56. Aenys XV / Rhaena III

Hello everyone! This chapter is a little shorter, but it is setting up some future stuff so I hope it is alright. Please let me know what you all think in the comments! I love reading them. With all that said, I hope you all have a wonderful day!

Aenys XV

2nd Moon, 40AC

Snow-filled wind whipped at Aenys’s face as Quicksilver braved the winter storm. The weather had only worsened since the defeat of Wat the Hewer, and unfortunately, Aenys could not exactly hunker down and wait it out like most of Westeros was planning on doing. 

No, he was the king, after all. He had to ride out and defeat detestable rebels that would threaten his family and home. The same cretins that called for his and his children’s deaths on the daily. The same traitors that he had enabled for so long. 

He could still imagine them all, the jeers and vitriol that every single captured faith soldier had shown to him. Fanatics, the whole lot of them. It made his past actions seem even more foolish in retrospect, he had tried to be a good, kind king to the worst of the world.

Aenys’s gut twisting troubled him almost as much as the soft clumps of cold, wet snow that continued to pelt his face. His cloak shielded the rest of his body thankfully, but he really wished he had brought his mask from Dragonstone. At least his destination was not far. 

He had not been terribly enthused about the prospect of withdrawing from the Stormlands. But the reason for it made sense. Winter had made his son’s continued campaign chasing bandits in the Riverlands impossible, and his brother had found no success in the Vale. Then there was Rogar’s army in the Stormlands, which needed to replenish its numbers and supplies after the harrowing battle near Stonebridge. 

All signs pointed to their side needing to retreat and recoup. Wait for the weather to calm while their forces rested for future campaigns. It would also allow Aenys to deal with some other pressing issues, like the one he was currently flying towards. 

Aenys chanced a sigh as he slumped in the saddle. Quicksilver should be able to navigate him to the Dragonpit in King’s Landing from where they were, so perhaps Aenys could finally better shield his face from the onslaught of snow.

He could only hope his son would actually listen to him.

For all his newfound fight and fury, Aenys could not help but retain some wariness of his son. Aenys remembered Aegon’s willingness to attack Oldtown. The complete lack of hesitation to destroy the leadership of their enemies. If he had the same will back then as he had now, he wondered if he would have given a different answer. 

‘Probably not,’ Aenys thought with a light scoff. They could not just burn the Starry Sept to the ground. Killing their enemies was all well and good, but doing so would have simply forced the rest of the continent into open revolt. How could their allies stand with them if they butchered the holiest man in their faith with Dragonfire? It was a poor strategy, the High Septon needed to be taken in alive and forced to concede to their demands. It was the only way. 

But would Aegon understand? That was the question that Aenys did not know. He had agonized over the topic while he helped Rogar establish proper winter quarters back in the Stormlands and bury the young man’s father and grandfather. Each new letter of Aegon’s edicts and punishments of the few members of the faith whom he had captured. It troubled him, even if he logically knew they were the only options he could take. 

His son was angry, that much was obvious from the frighteningly few letters the two of them had shared over the moons spent campaigning. Aenys had tried, several letters sent apologizing for past mistakes and wishing to meet and discuss the future, but so far they had gone unanswered. Aegon had only spoken to him of the war, and that made Aenys’s stomach turn.

He should not have had to fight. Aenys should have ridden out on Quicksilver the moment the High Septon called for his head, united with the loyalists in the Reach, and marched on Oldtown without delay. Yet delay he had, and now the rebels were organized and prepared to fight. They had to be dealt with first before the High Septon could be forced to the table. 

Aenys understood that now, but his son still had to fight. Had to go behind Aenys’s back and mobilize the forces of the Crownlands with his grandfather’s help. Had to bring fire and fury to Aenys’s enemies in his stead. It was pathetic, and Aenys did not know how to make amends. 

He would not have much more time to deliberate, however, as King's Landing was rapidly approaching. Even through the thick snow and overcast skies, the Dragonpit, Spires of the Sept of Remembrance, and the skeleton of the Red Keep still rose high into the sky.

