man with a reputation most foul," declared Richard Lonmouth. "We have all heard the stories. How you drink. How you whore. You can forgive me if I find it hard to take your words at face value-"
"I do not believe Tyrion to be a liar," declared the King to his former squire.
Lonmouth shook his head. "Forgive me your Grace, but to believe a truth is not to know it, and…friends do not always speak truly-"
"He is," The King insisted once more. His voice brooked no disagreement. Meanwhile, Connington was staring into space, his expression oddly blank, but his voice was tinged with a horrified sort of disbelief. "This is a remarkable thing to claim, Imp."
The bitter smile on Tyrion Lannister's face said it all, Aegon thought, but the dwarf spoke all the same. "I am aware."
"If you speak truly," The Hand seemed lost in his own thoughts. "Then the rightful Lord of Riverrun is-"
"Not a Lord at all." Aegon's royal father laughed. It was a grim, sarcastic laugh that did not suit him. "But a Lady. Lady Catelyn Stark, to be precise. Or Queen, I should say."
Connington stared at his King, then at Lord Tyrion, then, for some reason, at Aegon, before leaning back and closing his eyes.
"It is quite the problem." The King spread his arms wide. "And so, we find ourselves in quite the predicament, my friends. Which, I fear, Lord Tywin knows as surely as us."
Aegon could see it. Connington had the right of it. Fuck.
"Whether by fortune or skill, the Lord Tywin has found himself a good hand, my Lords," Varys folded his hands into his sleeves. "If we suspect the Lannisters, then the realm must know why. To say that we suspect them because we fear Edmure is dead, which we would only fear because he may have discovered a terrible truth, and we believe they sought to cover it up-"
"…is to tell the Starks that Riverrun might as well be theirs," Aegon finished. Yes, he could see it.
"The Starks, or Rebels," Lonmouth frowned. "The realm is full of them. All just waiting. Even if we gave Riverrun to Lysa Tully or her husband Lord Darry-"
"-it would risk another war to split the realm." Varys sighed deeply, his voice thick with heavy concern. "Yesterday, the lady Lysa was not the lawful heir. Some across the Riverlands and the West will call for Joffrey. Others will rally for the Stark Queen. Those patient, silent Rebels, across the Riverlands and the Vale, and perhaps even the Stormlands..."
"Fuck!" Connington snarled suddenly as he rose to his feet, blue eyes wide and full of rage.
Varys merely inclined his bald head. "Indeed. Which, my Lords, is why what is truly important is what Lord Tywin's brave messenger did not say."
"It would suit all our interests if we agreed to blame the Starks," Tyrion concluded darkly. "And recognise Joffrey as the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. Or we risk civil war."
"He risked it the moment the wildfire burned," Lonmouth said firmly. "Your Grace – he wishes for us to blink first. We must not."
"There is one thing I don't understand though." Aegon bit his lip. In times like these, he found it best to channel his sister. Think like Rhaenys. "If…if this was his plan, then – why would he think we know about the incest?"
Tyrion Lannister's lip curled as he spoke. "He wouldn't at first, Prince Aegon," He said. There was a bitterness within him. It defined every line of his face and laced every tone of his voice. "But Jaime suspected that I knew. We never spoke of it. Of course we didn't. But I knew, and he knew I knew. And my father? Jaime would tell him everything. I know that, to be sure. And my father could guess, if I did know, that I would tell the King, eventually. To spite him, to save my own skin, to protect the children. I love them, you know? Even Joffrey, little cunt though he is."
Every word seemed to curse the dwarf's twisted mouth. "I can tell you things, my Lords, because I, like his Grace, know Tywin Lannister. Too well. And I know this: Tywin Lannister would not have stayed at Riverrun without being sure. If my goodbrother yet lived, my father would have hunted him down, and dragged him back. But he didn't, did he?"
For a single, solitary second, Tyrion Lannister seemed to fill the chamber, dwarf though he was. Every inch of him thrummed with some strange madness. There was something like righteous fury in those mismatched eyes, Aegon thought.
"I know…I can tell you, my Lords, that I know that Tywin Lannister has been scheming, for far longer than any of you could ever hope to imagine. Scheming, to undermine the Crown and House Targaryen….He's been secretly funding the rebels who plague the King's road. He's been whispering secret nothings with the King's foes, to the South and to the East, in Storm's End and in Pentos. There burns in my father's heart…a hatred for House Targaryen, and for the King's father, which could never freeze or die out. Never. He hates you, he hates you all, for some slight done to my own lady mother, before I was even born. I dare say, your Grace, he hates your father more than he even hates me…."
The Imp chuckled. The laughter was not easy to the ears. "And my father would stop at nothing…nothing, to protect our House. So I can tell you all, as his son, as a Lannister, as he writ small, gods damn me for it – I believe my goodbrother Edmure is dead. I believe my sister did it. And I believe…" His voice dripped to a cold whisper. "I believe my father may have tried to kill us all. Succeed, and we're all dead. Fail, and blame the Starks…there's a certain cruel elegance to it all, you must admit?"
