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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Twenty-Three

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

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Author's Note: November happened but here we are! I would not have gotten through this without the love and support of @vampire-exgirlfriend and @selfproclaimedunicorn. Without you two, I would have just scrapped the whole thing and flipped the table. Also Misa coming in clutch with her Mid-Vizzy voice.

Summary: Ghosts both living and dead stalk Harrenhal's winding corridors and the family gathers for a celebratory meal.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Stars Came Falling On Our Head

The examination was one that Abby had been dreading for weeks. The pitiful looks while the women whispered, “Lady Whent’s maidenhead was said to be torn during her examination and when she didn’t bleed in her bedding ceremony, her husband threw her from the tower!” or, “Lady Swann had no maidenhead and when she claimed it was her betrothed, he denied it and her father…” left her with such dread that she felt the constricting, sick feeling creeping upon her leading up to this.

There weren’t any further explanations as to who Lady Whent or Lady Swann were. Abby had gathered that what was most important were the terrible outcomes of not proving one had been chaste, virtuous, and untouched. By definition, Abby was none of these and she was torn. While she regretted nothing that she and Aegon had done, things she’d actively begged for, she felt the curl of shame that never quite went away. The phantom pain and heat from when the queen had slapped her for being wanton still lingered at the edges of her memory.

Her feet were propped on stools at the edge of the bed and Abby tried not to squirm, face flushed with embarrassment as it was each of the previous times Maester - now Grand Maester Orwyle - examined her. Queen Alicent sat by the fire with Helaena, Wylla and Sarra attending the maester with one of his assistants who was carefully taking notes both for whatever record and for marriage documents. At least it wasn’t with everyone surrounding her.

‘A better girl, a more virtuous girl, would have rebuffed his flirtations’, she thought, though the voice in her head didn’t sound like her own. ‘A girl who held the Faith close to her heart would not have sought such things outside the marriage bed’.

As often as women wanted to whisper horrifying stories of maidens who didn’t bleed, many others also giggled of what clandestine touches they’d gotten into with their own betrotheds. It wasn’t as if she’d been lying with any of the other men at court. She had been only with Aegon and there should be no shame in it, even if they hadn’t done the act itself yet.

Now if only she could stop feeling it at this moment, it would make this whole ordeal far easier.

“And you last bled…?” Orwyle asked in the sort of casual tone one talked of the weather.

“A fortnight. I was a week late but we were traveling.” He nodded in confirmation and the scratch of the quill against parchment filled the silence. Abby continued before he could ask. “Over the past few months I’ve either bled a little early or a little late. I felt more discomfort at the end of the year than I normally have.”

“She was on bedrest with tea,” Wylla said to the maester’s questioning look, prepared and at the ready for any explanation that needed providing. Abby wanted to hide her face against Wylla’s neck and let her deal with this for her. “That seemed to settle her just fine.”

“Good. My lady, have you had any unusual pain here?” He gently pressed along her lower belly. It was a question that she’d been regularly asked since she first bled. Her mother had difficulty conceiving and had been prone to pains. Orwyle had expressed steadfast concern over Abby’s own health

“While I was on bedrest,” she said softly, the cold trickle of trepidation curling through her gut. They’d been worse when she’d been younger but had lessened over time. Orwyle asked more specific questions and she answered each one while trying not to notice the way the queen’s head was tilted slightly in her direction, pausing over the letters in hand.

She knew that her maidenhead was gone. It had happened not long after Aegon’s tourney when he curled his fingers inside where she needed him, the digits streaked with red when he’d withdrawn them. Helaena had casually mentioned that her own was gone due to dragon riding the next morning unprompted. Wylla lost hers due to much beloved forays horseback riding back home at the Karhold.

But beneath the watchful eyes of Queen Alicent, the shame still lingered.

“I see no reason why you won’t be able to conceive a child.” He was dipping his hands into a waiting bowl;Orwyle espoused the benefits of clean hands and she was grateful for it. “You are young, healthy. I would like you to do your best to wait at least another year however.”

“She is eight and ten,” the queen said, voice strained in a way that Abby couldn’t recognize. “Older than I. Many mothers have been made younger than she.”

‘Queen Aemma had,’ Abby thought. ‘And then they said she died because of it.’ She was aware of what the queen meant, however. Rhaenyra had many children, all boys. Aegon had none.

“I understand, Your Grace, but with her mother’s history, I would feel better if she waited.” There was a hint of gentle reproach in his voice.

Abby stared up at the blue damask that made up the canopy of the bed. The silver designs upon the rich fabric were woven in flowers and what seemed like hearts. This was her mother’s bed. This was the bed she herself had been born in, her mother in labor for a full day and night after losing previous pregnancies. The conversation of the other’s in the room turned to rushing in her ears as she stroked her hands over her own flat belly. She wanted children. She wanted little babies with large, lilac eyes and crinkled eyed smiles. Pouty mouths and curls like clouds around their heads. Abby wanted Aegon’s children, she wanted their children, to give him a household full of joyful shouts and let him be the loving and devoted father that he had lacked. To let them make up for the disappointment his own childhood had been filled with.

She twitched when hands moved her skirts and her teeth sank into her lower lip.

“I promise to be quick,” Orwyle assured her in his kind voice. She didn’t nod, nor any sound, eyes fixated on the canopy and imagining her mother there, her face not conjured from memory but by the painting that was fixed in the gallery the floor below.

At least the maester had taken care to warm his hands before he touched her.

Abby looked up at the gallery around the front of the great hall. They called it the Hall of a Hundred Hearths even if the true number was closer to thirty. The cavernous space had been painstakingly rebuilt since King Jaehaerys had held his Great Council all those years ago. Instead of broken stone like the jagged teeth of a maw, the archways had been rebuilt with stone from the ruined tower and the old sept. Instead of bats and spectres, servants were hanging down banners of House Targaryen and House Strong, interspersed with the grey fields of House Hightower and the silver and scarlet of House Reyne. Minstrels lingered on either side behind the servants, plucking lutes and hurdy-gurdys, testing the throw of the sound.

A long exhale drew her gaze back to Aegon’s face, where he stood across from her, their hands entwined, his long, deep green doublet so dark to be nearly black and edged in black braid and a golden dragon embroidered across his chest. “Can we be done with this already so we can practice the bedding ceremony?” he complained. His voice was not loud but it carried and the Queen snapped a quick, “Aegon!” While her cousin, Martyn Reyne, snickered from his place to the side next to Aemond, who had been tasked with holding the cloak for the ceremony. While Aemond looked dutifully at attention, Abby knew him well enough to notice he was bored out of his mind. He nudged the snickering Daeron beside him, which only spurred on the younger boy’s giggles.