His son was already there, recalled to winter quarters while they prepared the next phase of the war, and Aenys could only imagine how upset he was. He detested the idea of having to get information about his son from his brother, but he was left with little choice. Aegon was hardly communicating with him at all, so when he learned that his son was fuming mad from a letter sent by his brother from King’s Landing, it only troubled Aenys further. 

He let out a sigh, a long one. In an attempt to ease the uneasy feeling he had. It felt like he was walking straight into a fire, about to get burned up by his son’s righteous anger. But he would do so anyway, and with a straight face. He had made a mistake, lots of them really, and he had to make them all right, even if it pained him to do so. 

…

Aenys did his best to focus on the sound of his boots on the cold stone floor of the Red Keep rather than the turbulent thoughts swirling in his head. The numerous fires lit through the keep did little to warm it from the cold exterior. This was the first time he had visited the city since his two eldest children wed, and the difference in the city was stark. 

Some of it could, of course, be chalked up to the winter. It was warmer indoors than out and leaving the warmth of a house for the cold of the outside certainly didn’t appeal to Aenys, and he was a king with warm cloaks and plentiful food. Yet he knew it was more than that. 

The curfew his son had implemented prior to leaving the city remained in place. People were not to leave their homes unless they had to. The city that Aenys had known to be bustling and full of energy felt lethargic, cowed into silence. Just another thing that Aenys would have to eventually fix. 

Even the Red Keep itself was different. The highly skilled professional workers imported from Dragonstone continued their work despite the winter, even if their pace had slowed. The main quarters had been made livable, even if the towers had not yet reached their intended heights and the changes proposed by Aegon had not yet been completed. 

A new holdfast deeper within the confines of the Keep. Shielding the royal quarters from the rest of the castle with a strong moat and even stronger walls. It was a smart addition, one his father no doubt should have implemented in the original plans. 

Aenys was beginning to understand just a little of his brother’s disregard for their father. Aenys still believed that Maegor was overblowing his disdain, spurred on from past slights and disagreements, but Aenys was starting to see more of the meaning behind his words. 

His father may have been a fine man. An excellent warrior and conqueror, too. But the Kingdom that Aenys had been left could hardly be called stable. A Kingdom held together by the will of one man and oaths of fealty given by treacherous and foolish men. The very foundations were unstable, and Aenys had not been strong enough to hold it together.

That thought haunted him more than almost all others. Had his son seen him the way Maegor saw their father? A figure brought low by weakness and indecision? A boy's admiration turned into a man's quiet contempt?

Had he ever seen him in that way? Aenys was not his father, he was not a warrior renowned across the whole world. He had not conquered seven kingdoms and reshaped the world in his image. He had not proven himself capable and iron-willed. He was… not Aegon the Conqueror. He had wanted to rule with justness, with trust. He had thought peace would be enough to hold the realm together. But he had been proven wrong. 

What had his son seen when he looked at him? A cautionary tale? A figure worthy of scorn?

Aenys knew he had disappointed Aegon, had abandoned him, in truth, when he retreated into isolation once the rebellions began and Vaella was so cruelly stripped away from him. He had meant to find clarity, to grieve, to escape the chaos and pain that had engulfed his court. But what had his absence told his son? Only that he was weak, pathetic, and unworthy of the throne his father had left for him. 

No words had passed between them since Aenys had joined the fight. Not truly. Soulless reports on military victories and little else. Not the words of a father and son, and certainly not of a king and his heir.

His brother had at least been able to counsel Aegon since his departure from the Vale. After a short stop on Dragonstone, he had flown out to meet Aegon near the Gods Eye. From his letters, Aegon at least seemed to be in adequate spirits, even if Maegor made no mention of Aegon’s feelings about the war and his father. 

Had they not discussed it, or was Maegor unwilling to share the vitriolic words that Aegon’s emotions let loose? Aenys wanted to lower his head into his hands and bemoan fate, but he could not afford to do that, not anymore. He had let the situation get this bad in the first place, it was all his fault, and now it was his duty to fix it. 

