The Twentieth Day of the Fourth Moon, 120 AC
In Aegon Targaryen's thirteen years of being alive, he holds two fundamental truths close to his heart. They are not ones he would ever admit out loud, he thinks. They should stay unspoken, secrets that only he knows. It's better that way, for different reasons. Uncle Gwayne would never stop smiling his stupid smile if he knew, and he doesn't know what Rhaenyra's reaction would be.
As he descends up the steps of the Red Keep to its rookery, he nearly stumbles into Grand Maester Orwyle. He shouts at the man's sudden appearance – and it is a shout, not a yelp – and barely manages to twist out of the way. It is a testament only to the horrid training Uncle Gwayne makes him suffer through that he manages to avoid him. His back presses against the wall as the Grand Maester levels him with a flat look. He smiles a little sheepishly, feeling the back of his neck brickle in embarrassment.
"My prince," he says, "you seem to be in a rush today."
Aegon nods. "Aye."
"Would I be correct in presuming that you are headed to the rookery?" he asks.
"You would be correct," Aegon acknowledges, "another letter from Rhaenyra should be arriving soon. They always come around this time of the week."
Grand Maester Orwyle hums. "You have training with Ser Gwayne soon, do you not? I doubt that your mother, the queen, would be pleased to see you here when you should be preparing to train."
Aegon looks at him sharply. "What I do with my own time is my business, Grand Maester," he says.
The man inclines his head. "Of course it is, my prince," he assures him, "I only meant to spare you and Queen Alicent both the frustration of a row."
Aegon squints at him. "Thank you, then," he says grudgingly. Then he adds, "I'm still going to the rookery."
Grand Maester Orwyle's smile is thin. "I believe I did see a letter for you there," he says, "you might get your wish after all."
He brightens at that. "Wonderful," he chirps, and then he rushes up the steps to get to the rookery, leaving his mother's man in the dust. He's still sore from the training Uncle Gwayne put him through yesterday, and his lungs suck in air sharply, a tell-tale promise of the burning to come, but he doesn't care. If Rhaenyra's letter for him is truly here, then it will all be worth it once he is holding it in his hands.
Aegon opens the door to the rookery quickly, a grin cutting into the side of his mouth. He steps inside and his weight sinks into the lush red rug set across the floor. He rustles through the letters quickly, searching for Rhaenyra's. As he does so, he sees one for his mother amidst the piles. That's not exactly a surprise – she is the queen, after all, and lords and ladies from all across the realm write to her to curry her favor. What catches his attention is the sigil of House Hightower emblazoned across the envelope. Without thinking, he snatches it up. Frowning, he looks around to see if there's anyone else here. Then, feeling a little foolish, he holds it tighter. He would have seen if the rookery were occupied upon entering it. And even if it were, he is the eldest son of the king. He might not be his father's heir, but that still counts for something at court. What's more, he's picking up his own mother's letter. He isn't snooping, he's just… observing it.
Aegon turns the letter over in his hands and tries to guess who it's from. It could be any one from his mother's family – from his family, he thinks distantly. It could be from Lord Ormun, who is his mother's cousin, or his lady wife, or any of their sons. It could be from a more distant relation as well, from a cadet branch of their house who seeks to gain her favor by informing her of the comings and goings of Oldtown. The most likely sender of this letter however, Aegon thinks, is his lord grandfather.
Grandfather left court before his tenth name day after infuriating Father. Aegon isn't a bloody fool, he knows it was over making him heir instead of Rhaenyra. He has fuzzy memories of his mother's father. He remembers his stern face and brown hair and solemn eyes. He remembers how his mother, who has always stood so tall, almost seemed to fall into his shadow when he was around. He remembers the stupid lessons he made him take, the ones Mother still makes him take even now. For the letters alone, Aegon could mislike the man. For his disrespect to Rhaenyra, Aegon certainly does mislike him.
He sets his mother's letter back to its original place, feeling a scowl steal across his face. When his mother gets a letter from his grandfather, she always grows more agitated. Sometimes she seems vindicated, but other times she is wroth. He is not particularly eager to discover which one this letter will bring with it. He abandons the letter from Oldtown in search of Rhaenyra's once again.
He finds it after another minute or so and beams to see it. He rips it open excitedly, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor, and reads it right then and there. Rhaenyra's handwriting is as elegant and looping as always.