Lord Roland, the king’s Master of Ceremonies, sputtered at being interrupted, his thin face flushed. “My prince,” he said, and Abby raised an eyebrow at Aegon and t the tight control Lord Roland had on his final threads of patience, her own amusement barely held by her tightlipped smile. “The wedding ceremony will be witnessed by the realm at large and must be perfect.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed at the perceived slight to him and she squeezed their joined hands.

“What my prince means to say is that so few will actually be able to see what’s happening, let alone hear us.” Aegon turned his narrowed eyes to her but she continued on. She didn’t want to be here for another hour either, but his complaining wasn’t going to help matters. “They’ll all be far more interested in how entertaining the feast is.”

Lord Roland’s indignation eased with an exaggerated sniff and he flounced away, a peacock in garish gray and lemon yellow. With a dramatic flourish, the Master of Ceremonies gestured towards the dias beneath the decorative canopy. Behind the pair of thrones that had been brought from King's Landing, the royal banner proudly displayed: A tri-headed dragon in shimmering obsidian on a field of scarlet, declaring House Targaryen's current claim on the castle.

Is that what it looked like all those years ago when House Targaryen had last claimed this hall?

“Their graces will sit here, presiding over the ceremonies,” he continued. They were still fixed to the spot where they’d stand during the ceremony and Abby didn’t understand why they had to be there. It appeared that the pompous entertainer liked positioning his audience as if they were names on a board. Perhaps it made it easier for him to go on as he did without considering they were real people who desperately wanted to sit down. Abby had attended weddings before and she knew this had all gone on far longer than what the actual ceremony would be.

At least, that’s how it felt.

Aegon resumed rocking back and forth on his heels, puffing his cheeks and exhaling in boredom. Her gaze drifted to the others. The queen had approached Lord Roland with Uncle Simon, Lady Lysa her ever present shadow. Cousin Garrett was also there with more note-taking, her uncle cutting in at specific moments where Lord Roland drew breath to ask questions that she was beginning to suspect were designed to frustrate the man.

“I thought this place was supposed to be a ruin,” Martyn’s soft voice carried from where he was attempting to whisper to Aemond. She did her best to ignore it, instead looking back up at the diamond glass windows made from Westerland quarries that had been set into the newly rebuilt arches. They were not stained as the great window was at the front of the hall, but instead her house’s sigil was inset into the panes in frequent intervals.

Her father had attended the Citadel for a time, earning links in history and money, even ravenry, the black iron, copper, red and yellow gold links winking out between the numerous steel links that signified his mastery of the law. He’d told her that the decoration of the great hall reminded him of the Citadel, that his grandfather, Bywin, found master stonemasons and glassworkers to rebuild at least this place and try to salvage the ruin that they were granted after Princess Rhaena’s death. The Citadel had been good to them. Garret’s elder brother, Garsey, was a Maester, and their uncle, Petyr, was still travelling Essos in his old age, learning the mysteries of the world.

Would one of her sons follow in those same footsteps? Would her boy hunger for knowledge of the great unknown? Wish to become familiar with the law as her father had? Or history? Or discover something that had been long forgotten to time?

“A curse sent in Harren’s demise… Burning bright with flaming glow… this tale of woe read long ago…”

Abby looked up to the gallery, trying to find the source of the singing. It was the same voice she had heard on the day of their arrival, singing of dragons and fire. Servants leaned over the balustrade affixing the heraldry banners, the musicians moving up and down the gallery looking for the ideal spots for their placements, and a lone woman she didn’t recognize drifted amidst the bustle. Abby could not make out her facial features, but the fall of silver hair marked her as a Targaryen.

At first, she thought it was Princess Rhaenyra coming to observe the goings on, but her soon to be good-sister was more voluptuous, favoring rich, royal purple and Targaryen scarlett, her hair in luxurious braids. The woman Abby watched now was reed-thin and clad in a samite gown, a veil of black over her hair and a matching black wrap over her shoulders, drawing her further into shadow between the shafts of afternoon light.

“In the black of night the dragon did rise…”

The woman paused in her wandering, turning to look at her, and Abby’s mouth filled with the taste of ash and copper. The woman’s face—

A sharp tug on her hands had her lose her balance and with a small ‘oof’, she fell into Aegon’s arms.

“You were wandering again,” he told her, his voice the whisper of a breeze barely heard. Abby felt the heat rush into her cheeks, a sharp shock as the rest of her shivered. Martyn was busy flirting with Sarra Frey, who looked both amused and bewildered by it, and Daeron was watching the exchange with his own curious speculation. Amidst the group of ladies and companions, it was only Aemond and Wylla who were watching her closely, fixed points on either side pinpointed upon her like prey.

“I was caught up in the singing,” she said and did her best to ignore the confusion on his face. Instead, she stayed where she was, too hungry for the warmth of him to pull away, letting herself give in to his strong frame and the way his hands stroked over her arms, his fingers catching on the golden ties of her brown and cream patterned sleeves.

The rehearsal had finished not long after Abrogail’s eyes drifted and glazed, the sight of it curling fear through Aegon’s ribs. The look was similar to the one Helaena had when her mind went elsewhere, but that was expected from his sister; Helaena had always been that way. Abrogail was always present, though not in the calculating and predatory way his brother was. A rabbit among predators, seeking to be useful, seeking to avoid claws and teeth. Anxious and ever at the ready. She’d been off since their approach and it had made sense. This was her long-since-lived-in home and their wedding was approaching without her family, without her parents. Abrogail had not been so far from him since they were children and grief was the black mourning shroud she wore.

His father had ordered Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin’s deaths…

Three days.

Three days until the wedding. Three days until the waiting was done and he could be put out of his misery from the anticipation. Three days until he could lock them behind closed doors and let everyone get drunk and celebrate and Aegon could be done with it and not leave the bed. He meant it. Not that he minded the attention and he knew he was doing quite well considering the lack of snapping and yelling that had been conspicuously absent from Mother and The Tower.

Once they were gone, he wouldn’t have to put a show on for them, he wouldn’t have to strive any further. He could simply keep his attention on his wife and draw the smile back to her eyes, distract her and comfort her in the best ways he knew how. It would only be them and no one else and that was all he wanted.