He reached for a cup and stared into its depths. "He is a cunt, my Lord father." He downed the water with a grim, dark chuckle. "But the gods helps us all, he can be a brilliant one."
A stunned silence followed, settling over the entire room. They all seemed frozen. The faces around Aegon were etched with shock and disbelief. They reeled from the revelations just as Aegon did. Even the Spider had raised eyebrows. Aegon would need to remember it all, for his sister would want to know everything…but the only thought that flittered through his mind was the oddest one:
Well, surely they won't have me marry that Lannister girl now?
Lord Velaryon was the first to recover, although his voice wavered with incredulity. "Why would you tell us this?"
The Driftmark Lord's silver brows were drawn tight as he studied the Lannister as if the Imp had grown a second head, as if he were suddenly Maelys the Monstrous writ small, the last Blackfyre pretender from the male line. There was something akin to disgust in his look. "Why would you betray your own House like this?"
Tyrion Lannister's face twisted into an ugly, bitter look. "Why doesn't the King suspect the Starks?" He asked.
"Because-"
"Because Eddard would not have risked Aemon, for anything," said the King. There was an odd pitying look on King Rhaegar's face.
"Why don't you suspect Prince Viserys?" Tyrion then pressed. "He is second in line. He'd stand to gain the most, if the rest of the royal family died that night."
Lonmouth muttered under his breath ("Some do,") but it was Aegon that answered. The memory of Viserys and Dany, standing in the corridor as the brother pleaded to the sister, was still fresh in his mind. "Because he would not have risked his sister."
"My father risked me," Tyrion Lannister said lowly. "Even if I did not die. Left me here, to rot. What does it matter to him, if I spill his secrets? What am I, but a bitter, twisted, spiteful little creature? Who would heed the Imp? Who would listen?" He took a deep, tremulous breath and stood, to reach for a jug of wine by the far wall. "He has wanted me dead, all my life. And he sent me here, knowing what he would do. But the mistake is his," Tyrion finished darkly. His eyes were elsewhere. "A Lannister always pays his debts."
There was something oddly familiar about Tyrion Lannister. Aegon suddenly understood him far better. He misliked the feeling.
When no man spoke further, Rhaegar, of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, rose from his seat. He stood tall, and he spoke firmly, and in his face, Aegon saw not his father, but only the King. "I know enough to believe the truth of it. We will go to Riverrun." He turned to the Master of Coin. "What did you say, Richard? He wishes us to blink first? We shall see, then, whether a Lion can hold a Dragon's stare."
The King's eyes swept across the room. For a moment, they settled on Aegon. "Thank you, friends. Let us leave."
The King then left without a single glance back. As Aegon made to follow, Lord Varys reached out, his hand settling on Aegon's arm. This close, the eunuch's perfumes were strong enough to cloy the senses and stick in this throat, and Aegon had to twitch his nose. He fought the urge to shift uncomfortably, the conversation with his uncle still fresh in his mind.
"When you next speak to your sister, my Prince, please tell her something, won't you?" The Spider smiled softly at him, but his tone was far more serious than usual.
Aegon frowned. "What would you have me tell her?"
"I would have you ask her a question, my Prince." Lord Varys leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Just the one. Why kill Pycelle?"
He blinked at the Spymaster. Rhaenys had not wept to see the man dead, which was enough for him. Because he's a lecherous old man? "I don't understand," He said instead.
"Your sister will," replied Lord Varys. He patted Aegon's arm with his soft, pale hands. "Farewell, my Prince."
Aegon kept going back to Maegor's Holdfast. It was if there were a great invisible hook dragging him to stand before it, day after day, as if the very gods themselves compelled him to bear witness to the devastation wrought by Clegane and his conspirators, and there was little he could do but give into them. The front-face of the Holdfast was devastated, and some strange, unknown part of him found some strange, unknown solace in staring at what remained. It was a gutted shell. Connington had despaired it would take years and untold gold to rebuild it, and Aegon could well understand why. The Holdfast stood, but barely.
The red brickwork of the front façade had burned black. What had the Small Council heard, just the passing day? The mortar was compromised, he recalled. The stonework had cracked in the flames. The lower levels were a bad day from utter and complete collapse. Brave men had explored the keep, and came out gasping of caved-in ceilings, melted metal, creaking foundations and the ever-looming threat of cascading collapse from above. At any moment, they warned, it could all come toppling down. Only the will of the Seven kept it standing.
He wondered if the rest of the Small Council saw the metaphor.
Those men had also come out with a sickness in their lungs. There was something toxic, and deadly in those hallways. Some had already died. Others were still in the dying, shuddering from hacking coughs and waves of sickness.
That was fitting too, Aegon thought.