Dearest Aegon,
I hope that you've been well. Helaena has told me in her letters that training has been difficult for you, a detail you neglected to mention last time we spoke. I can practically see you frowning, little brother – I would ask you to stop. The purpose of me mentioning this is not to chastise you, only to remind you that I, as your older sister, will always be there for you. You can trust me with your struggles. Mayhaps I might even be able to offer you good advice. Though in this instance, I suppose my advice would be to relay your problems to Ser Criston and then record his response to them.
Dragonstone has been calm since my return. Aemon is glad to be back, though I think Baelon might miss the bustle of the Red Keep. It is fine; he will adjust. He has his brother and cousin, and Aemond as well. Speaking of Aemond, I am proud to say that he has been progressing well in his training. The next time you write to him – and really, Aegon, you should be sending him more letters – you should congratulate him.
The smallfolk continue to thrive here on Dragonstone. The crop rotation we implemented all those years ago is seeing fruition quite nicely. I will have to see if any other lords might be interested in implementing it. Though the lords are stubborn and set in their ways, and they regrettably are not always interested in what is best for their smallfolk. Nevertheless, I will speak with our father about how it might be implemented in the countryside around King's Landing upon my return.
I am not to return for several moons, so when you write to me, tell me what you might like as a gift or something else you might appreciate more than steel. You already have far too many daggers, but mayhaps I can find you a fine tunic you might like. Oh, and be a darling and check on Helaena for me. In her last letter, she seems distressed by something. She wrote of curses quite fervently. I know that she is often plagued by her dreams, whatever they may be, dragon dreams or otherwise. Go to her the day you receive this letter – I am not above holding your next gift hostage, my favorite oldest little brother. Make sure she's alright, and then write back to inform me. I worry about her, sometimes. Our sweet sister deserves the world, as I am sure you would agree.
In any case, I hope that your time in the Red Keep has not been too miserable since I left. I know that you must miss me terribly – stop your pouting, I can feel it already. As always I will remind you of my eternal fondness and devotion. I hope that, upon my return, you will not be too old to embrace your favorite older sister. You are nearly a man, but not quite yet. And you will never be too old for me to dot kisses on your brow.
With the greatest love,
Rhaenyra
Aegon's smile is so wide that he thinks his face might just crack in half. He closes his eyes and clutches Rhaenyra's letter tightly in his hands. The parchment crumples a little and he swears and sets it out across a desk to smooth it over. He feels warmth fill him as he looks over the last paragraph again. He can almost see her open arms and quirked brow already. He misses her terribly. He always does, even if she is only a flight on Sunfyre away.
Aegon's first memory is of Rhaenyra. He can recall it vaguely. In the memory he's sitting in her lap, his face pressed against the fabric of her gown as she rocks him gently. He can't remember what the color of her gown was – he thinks it might have been maroon, but he cannot be sure – but he does recall trying to play with the rings on her fingers as she laughs and tells him the story of Boba Fett, the greatest sellsword to ever live. That's one of the stories Ser Criston told to her when she was a girl, Aegon knows. The fact that she then chose to tell the same story to him makes his throat tighten with emotion. No one would ever dare say it at court, but Ser Criston is Rhaenyra's second father. The stupid ones, or the ones who haven't been here long, might titter at their closeness, but anyone with a properly functioning mind and a halfway decent pair of eyes would be able to tell that they're like father and daughter, those two.
And here lies one of Aegon's greatest secrets, one of his two truths: if Ser Criston is like Rhaenyra's father, then Rhaenyra is, in some way, like his own mother. When Aegon thinks 'mother,' often Alicent Hightower and Rhaenyra flash across his mind at the same time. Maybe it is because he is ten years his senior, and they have grown up in the same stages at the same time. Maybe it is because of his sometimes tenuous relationship with his actual mother. But in any case, the lines between 'sister' and 'parent' blurred a long time ago.
Rhaenyra is some strange combination between a sister and a mother with her kisses on his brow and her patience to listen to his troubles and his desperate need to make her proud. He craves her approval, craves her attention, in a way that a boy younger than him would seek out his mother. It's foolish, Aegon knows, and ever since he overheard one of his father's comments, he's tried to avoid clinging to her skirts so obviously. He is too old for such things, and he already has a mother. But he can't help but see Rhaenyra in that light all the same.