Yet…

That wouldn’t happen for another three weeks. Not only was there the wedding, but the king and council would be holding court for those who normally could not make the trek all the way down to King’s Landing.

His father ordered the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin Strong and Jace was, indeed, a bastard, as well as his two brothers.

Aegon pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and suppressed a yell. Instead, there was the distant call of Sunfyre who rumbled in his chest, reassuring and warm and there where he needed him. Another call eventually followed, the warbling of Caraxes and the vague honking call of Syrax in turn. He gritted his teeth.

Three weeks, or maybe sooner, until Rhaenyra and her retinue departed. Sooner if she wanted to get away from the same things he longed to escape, longer if she wished to reassert her position as their sire’s favorite. He’d only seen his sister upon her arrival, the lot of them lined up as the carriages pulled in, Rhaenyra swathed in rich plum and crimson and black; shapely, with eyes like chips of amethyst, cutting into the meat of him. The whole spectacle left him frustrated and anxious with no outlet but to drink in his rooms, prevented from sneaking away into Abby’s with all the fuss of the women about her.

“Aegon?”

He pulled his hands through his hair and gripped the locks, gaze cutting to Daeron who lingered nervously at the end of the great bed, tracing a finger over the knotted weirwood. A dead bed of dead souls. Aegon did not pray to the old gods, but even he knew a bed of weirwood should be a bad sign. His previous night’s sleep in the thing had been plagued with strange dreams half remembered, including one where Lyonel Strong was standing over him with bloody eyes and the smell of burning flesh.

“Hm?” Aegon fumbled with the goblet, sending it rolling across the table and each attempt to grab it pushed it further until it rolled to the floor. Frustrated, he kicked it away with his foot and grabbed the other more carefully, pouring some of his favored arbor red into it.

“Is Abby alright?” Daeron asked, his brow furrowed and his dark eyes uncertain.

‘I don’t know,’ he thought, growling into his cup. He couldn’t fix it, he couldn’t see what was wrong, only that she was drifting away again and he was scrambling to pull her back. If he tied a ribbon around their wrists, would it keep her there? Would it prevent the memories, the melancholy, from gripping her as it had those years ago?

Aegon was the melancholy one, not her, not Abby who was gentle touches and sunlight in the gloom, and to see her like this, like how she’d been after the fire, terrified him beyond description.

“Are you worried for her?” he asked.

Daeron looked uncertain at first, chewing on his lower lip and looking at his hands before he nodded. Even as his uncertainty lingered on his face, his shoulders straightened and he met his eyes. “Uncle Gwayne says Abby will be my lady now that we’re here, like Lady Sam was in Oldtown, and that I should watch her and look after her for you, for a knight’s duty is to protect those who need it.” The boy grew more decisive as he spoke. Aegon was certain that the tenet had been drilled into him as much as the sword training had.

“Then you may go check on her and report back for me,” Aegon instructed with a gesture of his goblet towards the door. The lad grinned and nearly ran from the room, closing the great door behind him with more force than he intended, for there was a muffled, “Sorry!” that he could barely hear. He reached up to tug the laces of his shirt loose, the light linen untucked from his unlaced trousers and headed out onto the balcony. The scent of wisteria and roses assaulted him and Aegon reached up to run his fingers through the hanging purple blossoms before looking down upon the bustling courtyard below.

“So where am I staying?”

“Not here,” Aegon replied, gaze still fixed on the gardens below. The day was cool but the sky was bright and blindingly blue, cloudless, and filled with dragons. Below, figures too small to identify celebrated the start of the wedding festivities surrounded by bards, jesters, and enough food to feed an army. The wine and ale were flowing and wouldn’t stop for the rest of the week.

Martyn scoffed and leaned on the balustrade beside him, scratching at his long nose, dark, strawberry blonde hair falling across his forehead. “Then where?”

Aegon jerked his head. “One of the towers. That one,” he gestured vaguely to their left, “or the one my parents are staying in.”

“Don’t they call that one the Tower of Dread? You’d put me in the most dreadful place? Me?”

“I told Abby we could rename them if she wished.”

“But—”

Aegon’s gaze didn’t move but he did reach up to clasp Martyn’s shoulder and jerk him closer. Yes, the place was a ruin, full of ghosts and phantom fire if the stories were true. He thought of the spectre of his dead good-father. “Martyn, that’s all of Harrenhal, but this is my wife’s home. Careful how you speak of it.”

“Not your wife yet,” Martyn said, not as chagrined as Aegon wished and that drew his gaze. Ser Martyn Reyne, first cousin to Lady Abrogail Strong by way of her mother and his father, and Aegon’s own… however distant relation. Good brother to Ser Tyland, Martyn had come to court, a scant few years older than Aegon himself, when the Lannister had become Master of Ships and married Martyn’s elder sister. He’d gone back to Castamere the year before due to the ill health of Lord Rodrik’s wife and his sister, Elayna’s, own pregnancy. It was oddly sentimental, given Martyn’s general lack of any outwardly care for anything outside of a good ale and blonde with big tits.

Aegon had few friends and Martyn had proved to be a decent companion over the years, mucking about Flea Bottom together, and enjoyed when Aegon paid for rounds of drinks or got them access to the most private of rooms in the best brothels. “Look at you,” the young man continued, unperturbed. “I know Harrentown doesn’t have the most exciting offerings, but surely that’s going to change. We could go and christen each new whore, really make sure they’re up to- fuck!”

Aegon’s fingers dug into the soft meat of Martyn’s shoulder, the fine red fabric of his shirt wrinkling beneath the grip. Martyn may have a few inches on Aegon—most did—but Aegon was a dragon with a treasured hoard he would protect, and he would not take the insult or let anyone think they could.

“Martyn,” he said, his voice sharp when he met the other’s gaze. “You’ve been gone quite some time so allow me to catch you up since you missed my nameday and the announcement of my wedding. I’m marrying Abrogail Strong and I happen to be very much in love with her. She also happens to be close kin to you, thus, I expect you to be as invested in her wellbeing and safety as I am. You are one of my oldest friends, Ser Martyn, and I’m happy to have you as a guest in our home. Martyn?” He squeezed and the other man winced further.

“Yes?” Aegon raised an eyebrow and Martyn fumbled. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Aegon’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Fuck all the whores in Harrentown that you want, I don’t care, and I’ll make sure you’re given the honors you deserve, but things are changing and you’re not going to fuck it up for me, are you?”

“No, Your Grace.”