He moved closer. Nothing left. No doors, no windows, no portcullises or metal or wood, no furnishings, no clothes, no possessions. No memories. Everything Aegon ever had, and all he had of his mother, had went with the fires. There was nothing left but ashes. All destroyed in one night of flames, and thunder, at the whim of a murderous giant and the men who killed in his shadow.
This is what they want to give me. Knitting the Kingdoms back together, stitch by stich, they said. All undone, now. It was all fucked, he thought. All of it. The last meeting of the Small Council had only confirmed it all for him. His uncle, his sister, his father, the Hand of the King – they all schemed to defend an inheritance that was weaker by the day. In the face of their delusions, the holdfast showed the truth. And so every day he returned, and every day his great-uncle in the white cloak followed and shot him worried glances. No doubt he spoke with Aegon's uncle Doran, and probably Rhaenys, too. No doubt, he mused, they gossiped of his frailties. What did it matter, now, though? They did not see as he did. There was a storm coming, and it would wash away them all.
Tywin Lannister would see to it, if nothing else.
Every day, the Red Keep was too busy, too. Though many of the Lords had left for Harrenhal, to join the banners gathered there, still soldiers and Gold Cloaks cluttered the hallways and the pathways, and still, men blocked off all entry to the secret tunnels. Rhaenys had always said that the tunnels were the only reason anything was achieved at all in the Red Keep, but Aegon had no need to play at whispers.
Yet there were still hidden alcoves, and forgotten hallways, even in the Red Keep. It was in one such hallway that Aegon found the crying girl. She sat, face cast in shadow, weeping softly, one hand pressed to her forehead. Aegon did not recognise her, but then, he thought, he did not always know the servants. His mother always had. She always sought to learn all their names. She would know this girl too, but Aegon didn't. He bit his lip, anxiety flaring in his chest, and went to turn on his heel…
"Who's there?"
Others take his eyes. "Forgive me," Aegon declared, then. "I did not see you."
"My Prince!" The girl stood suddenly, and the shadows fell away. A skinny girl, with a skinny face, and mousy brown hair. She wiped away her tears hastily, shooting a worried glance beyond him, where his great uncle no doubt lurked. "I'm sorry, forgive me, I did not mean…please don't-"
His tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth. "No need – the fault is mine," Aegon muttered. "I-" Her face struck him. There was something hauntingly familiar about the cast of her eyes, and the downturn of her mouth, and the pall that fell across her face, and suddenly, the words spilled out his mouth before he knew it. "Who did you lose?"
Why did you ask that? Fool! She stared at him.
"Forgive me," Aegon said quickly. "You need not answer." He went to turn again.
"My mother," She whispered. "….my Prince."
Why ask her at all? What an idiot, he was. Yet... her whisper felt a shout, and for a moment, he saw himself in her. "I am sorry for your loss," He said.
The servant girl was growing more puzzled by the second. He could see it in her face, in how her brows knitted, in the cocking of her head and the way her lips twisted. "Thank you," She murmured. The girl bent to bow, the movement stiff, and hesitant, but otherwise well-practised. As he glanced down at her, he saw how her eyelashes still bore the mark of tears. "My Prince, I am…sorry for your loss as well. Your Uncle…"
Fire paid no homage. Why did he talk to her at all? Stupid. He clenched his fists. "Thank you."
"He was a good man," She said.
"He was." Yet there was a swelling guilt within him. He did not know her mother, had no way of knowing whether she was a good woman. Their eyes met. He did not think he had ever looked at a servant so long before.
Foolish, he thought again. Yet what did anything matter, now? Aegon shifted loser, hesitating only a breath before moving to sit, cross-legged, near her person. It was unseemly, and unbecoming of a Prince. Connington would have raged at him. The thought of it emboldened him. What did it matter? What did any of it matter? He wasn't the only one who grieved. The Gods had made him a Prince and her a servant, but all the same, they wept for those they lost. Why had the Gods gave him such station if he felt as she did, wept as she did, lost as she did?
What did the great game of thrones matter, when good people, with names and faces and loved ones of their own, died in the playing of it? What did it matter, all these games and schemes, when they all died anyway?
His Uncle Lewyn shifted, as if to move towards him, but Aegon shook his head. The girl merely stared at him. He leaned back against the hard wall and closed his eyes. The stone was unyielding, and he found solace in it. "Forgive me," he muttered. "I…May I sit here, just a little while?"
Her eyes widened. "I…yes. Of course, my Prince. I will…I will just go-"
"No," He said softly. He felt odd. "You don't have to. Stay, please."
There was silence, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as she hesitated. Then, slowly, she lowered herself to sit once more, though at a distance now, further than before.
"What's your name?" asked Aegon.
"Bessa," She replied.
"Well met," He murmured. "I am Aegon."
"…yes, my Prince."
"Just Aegon," He continued. "Just Aegon."
They sat there, the two of them, against the cold, hard wall, each mourning what they'd lost. There, in the dark, in the cold, in the ashes…there was no realm, no throne, no crown. No games. No schemes. No fires. Just the cold, and the dark, and the silence.