He reached the threshold of the chamber and paused. One last moment of hesitation before he signaled for the doors to be opened. He would not allow himself to wallow in doubt and fear any longer. He had a life to live, a crisis to fix, and errors to make up for. 

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and the previously talkative room, made audible even from the hall, fell silent. All heads turned to Aenys and bowed lightly, apart from Maegor. 

Aenys strode into the hall with all the false confidence he could muster. He would have previously shrank at all the expectant stares combined with his own self-doubt, but he had not come here to be led around. He was the King of Westeros. He would not be a shadow on the wall any longer. 

The empty seat at the head of the table was a striking image. But Aenys did not linger on it. He occupied the seat and cleared his throat, preparing to address the Small Council. 

“What did I miss?” he asked simply and concisely. His brother’s distaste for needless pleasantries and wasted time would have to be employed by him here. 

There was a brief pause before Lord Aethan Velaryon took the cue to speak.

“Your Grace,” he began smoothly, his voice the same well-practiced tone that Aenys had been hearing from goodfather all his life. “We were discussing the impossibility of further campaigns into the Riverlands for the time being. Do you have new word from the Stormlands?” 

Aenys settled further into his chair. “I do,” he said, glancing briefly around the table. “The lords remain loyal, as the traitors have been rooted out from the Kingswood to Cape Wrath, but they have sustained not insignificant losses from the battle of Stonebridge. They will need time to rest and replenish their forces.” 

Aethan inclined his head, processing his king’s words. “Very well, Your Grace. How long will they need?”

Aenys considered the question for a breath. He could feel all eyes on him, measuring not just his answer, but the certainty behind it. His previous discussions with Rogar flashed in his mind, and the sheer scale of all the bodies strewn about on that horrid day. 

“Moons, at least,” he replied. “They lost many knights on that bitter night. They could perhaps march at half strength in a fortnight's time, but their numbers would be drastically reduced,” Aenys said, lamenting his past failures. 

His uncle was dead because of him. His cousin, too. Because he had not just attacked when he had the chance, when he should have. Instead, he waited behind and fraternized with the Stormlords, playing the role of King instead of being one. Just like he had before. 

“Then we march in a fortnight’s time. With my army and what is left of Lord Rogar’s,” his son spoke up next, confident to a degree Aenys had never seen before. 

There were quiet murmurings around the table. Each of his council members leaned over to whisper agreement or quiet doubt amongst each other. Aenys was about to preach caution, but he was beaten to the punch. 

Maegor shifted in his seat, his gauntleted fingers tapping once against the table before he spoke. His voice, though not loud, cut through the murmuring like a sharp blade.

“Your boldness is commendable, Nephew,” Maegor began, eying Aegon sharply. “But even with your 5,000 soldiers combined with Rogar’s number, that would only net us what? Ten thousand men?” Maegor’s voice remained calm, but there was steel beneath it, experience. “Not nearly enough to take Oldtown and garrison the castles we’ll pass along the way. Half of the Reach is poised against us, and supply is already treacherous enough as is. To leave captured castles and chokepoints without a garrison would invite starvation.” 

Aegon did not hesitate. His purple eyes were bright with conviction. “We don’t need many men to take Oldtown,” he said. “Not when we have dragons. Balerion, Terrax, and Quicksilver are more than enough to lay Oldtown low. Will they really choose to fight when their precious Hightower is sinking beneath the harbor and their Starry Sept is reduced to rubble?”

“Did the defenders of the Sept of Remembrance choose to fight after you destroyed the walls and burned their vanguard to cinders?” Aenys asked sharply, piercing into the conversation like an arrow loosed from a longbow. 

Aegon’s jaw clenched, his voice cutting through the quiet that followed Aenys’s words. “They did,” Aegon replied quietly. 

After a brief pause, Aegon continued, his tone fierce but controlled. “And they died. Every last one of them. But their deaths spared us weeks of siege, allowed me to relieve our allies in the Riverlands. They spared us the cost of drawing this war out any longer.”