Aegon released him and headed back inside, letting Martyn stumble and find his footing behind him. He exhaled heavily through his nose, throwing back the rest of his wine and contemplating another when Daeron returned, scratching at his cheek in his uncertain way.

“Um… Aegon? They won’t let me in.”

Aegon looked bewildered. “They won’t?” Daeron shook his blonde head with a wordless confirmation and Aegon dragged his toes against the rich, dark blue patterned rug. “Huh. Did Wylla say anything?”

“No, it was one of the other girls who answered. Um, Lord… Royce’s daughter, I think? The new one.”

“The one with the big tits?” Martyn chimed in, his hands gesturing towards his own chest with a laugh. The laughter cut off abruptly into a yell as Aegon threw the goblet right at Martyn’s head, smacking him in the nose.

“I don’t want to see your fucking face until dinner,” he snapped. He didn’t particularly care what Martyn thought or who had big tits or who didn’t, but Aegon was not about to have Martyn talk about Abrogail’s comely ladies around him, lest someone decided to run off to whisper in her ear that Aegon was the one complimenting Rhea Royce’s impressive tits. Abby was welcome to initiate that conversation.

He was trying so hard to be good for her.

Aegon dropped to his knees at the foot of his bed and shoved the blankets off the chest to dig through for what he needed. His sire had said something about too many gifts to angry wives and while Abrogail wasn’t angry, she had shut herself away. And with her continued strange behavior, he needed to stop it immediately lest she go too far from him to reach. “Where the fuck is it?”

“Where’s what?” Daeron asked. Martyn had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and Aegon was only dimly aware of the door closing, presumably behind him since the muffled annoyance of a bloody nose was no longer heard.

“A box about this big,” Aegon gestured and the boy immediately began looking on the other side of the room. Everything had been unpacked from their arrival so it couldn’t have gotten far.

The longer it went without finding it, the more panicked Aegon started to feel until Daeron gave a triumphant shout, carefully brandishing the box that had been buried somewhere in the wardrobe. Aegon pressed a kiss to Daeron’s forehead and headed out down the connecting stairs of the joined balcony. He ran his fingers through the wisteria, plucking a strand of vibrant, purple blooms before heading down the stairs toward Abby’s rooms.

“Can’t you just say no?” He didn’t recognize the woman’s voice wafting through the open, leaded diamond glass window. He paused before it, tracing the colored glass of the window beside it, blues, greens, and reds laid in pretty, geometric patterns like a fan of peacock feathers.

“I can't say no.” It was Abby’s voice, high pitched and distressed. “She’s the queen. It doesn’t matter if it’s in my own home, she is our queen and my good-mother.”

“You know, I thought most other women were as awful as her,” the first voice said again, a little muffled now - they must have been eating. “But it turns out, my cousin is simply awful. You are all quite lovely.”

“Thank you, Rhea,” Abby said, identifying the unknown voice. Aegon grabbed the door handle only to find it locked.

How rude.

“Hey!” He rapped his knuckles against the decorative glass of the door, peering through the clear parts to squint inside. “Let me in!” He tried the door handle again. Why was it locked? Why was he being denied? Aegon rattled the door again until a mass of dark hair and pointed fox features appeared on the other side of the glass. “Wylla, let me in.”

“Your command, my lady?” Aegon frowned. That was unusually hostile. What had he done? They were talking about his mother, not him. The last he saw Abrogail, he’d left her at her door with a gentle kiss on her forehead and a stroke of her freckled cheeks. Only hours later he was being denied.

The door opened and instead of Wylla, it was Abby. Her copper curls were a halo around her face in the late afternoon light, the sun catching at the bits of gold in all the red. Little tendrils of hair framed her normally sweet face, but the expression she wore had his ears turning red. Like him, she was half dressed, the wide neck of her silk chemise falling off her shoulders and his gaze raked over her bare neck and the tender dips of her collarbones. Had her expression not been so upset, he would have tugged at the neckline to peer down to the sight of her breasts that he spent most of his time thinking about. Even with whatever perceived upset she had, he could not deny the need that surged in his belly at the impassioned sight of her, and he forced down the need that growled inside of him, demanding satiation.

“You look-”

She cut him off, closing the distance between them to poke her finger in the center of his chest. “I look like I’m trying to find the earthly reason why the queen just told me that Cassandra Baratheon would be joining us as a companion of mine when you promised she wouldn’t.”

“What?” Why was she speaking of Cassandra? “I told her when we made our agreement months ago.”

“You didn’t know?”

He should be offended by the assumption but the way that Abby’s anger flushed her features was an indulgence and one he was relieved to see compared to the half-vacant and distant look he last saw on her face. His response clearly robbed her of words and so Aegon tucked the wisteria bloom behind her ear and guided her backwards into her chamber with his hand cupping her neck, thumb stroking against her pulse. Wylla rolled her eyes at the pair of them and tugged Rhea and her half eaten apple with her.

“Come on, we’ve got to make sure everyone else is prepared for the feast.”

When the door shut, Abby shoved at his chest and he took a step back but his free hand remained resting against her neck. “Stop distracting me,” she complained. “I’m upset with you! You promised me Cassandra wouldn’t be here!”

“Well of course she’s here for the wedding,” he said slowly, trying to understand what he was missing. He tugged her back with his hold on her neck and his thumb stroked against her fluttering pulse. Aegon delighted in her shiver, the way he could see her nipples tighten beneath the delicate fabric. “Then she’s leaving-”

“She’s not,” Abby interrupted, breathless.”I just told you!” She swallowed and Aegon relished in seeing the war within her, caught between the ember of arousal he was stoking and what annoyance at his mother she was trying to push on him. Gods help him, this was frighteningly easy to see the effect he had on her, how easily he could sway her from being upset with him, especially when there was no need to be. He would make a good husband in knowing what she needed and how to get her out of her head and stop worrying about everything. “The queen said that Cassandra would be staying at Harrenhal after the wedding. I don’t want her to be my companion, I want her gone!”

“I want her gone as well. I promised you that she wouldn’t be here and I’ll speak to Mother about it, alright?”

He didn’t know what the matter was. Floris was engaged to Aemond so Lord Borros got his dragon and prince to soothe whatever imagined slights. What he knew of the man, he was inept at politics, but Cassandra was sly. He could not see Borros strong-arming his mother, but perhaps a manipulation from the man’s daughter… Well, at least there was Martyn to act as a shield should she attempt anything.

Abby’s hand came up and curled into the loose fabric against his shoulder, tugging his attention while she turned her head and nuzzled against his wrist. “It will be fine,” he reassured her.

