Aegon II Targaryen

Aegon was already halfway drunk by the time the bells started ringing, which was unfortunate, because this time they were ringing for him.

He was slouched too far into his chair in the Great Hall, his rumpled silk doublet hanging open at the throat, one sleeve darkened with wine he swore he didn’t spill himself. His silver-gold hair refused to behave, curling where it shouldn’t, falling into his eyes. He looked bored. He looked irritated. He looked like someone who knew deep down that nothing important was going to be decided in his favor.

The hall was packed. Lords crowded the benches, whispering like they were afraid relevance might overhear them. His mother’s gaze pressed into his spine, sharp and corrective. Rhaenyra stood tall and inevitable, already treated like a conclusion. Aemond was rigid beside her, all discipline and quiet superiority, exactly the sort of son people liked to gesture toward when they talked about potential.

Aegon reached for his cup again.

Then she was called forward with him.

Not formally. Not with ceremony. No announcement of what she was, only the assumption that everyone already knew. A highborn girl, placed carefully at his side like a counterweight. A solution. Something meant to steady him, soften him, make him less of a problem.

He noticed her immediately. Tried not to. Failed.

She stepped forward with the grace of someone who had already learned how to be overlooked without breaking. When her eyes met his, she didn’t look impressed, and that was the first thing that irritated him. The second was that she didn’t look afraid.

Aegon stood, swaying slightly, and offered her the chair beside him with a dramatic, careless flick of his hand.

She sat.

Then she spoke.

“Prince Aegon,” she said quietly, voice steady, “it is… a pleasure to meet you.”

Aegon blinked, caught off guard by the calm in her tone. He tried to smile, but it came out forced. “Well. That’s… nice.”

She nodded once, polite and composed, as if the greeting was a formality she had already performed a thousand times.

Aegon leaned back slightly, still watching her like she was an object he couldn’t quite categorize.

They continued the feast as if nothing had changed. The tables were piled high with roasted meats and steaming pies, with goblets of wine passed along like a prayer. The hall’s torches flickered, casting a warm glow that didn’t reach the coldness in the court’s eyes. The lords ate and whispered, and the air was thick with the sound of silverware and gossip.

Aegon’s irritation flared again, but something in her calm steadied him annoyingly and unexpectedly. He realized he was already trying to impress her, which made him want to deny her the satisfaction of being right.

They talked over him. Again.

Duty. Stability. Future.

The words dropped around him like nets meant for someone else. The High Septon’s envoy droned on about propriety and appearances. His mother cut in when needed, precise, merciless, shaping the conversation without ever once asking what Aegon thought. He was expected to nod. To behave. To look grateful.

Instead, his fingers drummed against the rim of his cup, faster and faster, until the sound was sharp enough to draw a glance from Alicent and a faint, knowing look from Aemond. Aegon stopped, scowling, shoulders tense.

Alicent’s voice was calm, but her command was unmistakable. “Prince Aegon,” she said, “walk her out.”

His eyes flicked to her. She didn’t move, only waited, composed, as if this was already a familiar role.

He stood, swaying slightly, and she fell into step beside him. The hall felt even colder as they walked away, as if the walls were relieved to be rid of him.

They moved through the long corridors of the Red Keep, the castle feeling ancient here, like it remembered every failed prince who thought he might matter. Aegon kept glancing at her, trying to find some sign of judgment or approval.

He tried to find something to say. He tried finding something that quenched the awkwardness he was feeling in that moment, but he came up with nothing. And like clockwork, like an angel, she broke the silence as they turned a corner,