He looked at Aenys, eyes confident and demanding. “You say we will create martyrs, that the Faith will curse us. They already do, Father. The very same day I wed my wife here in the Sept of Remembrance war was all but declared by them. You say that destroying the Starry Sept will make peace impossible, but have they not already done that? They have declared all of us abominations, worthy of nothing but death and destruction. It is better to draw them out into the light and kill them–” Aegon continued, his voice filled with an energetic conviction, before Aenys stopped him. 

“Enough!” he began, quieting his son and the rest of the room instantly. He disliked raising his voice, but he could no longer allow his son to march down this path. 

Aenys sighed quietly, affixing his son with a sharp look, not quite a glare but more stern than he had ever given before. “What you are suggesting would make our war permanent. Our war would change from fighting the High Septon and the Faith Militant fighting all of Westeros. Every man, woman, child, noble, merchant, and knight south of the Neck would be made our enemy. All the words our enemies claim about us would be made true.” 

“We would be fighting millions of people, like my father faced in Dorne, but a thousand times worse. Do you wish to fight for the rest of your days? To have to watch out for poisoned food and daggers in the dark for the rest of your days? Question the loyalty of all your Andal ministers and subjects to the day you die?” 

Aegon’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing at first. The flicker in his violet eyes dimmed, if only slightly, under the weight of his father’s words. His hands clenched on the table, as if he was looking for a retort. 

The silence in the room deepened. Even Maegor, who moments before had seemed prepared to interject just like Aenys, leaned back and said nothing. No one dared interrupt a Targaryen king when he was drawing lines between war and annihilation.

Aenys leaned forward, placing both hands on the table, voice steady but edged with emotion.

“You are my son, Aegon, and I love you dearly. But do not think you are the first prince who thought you could end a rebellion in a single breath. My father had dragons, too. He had Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes. He had enough fire to turn all of Dorne into glass. But even he could not bend a people who would rather die than kneel. He turned all of Dorne into a depopulated wasteland, and what did it gain him? A dead wife and an even more hateful neighbor. The Kingdom still stands, decrepit as it may be, it remains defiant.”

Aegon looked down for a moment, his mouth shut tight in consideration. But then he met his father’s eyes again, softer this time.

“Dorne is different, Father,” he offered weakly, but this time it was Maegor who interjected. 

“For now, yes,” he began, meeting Aegon’s gaze. “The Dornish are treacherous and dishonorable. But what will happen when we validate all the claims of the High Septon? Prove that we are in fact monsters hell bent on the destruction of Westeros? Will they not be validated, encouraged even, to become even more deceitful and depraved than the Dornish?”

Aegon looked down at his hands. Sighing in resignation before meeting Aenys’s eyes once again. “I only wanted to finish this war, Father,” he offered weakly. 

Aenys’s eyes softened as his son calmed. It sometimes slipped Aenys’s mind that he was barely a man. Not even six and ten as of yet. But his son was indeed still young, still inexperienced, and still in need of guidance. Aenys and Maegor could provide that for him, even if Aenys was quite late and needed some counsel of his own. 

“We all do,” Aenys responded. “But we simply do not have the means to employ the tactics of our ancestors. We cannot enforce our will over all Westeros with thousands of imported Valyrian colonists or hundreds of dragons. We must bring them to heel, make them accept our superiority, and to do that, we must defeat them conventionally, bring the High Septon to the table, and force him to negotiate,” Aenys said, his eyes sweeping over the room to a series of satisfied nods. His Small Council was all Valyrian, but even they could see the merits in forcing a compromise onto the Andals. 

“Negotiate what, Father?” Aegon began, incredulous. “They have publicly denounced us as abominations, demons, monsters. How can we reconcile that?” Aegon asked as Aenys retreated into his own thoughts. He did not have to for long, however. As his brother interjected once more. 

“It is simple. If they truly believe that their gods created the whole world as it is. Did they not create us, Valyrians too? Did they not create us exactly the way we are with all of our traditions and powers? Was it not their will that we conquered the world, escaped the Doom, and then conquered Westeros too? We turn their own logic against them. We are the exception to their rules,” Maegor said, and the whole council chamber seemed to light up at the words. It was sound logic from Aenys’s perspective. Now, all they needed to do was bring the Faith to heel.