The ringing of the bells makes Aegon's head snap up. He tucks Rhaenyra's letter between his doublet and his ribcage and swears. It's almost time for his training! He might not care for the training one bit, but he'll never hear the end of it from Uncle Gwayne if he arrives late for the third time this week. He races down the steps and rushes to his own chambers. He haphazardly tugs his training shirt over his head and changes the rest of his attire as well. Then he runs as fast as his legs can take him to the training yards.
He must run like the Stranger is chasing after him, because by some miracle he manages to get to the training yards just before they're about to start. He props his hands against his kneels and leans over, gasping for breath as sweat trickles down his brow.
"Aegon," Uncle Gwayne says, "you're just on time, I see."
He looks up, feeling sheepish all over again. "That I am," he huffs out, "see? I'm able to manage my time just fine."
Uncle Gwayne lets out a skeptical sound and he looks up to see his exasperated expression. He hides a wince. He might not like training, but he is loath to disappoint his favorite uncle, his mother's favorite brother.
Instead of yelling at him, like his sister would have done, Uncle Gwayne just sighs. "I will give you a moment to collect yourself," he says, "after that, we'll get to work."
Aegon straightens at the steel in his voice. He meets his eyes and nods grimly.
As with every training session they have, Aegon gets the piss beaten out of him. Uncle Gwayne is not purposely cruel, but he does not go out of his way to hold himself back either. By the end of it all, he's got the promise of bruises littered all over his body. His ears ring as he stares up at the sky, lying flat on his back. His sword has been cast off to the side, knocked from his hand. The taste of iron sits heavy on his tongue. When he rolls over to his side and spits, blood drips from his mouth. He wipes at his face and grimaces.
Uncle Gwayne sighs. A calloused pair of hands reaches beneath Aegon's arms and hoists him up. He leans against him and groans. Uncle Gwayne pats at his back. "You're alright lad," he comforts, "stand up straight. There you are."
His eyes are gentle as he guides him to a spot of shade, the autumn sun unusually warm. He sends a servant to fetch Aegon some juice. Aegon breathes hard, wheezing. His uncle ruffles his hair awkwardly. Worriedly.
"I hate this," he gasps, "why does Mother insist I train like this?"
His uncle sighs. "I know it seems harsh, what we're doing here, lad. But the truth is that we're making you into a worthy man."
He frowns at that. "Is a man's only worth in his ability to wield a sword? My father is too fat to fight, and he sits on the Iron Throne."
"You shouldn't speak of the king in such a fashion," Uncle Gwayne chides, "he is your lord and master as well as your father."
Aegon shrugs. "I'm right all the same. And you didn't answer my question."
He shifts uncomfortably. Then, after a long second, he says, "No, not every man is held to the same standards that you will be held to, once you're grown. The standards that you're held to now, to be truthful. But you are the eldest son of the king, and you must fulfill certain expectations. It is not fair, but such are the matters of life."
Aegon huffs. "I don't see why I'm being held to these standards. It's not like I'm going to be king."
Uncle Gwayne hesitates. "Aegon–"
He shakes his head. "It's the truth," he insists, "if anyone should be held to these standards, it should be Aemon once he's old enough. He is my sister's heir, and Rhaenyra is going to be the one to succeed our father, not me."
Uncle Gwayne's expression is tight, but he holds his tongue and does not say anything in reply. Instead, he simply passes Aegon his cup of juice once the servant returns. In that moment, he loves him for it. His mother would have screeched at him for even uttering those words in her presence.
Sometimes, Aegon thinks that even if Mother loves him, she sees him more as a tool than anything else.
Uncle Gwayne treats him like an actual person. He does not ignore him in favor of another child, like Father, and does not constantly remind him that he is the "rightful king," like Mother. Even if he makes him train, he always makes sure not to push him too far and makes sure he's alright after. He bounced Aegon on his knee when he was younger, and fought with Grandfather to get him to take lessons when he was especially young. He has been a constant in his life since he was little, always constant, even when they have had their disagreements.