He watched the anger in her eyes gutter out, not altogether gone, but pushed away for a moment. “Aren’t I the one supposed to tell you that?” she teased and Aegon shivered at the brush of her mouth against the thin skin of his wrist. Groaning softly, he forced her head back so she’d look at him and swept his tongue past her lips, drawing in whatever else she wanted to say. No more thoughts in her pretty head, no more shadows darkening the blue of her eyes or furrowing her brow. He tasted the familiar tang of arbor red on her mouth and he chuckled.

“Did you get into my wine?” he asked her, pausing in the kiss to look at her heavy eyes.

“There was no cider,” she shrugged, yelping softly as he nudged her to the bed. She automatically parted her thighs expectantly, leaning back on her hands. He exhaled and pressed the box he still held against his mouth. The short hem of her chemise had pulled up and he admired the scarlett garters around her stockings, golden letter As entwined with silver As. Their initials.

He hated to deny what her gaze was asking for, but he’d come with intent. “I’ve brought something else for you,” he said, only briefly palming his aching cock. Abby raised her eyebrows at him, eyes going to where he’d touched himself and reached for his waist.

“A surprise?” He let himself be pulled forward with a sly grin and tapped her nose with the edge of the box.

“Close your eyes and lift your hair,” he instructed her and she obeyed while Aegon opened the box and carefully pulled the necklace from the soft inside. Sunfyre had lost scales in a scuffle with Dreamfyre that night on the cliffs long ago and he’d gathered them, knowing what he wanted to do with them… sort of. He hadn’t been able to decide until he observed her wearing the heavy, citrine necklace at his nameday feast.

Aegon ran his thumb over the dragonscale choker, the back lined with soft, deep black velvet to protect the tender skin of her throat. Hanging from the center was a tear shaped ruby, so deeply red as to look like a drop of blood, that nestled in the hollow of her throat. He tied the ribbon just tight enough so it wouldn’t move, enough for her to truly feel it and then leaned back to admire the glitter of his mark upon her.

It was the irrefutable proof that she was his, the wife of a dragon, so beloved by him that none could challenge nor take her.

“There,” he murmured with pleasure and pulled her up. Abby’s eyes flew open and he took in the look of surprise and delight, the red flush spreading across her skin as he set her in front of her full length mirror, the silver surface polished to the perfect shine. His hands rubbed her shoulders and he leaned forward to brush his mouth against her cheek and met her gaze. “Do you like it, rabbit?”

Wordless, she nodded. Abrogail turned in his arms and pulled him into her, sealed her lips over his, plundered his mouth with her tongue and tugged at his shoulders, his arms, desperate for him. Aegon would not deny her, he hungered for her, the gaping maw in his chest that sought her and the comfort and warmth demanding to be filled, gathered her against him, pulled her soft body into his. She tasted of arbor red and of apple and cream. She tasted like his downfall and his resurrection, like he’d been dead and born anew just beneath her touch and with her taste.

They stumbled back into the chaise by the fire and she climbed onto his lap, pushing him back full of demanding. Aegon’s hands went beneath her chemise to grip her pert ass and rock her against his aching cock, swallowing her whimpers and he moaned her name. He tugged the fabric of her smallclothes aside and-

The door banged open and Wylla Karstark clapped, her new, heavy chain of keys hanging off her belt jangling in her wake as she’d taken to doing to announce her presence.

“Off!” she called out, clapping her hands. “Off of him, Abby, we’ve got to get you dressed.”

“I don’t want to,” Abby mumbled but they parted nonetheless, Aegon’s toes curling in pleasure even at being denied.

“Really, Wylla,” Lythene said from the door, but she sounded less exasperated and more that she was full of amused giggling at the spectacle. Abby pressed a kiss to his nose and he smiled at her.

“Do you feel better?”

She nodded with swollen lips and a pleased smile that pushed little dimples into her cheeks. “Yes, I do. Thank you, mo réalta gheal.” She continued to evade what the words meant but at that moment, he didn’t mind. Rhea appeared over Abby’s shoulder to bodily hoist her from him, earning protests from them both and guided Abby towards the wardrobe. Wylla returned, eyebrows raised and offered a hand to tug him up.

“All better?” she asked, worry in her low voice.

“So you aren’t mad at me?”

“Och!” she swatted at his arm and shoved him back towards the balcony. “You are vexing. Begone!”

“Ah, so that’s where she’s getting her annoyance with me from.” He laughed as Wylla made to throw a slipper at him and darted back out the door.

Kingspyre Tower held its own great hall on the ground level, bigger than the Queen’s Hall in King’s Landing and entirely too much space for what was only a gathering of the family. It was a large family, all told, between the Targaryens and Velaryons, the Strongs and the Reynes, the Hightowers and a handful of Florents. Even with all of them seated around the cleared floor for dancing, Aegon was certain that they could comfortably fit double the size. Three great fireplaces were roaring to warm the space and minstrels played from the gallery a story above them.

Greens and golds, scarlets and silver, it was a sea of colorful fish that rose to clap as they entered the room. Abrogail jerked in surprise at the wave of sound beside him, fingers spasming against his sleeve. Aegon’s own reaction was automatic. He waved and she followed the gesture, laughing nervously at the intimate attention of the gathering. Great-Uncle Hobert was closest, stepping forward immediately to clap him on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, my boy!” he called. The exuberance that Lord Ormund Hightower expelled was so unlike Lord Otto’s that it continued to take Aegon by surprise and he let himself grin in return, basking beneath the warm glow of congratulatory adulation.

“Our thanks, cousin,” he said as Ormund’s new wife, Lady Samantha Tarly, appeared at his elbow. She was Abrogail’s age, equally red of hair, but her own skin was dusky and her eyes large and vivid green. Aegon kept his eyes on her narrow, smiling face and not below where her golden necklace hung with a sapphire as large as the one in his brother’s eye.

“They’ll return to us for much gossip later, my love,” she told Ormund, the man giving Aegon’s shoulder a final squeeze before letting go. “Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you, Lady Samantha,” Abby said as the other pressed a kiss to her cheek before they were finally released. It was slow moving along the right side of the hall to where the servant was guiding them to their seats at the top table. Handshakes and kisses, everyone seeking to get in a word of well wishes and congratulations.

Finally, they reached the top table where the king sat, looking better now that he’d rested for a few days. He raised his glass and Aegon’s steps faltered for a moment as he came face to face with Rhaenyra who stood beside him, and with her, Daemon, who was looking at Ser Simon with an incredulous look as the shorter, elder man espoused the way the lamb for the night’s feast had been prepared.