“And you think they will accept this?” Aethan asked, interjecting for the first time in a while. 

“They will have no choice. After we defeat all of their armies and lay them low. What other conclusion could they possibly come to?” he said with a confident shrug, reassuring all at the table of his plan. 

“Then let us focus on defeating these armies and enemies you speak of,” Aenys said, his mood brightened by the possibility of peace. He had initially been fearful that he would get the endless war that Aegon was so determined to start, regardless. But if his brother’s plan worked, then perhaps this war would not take the rest of Aenys’s life. 

Aenys pulled one of the maps strewn about the table over to him. Placing his hand on King’s Landing. “Our numbers are lower than we would ordinarily wish but we are not without options. There remain loyalists in the Reach. After we allow Rogar some time to replenish and rest his men, we can march into the Reach in force. Should we relieve loyalists and those sympathetic to our cause of their sieges and prove our strength, we could pull more men from the region,” Aenys said, his eyes scanning all the names on the map of the Reach nearby. 

“I think it best if we wait for my army to be prepared,” Maegor said, having all the eyes turned onto him. 

He did not miss a beat as he leaned forward onto his elbows, his hands clenched in contemplation. “I ordered three legions to be raised back in Pentos prior to my departure. Even bringing a single one across the sea would bolster our forces by five thousand men. I propose we wait for that. Their loyalty can be assured and they have been trained in siege warfare. Taking Oldtown will be much easier with their help,” Maegor said with pride practically dripping off of him. He had heard from Maegor about his pride in the army he crafted back in Essos before but it was truly something. 

“How long would we have to wait?” Aegon asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Aenys could hardly blame his son for being eager to end the war. News had long since spread of Rhaena’s pregnancy, he could only imagine how badly Aegon wanted to return to Dragonstone to be with her. 

“We would wait for the weather to clear first, allowing my legions to finish their training, sail across the sea, and allow for Rogar’s forces to rest and recover their losses. We could reasonably begin our campaign once more in a few moons time,” Maegor reasoned, the exact details of the timing would depend on just how close his legions were to being trained and the weather during their march but the general timeframe worked for Aenys. It also meant that Rhaena’s child should be born around the time of their departure. 

As Maegor’s final words settled over the council, Aenys nodded, slow and thoughtful. He could see the war raging behind Aegon’s eyes, concern, excitement, dread, and elation. He could feel it all like he was staring at himself in the past. 

“That will be all for now,” Aenys said, rising from his seat. His voice was calm but carried the finality of command, something that Aenys was growing far more used to. “We begin preparations. Aethan, you will remain here and oversee the city in our absence. The rest of you will return to Dragonstone to coordinate supply and ready the court for our permanent return.”

There were quiet murmurs of assent, shuffling chairs, and rustling cloaks as the small council stood and began to make their way out. Maegor offered an impressed look to Aenys and a short but reassuring tap on the shoulder to Aegon before departing from the room.

Before his son could leave as well, Aenys stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Aegon, might we talk a little before we depart for Dragonstone?” Aenys asked. He had been dreading this conversation but he had to do something before it was made worse. 

Aegon looked a little incredulous, suspicious of his intentions perhaps, but retook his seat. The two of them remained silent until the loud oak doors were shut, giving the two of them some privacy and quiet to discuss. 

“I wanted to commend you for your actions,” Aenys opened, his eyes meeting the shocked ones of his son. 

“What?” he offered, confused. 

“For taking command when I faltered,” Aenys said quietly. “For not letting the realm fall into ruin while I... hesitated.”

Aegon remained silent. He searched his father’s face, looking for insincerity, for some trace of doubt or deception. But there was none to be found, only beleaguered honesty.

“I have made many, many mistakes,” Aenys continued, his voice lower now. “I allowed my fears to rule me. I thought if I just acted like my father, I could keep the faith in line. I thought if I showed them kindness, they would not raise their swords.” He let out a bitter breath. “I was wrong. And in my weakness, I left it all on you. I am sorry, Aegon.”