As Aegon gulps down his juice and wipes at his mouth, he thinks about his second great secret, about his second truth: that Uncle Gwayne has been more of a father to him than Viserys Targaryen, the First of His Name. That it is Uncle Gwayne who flashes across his mind upon the mention of 'father,' not the neglectful man who only seems to care about Rhaenyra. Who has only cared about Aegon or Helaena or Aemond or Daeron in passing, and only when it has suited him. He would sooner celebrate him as a father than anyone else.
Instead of saying all of that, he just decides to shut his mouth and stop complaining. He will not ever be king, regardless of what his uncle wants, but that does not mean he needs to fight with him about it now, especially since he's had this argument with so many people already.
Exhaustion fills him. He runs a hand across his face. "I'm going to bathe," he mumbles, "Mother wants us to dine as a family tonight. Father agreed."
Uncle Gwayne nods and ruffles his hair one last time. "Go then," he says, "and make sure to rest tonight. We'll take tomorrow off."
Aegon pauses. Grins. "Thank you, uncle."
Uncle Gwayne's responding grin reminds him faintly of his mother's.
After Aegon bathes, there are still a few hours left before dinner. Remembering his promise to Rhaenyra, he goes to find Helaena. She is in the gardens of the Red Keep with a few girls her own age – potential ladies-in-waiting, he remembers. A beetle crawls over her hand. As it's about to fall off, she lowers her other hand so that it drops into her waiting palm rather than the ground. The other girls regard her with horror. One fans herself, looking very much as if she's about to faint.
Aegon scowls. Helaena and her bugs. He walks up to them and the girls around her all drop hastily to curtsies.
"My prince," one of them says, "we weren't expecting you!"
"That's because I didn't tell you I was coming," he replies curtly, "leave us, I wish to speak with my sister." The sooner he gets this over with, the better. The girls flinch and he would almost feel bad about it if his mood were not so sour.
They leave and he settles beside his sister. She doesn't acknowledge him, only mumbles something incomprehensible beneath her breath. Aegon rolls his eyes. Hard.
"What are you prattling on about now?" he asks. The beetle scuttles across her arm and his scowl deepens. "You shouldn't play with random bugs, you know. They could be poisonous."
"You're worried?" Helaena's voice is soft, but teasing.
He blinks. Then he scoffs. "You're my sister," he says, "obviously I'm going to watch to make sure you don't get yourself killed. Even if you're bloody strange." For a second, he thinks he catches a shadow of a smile flickering across Helaena's face. He squints and it vanishes. "What's this about you rambling about curses?" he adds.
Helaena hums. "Rhaenyra told you about them?"
He shrugs his shoulders. "She asked me to check on you."
His sister's hand closes around the beetle in a loose fist. Not tight enough to crush it, but not loose enough to let it fly away randomly. Her eyes get distant in that way they do when she's slipping into her own world. He stiffens.
"The child, named for a house's wronged heirs, and second to break the curse they bear," she mumbles, "the child, named for the eldest born of a sniveling king. Destined to unite seven kingdoms with a will uncompromising."
Aegon grasps her shoulder and squeezes. He knows by now not to shake her, that might only make things worse. "Helaena," he snaps, "come back to your senses."
He hates it when she gets like this, all somber and eerie and distant. He hates to admit it, but it gives him a proper spook every time.
He keeps squeezing his hand tighter and tighter until Helaena lets out a pained hiss. Her eyes snap to him, no longer distant, but accusing all the same. He drops his hand, feeling a flickering of shame.
"Sorry," he grunts, "I didn't mean to squeeze you so hard." She rubs at her shoulder. He picks at a blade of grass and does not look at her. "What was all of that about?" he asks.
Helaena sighs deeply. "I dreamed it."
He frowns. "You've been dreaming many things lately, it seems."
She shakes her head. "No," she corrects him, "just this one dream."
Aegon doesn't know what to say to that. He just stares at her, hapless and unnerved. This is exactly why he doesn't like spending time with her, she's so fucking strange all the time.
"You should speak with Father about it," he says, "he likes you best, besides Rhaenyra. Maybe he'll know something that can help you."
She only hums.
Dinner that night is unusually tense. Aegon glances warily from over the brim of his cup as his mother stares frostily at his mother from across the table. Helaena keeps murmuring to herself about the same things from earlier. Daeron is still very little and huffs, cross to be seated in one place for so long. Father pretends as if he doesn't know that Mother looks like she wants to stab him with her knife. Best of luck to him with that, because if she tries, Aegon certainly is not going to put himself between the two of them.