“They stuff it full of cranberries, you see,” Aegon heard before his attention fixed upon the woman in front of him.

Before sickness had hollowed the king’s cheeks, Aegon always thought that Rhaenyra looked like him, but he could now see their similarity. He was closer to his elder sister than he’d been since… Well, Aegon couldn’t remember the last time he was so close. Even during her arrival, there had been distance between them, two orbiting suns competing for the strongest pull.

Always competing, even if he never wanted to in the first place.

Now, this close, he could see the shape of their nose, and while Rhaenyra’s face was plumper due to her recent pregnancy, it was still her. Still the woman he remembered all these years but now with the clarity he hadn’t before. He could see Jacaerys in her features. The nose and mouth were the same, as well as the purple of their eyes. Were those Aemma Arryn’s eyes? Were those his eyes?

‘Is this why Mother can’t stand to look at me? Because I look like Rhaenyra?’

The Realm’s Delight. It was an apt name, if only by how beautiful she was. Her silver hair was long, with four braids pulled away from her head, woven with black and scarlet ribbons strung with charms. They reminded him of Syrax’s horns. Her crown was a band of gold that looked like scales with rubies interspersed that matched her earrings. Her gown was black, the rich pattern only visible when one was close. Further away it glimmered like scales, and the elegant, gold braiding was studded with pointed obsidian chips.

Rhaenyra had come wrapped in the opulence of House Targaryen and armored in her own way, shoulders bared and neckline plunging, throat dripping in a heavy necklace of onyx and rubies and her light cape a fall of netted black.

“Rijnondi, Āegos.” Husky voiced, the clip of King’s Landing hadn’t faded since she’d departed, but the Valyrian accent was stronger than even Aemond’s. Her lavender eyes flickered to Abrogail, and she said in the common tongue, “And congratulations to you, Lady Abrogail.” The smile that crossed Rhaenyra’s face did not reach her eyes. Her lavender gaze was shuttered, on guard much like Aemond’s could be. Her fingers were held before her, delicately rolling one of the many rings she wore in what Aegon thought might be nerves at best and a play at coming off nervous at worst.

“Thank you, Princess,” Abby said, not soft spoken like she usually was. Her cheeks were flushed and her voice was a little loud. Endearing, to be sure, but also entertaining. “And thank you once more for coming to celebrate with us. It’s been so long since we’ve seen you. You’re looking well!” Her words rushed at the end, loud enough to draw the attention of Daemon.

“My brother tells me that you are being given the title of ‘princess’ upon your marriage,” he said, cutting over whatever Ser Simon was about to say next. His black doublet matched the design of Rhaenyra’s gown but was edged with red and black braid instead of the goldenrod that his wife wore. “I remarked at how unusual it was for such a title to be given, since that’s reserved for the heir and their family. Not even my late wife received such an honor and she was of Valyrian blood.” His face took on a thoughtful expression, mouth pursed and eyebrows raised. “Some fascinating negotiation on that front.”

“Prince Aegon is the king’s eldest son.” From the other side of the king’s chair came Otto Hightower, his graying beard neatly trimmed, his black doublet edged in green braid to match Mother’s gown. The golden hand that announced his office pinned his decorative cloak in place. “It is an honor he is entitled to.”

“Entitled?” Daemon’s voice was arched, his lips curling back in the same sort of smile Aegon had seen on his dragon’s face. He looked towards his sister, whose lavender eyes were on the play, fingers twisting her ring around. Perhaps it was not a play at nerves. Aegon glanced at the door the servants were going through, longing in his heart.

“Which do you think will become apoplectic first?” Abby asked in what he was certain she meant to be a teasing whisper in his ear, but wine and nerves had made it audible for the gathered group. Aegon’s eyes widened, a nervous and amused giggle escaping him as Rhaenyra’s own gaze flitted back to them, surprise and amusement on her features.

Ser Simon let out a hearty laugh, clapping Daemon with most familiarity on the shoulder. “Let us sit, eh? Now, while the cranberries offer such splendid tartness, it’s truly the persimmons that bring such spark to a roast boar…”

Aegon’s stomach growled at the thought of roast boar, but Rhaenyra did not move from where she was standing beside their father and in front of the chair that was meant to be his. It had been his for his birthday, the attention of the realm upon him in celebration, his father smiling at him with kind words. He was aware of the warm weight of his crown circling his brow; the hammered crown of gold with the seven dragons that was his. The crown that had once been Prince Aemon’s, then Prince Baelon’s, and then his sire’s before he became king.

It was his now and for tonight, for this time, so was that seat.

Rhaenyra had so much. She had titles, she had affection, she had every acknowledgement without fighting or scraping. Of course she assumed what was his for once was hers by rights, everything else was.

Aegon sighed through his nose, something that could be excused as a particularly loud exhale. He wanted the warmth and positive attention, even if only for a few moments, but was this even worth it? Sitting by their sire, threatening the tense peace for a chair he wouldn't want most of the time? With a nod to his elder sister, he motioned towards the seat at their father's side.

“Thank you for coming so far.” He gestured with a nod towards the chair they stood over. “You’ve been away at Dragonstone for so long, it must be good for the two of you to catch up. I believe I’ll engage with Ser Simon on the delicacy of the roast boar.” He felt the warmth of Abrogail beside him and took comfort in it.

‘I am my father’s true born son,’ came the sober thought, his eyes briefly flicking to where Jace was leaning down to speak with Lucerys, thinking about the way his shoulders shook as he sobbed in the gardens. ‘At least I have that.’

When Aegon looked at his sister again, her shoulders had slumped and it was then that he realized how tense she’d been since he approached. There was a curious look on her face, one of surprise and uncertainty, her eyes studying his own face as if words were written there, his thoughts on display. Aegon met her gaze unflinchingly. She didn’t know him, just like those Riverlords didn’t know him. Just like so many of those men who whispered about him didn’t know him.

“Sit down already.” The king’s rasp broke through the space between them. “Rhaenyra, you are a dear.” He reached out a hand to pat her arm. “There’s no harm in letting the lad sit here. It’s his wedding after all.”

Rhaenyra turned, mouth opening as she tried to grasp for some response, shaken from her thoughts by their sire’s words. “O-of course it is.”