“You didn’t leave me much of a choice,” Aegon said, his voice hard, worn, tired. 

“I know,” Aenys said, nodding lightly. “And that is why I am telling you this now. You acted when I would not, you consulted my advisors, thought rationally, and acted decisively. I may not agree with every decision you made, but I do not fault you for taking them.”

Aegon leaned back in his chair, his eyes as weary as ever. “What is the point of this?”

Aenys clenched his hands, his eyes steeled with determination. 

“The point is that I see you, Aegon. I see what you have done for our family, and I will not ignore it any longer. I am your king, yes, but I am your father as well, and you deserved better from both.” Aenys said, honestly and truthfully. He hated admitting his faults so openly and clearly, but it was his only action to take. He had to mend his relationship with his son and heir, or all would be lost. 

“I want you to know that I will do better,” Aenys began, his eyes filled with the same fiery determination he possessed at Stonebridge. “I will not run again. Not from war, not from the Faith, and not from my own responsibilities. I swear it to you, Aegon.”

Aegon looked at him for a time. There was no softening in his expression but he shifted lightly in his seat. 

“Thank you,” Aegon said simply, his eyes showing no real sign of softening but it was a start. 

It would take more than words to make up for his past actions. He would have to prove himself. But it was a start, a chance for him to prove himself, to right the many wrongs he had made. It would take time, effort, and an unwavering will, but Aenys would do whatever he had to. He was King Aenys Targaryen, First of His name, he could not afford to fail. 

____________________________________________________________________________

Rhaena III 

8th Moon, 40 AC

The soft snores of the children in her arms were like music to her ears. Foreign, strange, but peaceful music all the same. Rhaena sat curled into one of the nursery’s rocking chairs, its gentle creaking the only other sound in the room. Her hair fell loose down her back and shoulders, unkempt, like it often had in her youth. But she was no girl anymore.

Each of her daughters lay bundled in silk linens, nestled securely in the crooks of her arms. Aerea twitched slightly in her sleep, a tiny frown forming for a moment before smoothing into calm again. Rhaella, the quieter of the two, remained still and warm, unbothered by the world around her. 

Rhaena gazed down at them with a wide smile on her face. Her eyes worked to memorize every single feature of their small, pudgy faces. From their pretty purple eyes, the same as Aegon’s to their soft, silk-like skin to their adorable silver peach fuzz hair. She had to resist the urge to just stay with them every hour of every day. 

She shifted them slightly in her arms, just enough to get a better look at their sleeping faces, and her smile only deepened. They were so small, so perfect. And they were hers. Hers and Aegon’s.

She had never made anything so beautiful in her entire life. 

She had clung to them fiercely since the moment they were born. Living proof of her triumph, of Aegon’s love for her. Proof that he would stay, he had arrived in time for the birth and had remained on the island ever since, even after her father and uncle left to assume command of their respective armies in the Stormlands. 

She rarely let the wet nurses take them for long. Her whole world had narrowed to this little room. If she was not holding her daughters, she was watching them, if she was not watching them, then she was likely sleeping, even if she would rather sleep in the rocking chair with her daughters in her arms.

It was everything she could have ever dreamed of. 

And yet, her back did ache. Her head throbbed faintly most of the day. Her arms had been sore for ages, constantly carrying her two heavy bundles of joy. She hadn’t eaten much since either, she could not even remember if she had eaten that morning.

She blinked slowly, her eyelids heavy as stones. ‘No,’ she thought, forcing her eyes back open. She wouldn’t leave them, couldn’t leave them. Not even to sleep. What if they needed her? What if they cried and she wasn’t there? 

She kissed Aerea’s brow, then Rhaella’s. She loved them so much it made her chest hurt. They were everything. Her proof, her lifeline, her hope. 

Her hope that Aegon would still love her, despite all of her faults, her failures, and her betrayal. Because she loved him so dearly, loved him and their children more than life itself. He had to feel the same way, he had to. 

The quiet creak of the nursery door pulled her from the endless spiral of her thoughts. Her head turned quickly, too quickly, her vision wobbled for a moment as if she were in a drunken haze before settling.