"Lad," his father says to him, breaking the tense silence, "how did your training with Ser Gwayne go this morning?"
Aegon pokes at his food sullenly. "About as well as expected," he drawls, "I got the piss beaten out of me."
"Aegon," his mother admonishes sharply, "watch your words. Such behavior is not befitting of that of a prince."
He resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, Mother. Apologies, Mother."
"When Rhaenyra returns, I will ask if Ser Criston can train you. If all goes well, mayhaps you can participate in the melee celebrations."
Aegon raises an eyebrow. "The melee celebrations for what? It's not as if Rhaenyra doesn't return every half-year's turn."
His father raises a cup to his lips and casts a wary look at his mother. "Aemon is to be betrothed," he says lightly.
Aegon's eyebrows leap to his hairline. Helaena's murmuring grows more fervent.
Mother's grip on her knife tightens. "That is significant news," she says tightly, the tone of her voice dangerously soft, "might I inquire to whom?"
Father sighs. "Come now, Alicent; I have been trying to hint to you all day the bride I intend for my grandson."
A beat of silence passes. Helaena says beneath her breath, "Second to break the curse they bear." Aegon ignores her in favor of the impending eruption of an argument between their parents.
"I want to hear your answer for myself," Mother replies. Her voice is as smooth as butter.
Father sighs. "Helaena, wife. I have agreed to betroth Aemon to Helaena."
Aegon's eyes widen. He holds his breath, feels his heart beat wildly in his chest. If there's one third fundamental thing he knows to be true, it's that this won't be well received. Not well received at all.
Sure enough, his mother's chair scrapes across the floor with a loud shriek. She's stood up, her face pale with fury, the chair thrown behind her with the force of momentum.
"How could you?" she spits. "I thought we had already agreed on Helaena's husband. It was not Rhaenyra's whelp."
Father scowls and rises to his own feet. "You will not speak of my grandson in this way, Alicent. Mind your tongue."
Aegon takes that at his hint to promptly leave. He nudges Helaena lightly and picks up Daeron. As strange as his sister is, and as loud and occasionally irritating as his youngest brother is, he will not abandon them to this.
"Let's go," he hisses.
They slip out just as their parents' voices raise to full on shouts.
The Twenty-Second Day of the Fourth Moon, 120 AC
It's the two days later that Aegon overhears a conversation he was never supposed to bear witness to. He does not know it yet, but it might just alter the future of the Seven Kingdoms. He's on his way to his mother's chambers for his lessons – she's recently started making him attend lessons of the Seven ever since she caught him kissing a servant girl. He still hasn't forgiven her for sending the girl away. He might not have loved her, but Jeyne was pretty and sweet, and she blushed whenever he smiled at her.
In any case, that's how he finds himself here, standing before the doors to his mother's chambers. It's then that he hears voices through the door. Furious, intense hisses. There are no guards within eyesight, to his surprise – she must have sent them away, but why? Curious, he draws closer and presses his ear against the door.
"How dare he!" his mother is hissing. "Helaena was always meant to marry Aegon. It is his right as a Targaryen. The marriage would have lended him a legitimacy Viserys otherwise refuses to grant him. But my useless husband refuses him even this."
"He was wrong, yes," comes Uncle Gwayne's voice, "but there's hardly anything we can do about it now, Alicent. The betrothal has been made. It is legal and acknowledged by the king."
There's a long beat of silence. Then feverishly, almost desperately, Aegon's mother says, "Viserys has not yet made the match public. What if we had Aegon and Helaena marry, in secret?"
Growing horror fills Aegon. Dread sinks like a stone in his stomach. Marriage? To Helaena? He would rather never get married at all.
"Are you mad?" Uncle Gwayne snaps. "The king would just annul the match. Helaena hasn't even flowered yet besides."
"Viserys is weak," Aegon's mother replies, "if the marriage is done, he will not fight it. Even if it remains unconsummated until Helaena's flowering."
A chair pulls back and the sound of footfalls reaches Aegon's ears. He shuffles forward and, with bated breath, cracks the door open as much as he dares, which is not much at all. He's betting on the fact that they'll be too absorbed in their argument to notice. Uncle Gwayne is holding Mother by her shoulders, his teeth bared back into a snarl. He shakes her fiercely, his grip on her rough.