The king chuckled again. “What good conversation I must have for the both of you to be bickering over the chair.” Aegon raised his eyebrows and found himself catching Rhaenyra’s eye at the strange statement. Did something pass between them? Some understanding or mutual confusion? Or had he imagined it? “Come, Aegon. Let us start this feast already.”

“I’m starving and Aunt Mya said that she had them prepare candied plums!” Abby pressed a kiss to his cheek as the servants pulled the chairs out for them, Rhaenyra taking her seat to Abby’s left and murmuring to Daemon as she did so.

“You need more than candied plums for however much you drank,” Aegon said, bending his head close to her.

“I did not drink that much,” she protested, her face turned so close to kiss but if he did, he wouldn’t stop and this was not the ideal audience for such a thing.

“You drank on an empty stomach which makes it that much. I should know—”

“---Because you drink more than a Braavosi sea lord?” The words were Aemond’s but the innocent tone was entirely her own. Blue eyes gazed at him from beneath her lashes, flashing with her annoyance. Aegon gave her a look and shifted to allow their goblets to be filled, a local wine by the winemakers in Harrentown. Claret drops splashed over the rim and ran down the silver, snaking over the swirls and whorls etched in for the rivers to the stems shaped like weirwood trunks, their leaves creeping up the bottom of the cup. Abby reached for hers and Aegon snagged it. “Aegon!”

“Not until the bread comes out,” he shrugged, sipping from her goblet for good measure and set it out of her reach.

She scowled and snatched his goblet instead of reaching over him like he’d hoped and he began to protest before he caught the gaze of his sister from around Abby’s head. He stilled, staring back at her and her inscrutable gaze before the tap of a goblet rang through the hall and his father was raising his hand for quiet.

"Tonight we gather in private celebration for the pending marriage of my son, Prince Aegon, and Lady Abrogail. House Strong has long served House Targaryen loyally and faithfully, and it is only right that now they are to be joined in marriage. Lord Lyonel was a steadfast Hand and a good man, would that he could have seen our children come together. Alas, something he did not have the opportunity to see." He raised his goblet ever so slightly higher as he looked towards the table where House Reyne sat. "An honor that Lady Celeste would have enjoyed for her daughter and her family as well. But there is no need to dwell on those no longer with us. Please, everyone, eat, and be merry. There is only more of this to enjoy in the coming days."

As the room clapped politely for his speech, Aegon exhaled with relief to the sounds of the musicians starting their songs, letting it wash over him. He reached beneath the table to rub his hand along Abby’s thigh, seeking out her twisting fingers and distracting her from where he knew her thoughts had gone. He felt the return squeeze, longing to strangle his sire for the moment in such dwelling over the dead and what he’d done for Rhaenyra, the thoughts of the truth beneath threatening to choke him.

Mercifully, the servants appeared with the first course. While the wedding feast would last for hours, this night would not shy away. Platters of pies stuffed with eggs and cheese, smelling of parsley and thyme, were set in front of them along with ones brimming with venison and dates and reasons, smelling of pepper and ginger. They were all small hand pies, and Aegon saw Daeron gleefully loading several onto his plate across the hall. There was a pottage of barley with raisins and berries and fresh loaves of bread still steaming slightly from the oven. Aegon immediately loaded several pies onto his plate even though there were more courses to come.

After sex, food and wine were welcome escapes and the only path he had in the moment.

The hall descended into merriment, plates being passed and laughter accompanying the merry tunes surrounding them like snowfall. The anxiety was palpable beneath it all, the subtly held breath that something would happen and hadn’t yet. Two pies down and Aegon had yet to see her eat and so he pushed one of the pies on her plate closer towards her. Abby swatted at his hand and he laughed.

“Are you going to vex me all evening, Aegon?” Abby asked before delicately biting into one of the meat pies.

“Are you going to challenge me all evening, Abrogail?” The wine was light and fruity on his tongue and he took a larger gulp, letting it warm pleasantly down his gullet.

Abby scoffed. “Clearly, I don’t challenge you enough.” He felt his lower belly tighten at her words and looked over at her, a quiet snort coming from the other side of her. Rhaenyra was looking at her plate though and not at them, so he was uncertain if the sound had come from her. His bride, however, did look at his sister, goblet paused in midair. “I am appreciative of you sitting beside me, Your Grace. You have saved me from my own sister ruining my appetite.”

Aegon choked on his bite of meat pie and this time he knew Rhaenyra had laughed. It was short, if a little awkward, clearly she was just as startled by the glib statement as he was coming from Abby. It reminded Aegon of Syrax.

She hummed and took a sip of her drink. “She is quite keen to insert her opinion constantly and I’m grateful that you do not appear to be the type.”

He looked at his plate, eyes wide at the exchange. Silent prayers were said and he was listening intently should Rhaenyra say something to upset her. Abby’s fire was often hidden and to have it come out now was both exhilarating and terrifying given the company.

“Lady Corynna and I were companions in our youth,” Rhaenyra said, voice low with curious amusement. “It does not surprise me to hear that she hasn’t changed. You’d think Johanna Lannister would have curbed that habit of hers.”

“I don’t think there is very much that can curb her habits.”

Silence fell once more and then the brush of warm lips against Aegon’s cheek startled him as he inhaled rose and red currant of Abby’s skin. “I love you,” she whispered against his cheek. “I’m still upset about Cassandra.”

His cheeks flushed deeper with arousal and his hand found her leg again. “It’s only the first course, hunītsos.”

The look she gave him was heated, annoyed, and vulnerable all together and it was everything in Aegon, the awareness that he had been forced into over these past few months, that kept him from indulging as he wanted. Instead, he reached up to rest his hand on the back of her neck, his fingers running against the golden scales that circled her throat and delighted in her shiver. She was new to this game and he’d make her work for it. The distraction it provided was welcome, softening the jagged edges of tension in his gut.

Plates were cleared and all were appropriately in awe of the large boar that took four servants to carry out, setting it upon its own table before the main table. It was a great beast, its skin deliciously darkened and tusks gilded with gold. The clapping and approving cries of the crowd nearly overtook the music from above.

“Five men to take it down,” Ser Simon’s voice came from the end of the table. “Two spearmen and three crossbow. Do you enjoy boar hunting, my Prince? The Red Wood has a healthy sounder we’ve cultivated since I was a lad. The cloves add such a depth of flavor-”

“Along with the cranberries?” came Daemon’s dry reply.

“And the currants!”

“And the currants,” Aegon whispered against Abby’s ear, sending her into a fit of giggles while a plate of fritters smelling of honey and elderflowers was set before them, a vegetable pottage of beans and dishes of several sort of sauces were set before them. Dishes stacked high with lace thin crepes were also set down to wrap the pork in should one so choose.