"You are being monumentally foolish, sister. You are not just defying a legal betrothal, you are defying a legal betrothal sanctioned by the king. To force your children, my nephew and niece, into marriage – do not lie to yourself and pretend as if either Aegon or Helaena will want this marriage. How do you think the lords of the realm will regard you? Even our supporters will sneer at us and decry you as mad."
Aegon's heart drops as his mother's expression remains resolute.
By the gods, she's really going to make him marry Helaena.
He turns around, feeling bile crawl up his throat as he races away. He needs to warn Helaena, needs to find her. They have to get out of here. He refuses to be tied to her under the eyes of the Seven for the rest of his life, and he doubts she wants that either. So he'll be damned if he lets it happen.
(In his rush to leave, he misses how his mother's resolve crumbles. How she weeps and says, "I know," and how Uncle Gwayne comforts her, assuring her that she will not lose her only daughter to Rhaenyra.)
Aegon waits until the sun sets to make his move. He finds Helaena in her chambers. He sneaks into her room, his chest heaving. He has two bags thrown over his shoulder. One is full of his things, essentials haphazardly thrown inside. The other is empty, for his sister.
"Wake up," he hisses, shaking her fiercely, "for the love of the gods, Helaena, wake up."
She stirs with a groan. The stare she levels him with once she finally cracks her eyes open is the closest he's ever seen her get to a glare.
"What's going on?" she asks.
Aegon drags her out of bed. He's not gentle, but he makes sure not to be rough after yesterday at the gardens. "Mother wants to marry us," he says.
She stares at him with wide eyes. "What?"
"You heard me," he snaps.
She begins to tremble. "The child, named for a house's wronged heirs, and second to break the curse they bear," she repeats, "the child, named for the eldest born of a sniveling king. Destined to unite seven kingdoms with a will uncompromising."
Aegon snarls. "Helaena, now isn't the time. Get yourself together, we're leaving."
That seems to shake her from her stupor a little at least, though her eyes are still distant. "Leaving? Leaving where?"
He smiles grimly. "We're going to someone who can help us run to Rhaenyra."
Helaena draws herself up, more steely than he's ever seen her. "Only death awaits a green union," she murmurs, "only in the mirror image of the seahorse brings the chance of salvation."
Aegon huffs. "Don't go breaking out into fits now," he warns, "we can't afford that."
With that, they're slinking through the halls of the Red Keep to find the two people who Aegon trusts completely to get them to their sister.
If Harwin Strong and Sabitha Vypren are surprised to see them so late at night, they do not show it. Instead, Rhaenyra's fiercest supporters at court offer them watered wine and bread. Aegon doesn't eat; he hasn't got the stomach for it.
"What can we help you with, my prince?" Lady Sabitha's gaze is sharp with curiosity. Ser Harwin looks torn between amusement at whatever they could be getting up to and concern that something is genuinely wrong.
Aegon and Helaena glance at each other.
"Mother–"
"Betrothed to Aemon–"
"Wants to marry us–"
Ser Harwin's amusement fades to total concern. "Slow down," he says, "and repeat what you just said."
Helaena draws back into herself and so it's up to Aegon to explain the situation. He sucks in a deep breath. Clutches at his hair as panic fills him. "Three nights ago, our father told our mother that he betrothed Helaena to our nephew, Aemon. Earlier today, I overheard her speaking with our Uncle Gwayne. She plans on marrying us before our father can make the announcement public."
Lady Sabitha lets out a low, unpleasant noise. Her eyes blaze with anger.
Ser Harwin's brow knits together. "I see," he says, "that would be alarming indeed. I see why you would be upset."
"So, little prince," Lady Sabitha interjects, "what can we do for the both of you?"
Aegon looks her dead in the eyes. He's always liked her, ever since she arrived at court. Many mislike her because of her sharpness, her fondness of holding a blade, and her abrasiveness. But she is one of his sister's best friends, one of her most ardent supporters, and he respects her for that. What's more, he trusts her.
"Get us out of the Red Keep," he says, not above pleading if he has to, "and to the Dragonpit. If we can reach Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, we can fly to Rhaenyra."
Ser Harwin sucks in a sharp breath. "You intend to flee from King's Landing?"
Aegon's hands ball into fists. "What else can we do? If we stay, our mother might very well drag us before a septon." He squares his shoulders. "So, will you help us or not?"
Ser Harwin and Lady Sabitha exchange a long look. Then they nod in unison.
"Aye," the heir to Harrenhal says, "we'll help you."
And Aegon doesn't like Ser Harwin nearly as much as he does Lady Sabitha – not through any fault of his own, his wife is just much more fascinating than him, in his own humble opinion – but the amount of relief and respect that mingles together in his chest is palpable. He nearly crumbles as his eyes fill with years.
"Thank you," he rasps.
Ser Harwin rests a hand on his shoulder. "Of course."
Lady Sabitha grasps Helaena's hand. "We would never let any harm come to Rhaenyra's beloved siblings."
Ser Harwin and Lady Sabitha do not accompany them personally, but they do send four of their most trusted members of the City Watch with them. They scramble through the secret tunnels of the Red Keep in the dead of night. Aegon's heart beats so wildly that part of him thinks it might stop.
"How do you know about all of these tunnels?" he had asked.
Lady Sabitha had winked and said, "We have our ways – it's secret City Watch business, you know," as Ser Harwin had snorted.
It had been amusing then, but is less amusing now as they struggle out with the map drawn for them. Aegon is so tense that he thinks he might be permanently stuck with stiff limbs. Beside him, Helaena holds herself similarly. They let out tandem breaths of relief when the night sky grows visible. Stars offer some modicum of light. It's more than just the torches at least.
Together, with the trusted members of the City Watch, they snake through King's Landing and toward the Dragonpit. Sunfyre must sense Aegon's anxiety on some level or another because his roar splits through the air. The dragonkeepers regard them warily when they catch sight of the group.
"Prince Aegon," they greet, "Princess Helaena. What can we help you with so late in the night."
Aegon lifts his chin. "My sister and I want to fly our dragons."
The dragonkeepers frown at each other. Then one of them, old and weathered with graying hair and pale violet eyes, says, "Forgive me, my prince, but do you have the leave of the king or queen?"
Aegon hesitates. Then one of the City Watch men steps forward. His movements are easy, almost lazy, as his fingers run along the hilt of his sword. "Step aside, old man," he says softly, "these are not matters that concern you."
The dragonkeepers stiffen. "What–"
"You heard us," another City Watch man says, "no one needs to get hurt here. Just mind your own business and move along."
The old dragonkeeper regards Aegon, dismayed. "My prince?"
Aegon bites his lip. Finds it difficult to look him in the eyes. Beside him, Helaena reaches for his hand. "You heard them," he says finally. It's as if he finds strength in his sister's gesture. "Move."
Grudgingly, the dragonkeepers all obey.
Aegon and Helaena race to Sunfyre and Dreamfyre respectively.
It begins to rain soon after they depart, because of course it does. As if they haven't had bad enough luck already. The rain slams down over their heads. It clings to their clothing and their hair, and it's absolutely frigid. Aegon's teeth chatter as he grips at Sunfyre's slippery reigns with numb hands. Lightning crackles across the sky and thunder roars ferociously. Helaena shrieks and drives Dreamfyre lower, closer to the Blackwater Bay. Aegon swears and urges Sunfyre into a dive after her.
"Helaena!" he calls. "Be careful! Don't let the waves swallow you!"
"To his relief, she seems to hear him because Dreamfyre flies a little higher again, though still closer to the waves than he would like.
By the time they land on Dragonstone early into the morning, Aegon is freezing. He can't feel his hands and he's trembling all over, and his lips are so numb that part of him worries they might just fall off.
All of these things are almost forgotten – almost, not completely – when he catches sight of Rhaenyra's form in the courtyard, Ser Criston at her heels. Aegon and Helaena clamber off of their dragons, eager to reach her.
"Aegon!" Rhaenyra's voice is high with anger and concern. "Helaena! What are you doing here? By the Seven, it's storming, you could have been hurt!"
Aegon runs closer to her, desperation clawing at his throat. Desperation and more than a little wildness.
"Rhaenyra," he shouts over the wind, "please, you have to help us."
Rhaenyra must see the distress on his face because she softens and goes to cup his cheek. "Help you with what, little brother?"
Aegon wrinkles his nose and points to Helaena.
"I don't want to marry her," he says.