The servants brought platters of the fresh sliced meat, bits of cranberries and currants, chunks of persimmons and juicy chunks of pork fat glistening across the pieces. It was set before Abby and Aegon and his fork immediately reached to stab a piece only to knock into Rhaenyra who had leaned over at the same time for the same piece of meat.

Their eyes met, Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed with surprise, her own cheeks a little flushed from either drink or who knew what else. Maybe Daemon was toying with her beneath the table as well.

“Don’t mind me,” came Abby’s soft sigh, her loosened tongue spilling out what Aegon was sure were meant to be her own thoughts. “I’ll just sit here and wait.”

“Please,” Aegon broke the stalemate first, removing his fork and gesturing. “You first, you are the elder.” It was not meant to be any sort of barb or biting remark, only off-handed, but as soon as the words left him, Aegon tensed, two dogs over the last bone.

Finally, Rhaenyra’s lip curled in a smirk that reminded him so strongly of Aemond that the resemblance unnerved him. She stabbed a piece of the succulent pork and deposited it on Abby’s plate. “For you, sweet sister.” Rhaenyra helped herself and Aegon took his piece, the feeling enveloping him strange and uncertain. The flash of Jace sobbing beside him the other night flashed once more across his memory, the position that his mother had put him in.

His sister was a strange collection of memories, many of them colored by the ugliness in Driftmark’s great hall and her turning her back on them, for demanding Aemond’s torture, for twisting something so horrible to some personal attack to her.

Then what their father did…

Did Rhaenyra know? Did she know it was actions done for her sake that had Abby sitting here fatherless while the king made overtures of how unfortunate it was that Lord Lyonel was not here to celebrate his daughter’s marriage? Was that why she was being kind to her? Was it guilt? As he dumped cuts of pork onto his plate, Rhaenyra had stolen the plum sauce and he sullenly contented himself with the lighter, strawberry sauce that Abby was using.

Even with the moments of darkness snaking through his thoughts, the occasional holding of his breath when someone shouted through the room, bracing himself for something to break out, the rest of the feast passed without expected calamity. Looking down the table to where Heleana once more stuck between Aemond and Jace revealed resignation on his brother’s part, Jace’s frown rarely leaving his face.

The course passed in relative ease, Abby relaxing beside him with another goblet of wine nearly finished, her cheeks flushed with it and her hand occasionally sliding up his thigh beneath the table. Bowls of water and linens were brought out after the meat was cleared to wash their hands and the sweet confections appeared as the minstrels struck up merrier tunes for people to dance and mingle too, their bellies full of good food. Custard tarts, sunny yellow with saffron and smelling of ginger and piled with juicy berries, tarts filled with apples and figs and smelling of cloves and cinnamon, and of course, little almond comfits and marchpane dragons, one which Abby promptly bit the head off, pale sugar coating her mouth so enticingly he had to steal a kiss.

Aegon licked his mouth when they parted, his tongue caressing her mouth and her flush matched her hair. “Did you want to dance?” The floor between the ring of tables already sported some of the family, Lord Corlys spinning a smiling Princess Rhaenys and Martyn being pulled against his will by one of the Florent girls.

“Maybe in a little while,” she murmured, and he was relieved that she lacked the melancholy cloud that had settled over her since their arrival. The diamond tear drops that hung from her tiara tinkled as she rested her head on his shoulder and Aegon slid an arm around her shoulders, twirling a copper curl around his finger. Rhaenyra made a quiet excuse and headed towards the Velaryon table where the twins sat with Luke, curiously bypassing Jace. Daemon remained speaking with Ser Simon, or perhaps held hostage by the old man, but curiously had not appeared to escape quite yet.

Aegon’s eyes were heavily lidded with contentment, even stuck sitting next to his father who had said little to him over the course of the feast, and so it took a moment for him to notice the whispers beneath the fresh tune the minstrels played.

Helaena had gone on the dance floor, her silver hair contained in a net studded with sapphires, an overdress of Targaryen black with beautiful, floral embroidery in bright blue, the sleeves and skirt opened to reveal the matching blue undergown. His younger sister looked strange in black, so rare it was on her. She reminded him of one of the birds she once had. The feathers had been so dark they looked black, but when the wings flapped and the sun caught, they shimmered in so many jewel tones.

The murmuring was not about Helaena.

Jace had followed her onto the floor, his tunic a rich, black velvet with the three headed dragon embroidered upon his chest. The red cape clasped to one shoulder swished behind him and Aegon thought it excessive, poncy, and he was more than a little envious. Perhaps he needed to add a cape to his wardrobe. His face was flushed, his eyes darting around nervously, and Aegon saw his mouth move in some quiet hiss to Helaena but she ignored him.

No one else ignored Jace. No one else was ignoring the dark curls around Jace’s face. Aegon looked down the table towards Larys, but the man had vanished when Aegon wasn’t looking. Instead, Ser Simon and Daemon were looking towards the dance floor, his uncle’s face inscrutable, Ser Simon looking concerned. House Strong’s looks were blatant from the table they shared with the Velaryons. Lord Corlys’ brother, Vaemond, was scowling into his goblet. Rhaenyra stood behind Luke’s chair where he sat next to Rhaena, her hand gripping the wood as she paused in her conversation with her son to look at the pair now dancing.

Cold slithered down Aegon’s spine and he ran his tongue over his teeth behind his lips. He tilted his head back to look to where his mother sat to the king’s right, finding Larys behind her murmuring in his mother’s ear, his grandfather absent from his chair.

It wasn’t Jace’s fault.

Aegon thought of the time he met Alyn’s brother, Addam, and the lilac eyes that stared back at him.

It wasn’t their fault either.

It wasn’t Aegon’s fault. Sometimes, it wasn’t even Rhaenyra’s fault, or his mother’s fault.

“Come on,” Aegon murmured, tugging Abby out of her chair and pulling her behind him. He really needed a cape too, but for now, it was fine. For now, the gold crown shone around his head, the diamonds tinkled and shimmered through Abby’s curls. This was their night and everyone should be paying attention to them.

As a reminder, no hate (except for vizzy hate) in the comments! We have two more chapters left of this arc! There will be a sequel so make sure you are following/got notifs/etc! I'd love to know what you thought of the chapter, as I know many of you expected chaos to reign during this family dinner. Well, good news is we still have a wedding to go ;)

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