Aegon slipped into the nursery, quiet as a mouse. At least as quiet as a man could be when wearing full plate. Rhaena’s breath hitched, her heart sinking in her chest like a stone in the sea. 

She looked back down at her daughters, their daughters, her eyes blurred with tears beginning to prick at the corner of her eyes. She fought them back, swallowing them like bitter tonics. She shouldn’t cry, not in front of him at least. She was supposed to be strong for him. The one normal piece in his life after their home had gone to hell. 

But she didn’t want to be calm or strong. She wanted to scream, to cry, to beg.

Rhaena hunched further in her chair. Her hair fell over her face in huge clumps of messy silver-gold curls. She clutched her daughters more tightly. Hoping that somehow they would be able to keep him there. In the nursery with them all in the room. 

It felt like he had only just arrived. Her children had been born a fortnight ago, and he had arrived only a day before that. Her absence from her had hurt more than anything in her entire life. After the fighting had slowed, she thought he might return to her. But instead, he dithered, punishing lords in the Riverlands and Stormlands from his position in King’s Landing. 

When he returned to the island for the birth of their daughters, she had been elated. He was cold and distant, but he was there. It was more than she deserved. But it wasn’t enough, it was not even close. 

It wasn’t the same when he was not with her. Everything felt wrong, like her whole world was teetering on collapse, just waiting for some gust of wind to send the whole ramshackle mess thundering to the ground. 

She trembled in her chair, her rage and range, and sadness at the world barely repressed by the need to keep her daughters quiet. She couldn’t stand their cries. She had thought Alysanne’s and Jaehaerys’s cries were bad enough, but her daughters were so much worse. Like they shook her to her very foundations. 

Rhaena stopped trembling when she felt a gauntleted hand lightly press against her shoulder. She looked up through her messy bangs to her husband, her other half. He looked torn, his face a mixture of emotions she could not hope to decipher. But she did know what he wanted. 

With a swift motion, he scooped Aerea, her firstborn, his heir, from her arms. Their eldest daughter squirmed just a little. Moving from the warm flesh of her arms to the cold steel of her father’s. But she was a resilient girl and quickly made herself comfortable in her father’s arms. 

 “So you are leaving then?” Rhaena whispered, her voice thick with emotion. 

Aegon did not answer her question right away. Instead, he focused on holding their daughter gingerly in his arms. She knew why he did not answer, because she knew he was planning to leave. She just wanted confirmation that her heart crumbling to dust was natural. 

“Yes,” he said finally, his voice low and tired. “They’ll be in the Reach any day now, our father and our uncle. The march to Oldtown begins soon, and I’m expected to meet them near Stonebridge.”

Rhaena stared at him, unable to stop the tears this time. She blinked once as the tears broke from her eyes and streamed lightly down her cheeks. Her fingers tightened on Rhaella instinctively, desperate not to lose her too.

She wanted to scream. She couldn’t do it again, every night he was gone on campaign had been a living nightmare for her. Her every thought was clouded with terrible thoughts and feelings. Endless nightmares of her husband abandoning her, ruining her for her past mistakes. She couldn’t do it again. 

But what could she possibly say? 

She knew he had to leave. Had to support the army with Balerion and make his presence known. He was to be king one day, and he could not make the same mistakes as their father.

And yet… her heart hurt anyway, rebelling against logic and reason. Her mind screamed for an answer, a way out. Some magical spell that would make him stay with her. Let them fall back into the happy bliss she had for the first moons of her marriage. Let him love her again. 

“Please…” she whispered, the word foreign and pathetic on her tongue. She didn’t know what she could do. What could she say? She had to keep him here, for just a little while. 

Aegon looked at her in the eyes, his look pensive. He looked down at Aerea as well, his look even more emotional than toward her. 

I…,” he started, his voice as uncertain as eggs in her daughter’s cradles. 

“But…” she started, at a loss for words. She had so many feelings, so many emotions demanding to be released. But she could not form them into words. They remained helpless, unhelpful thoughts beleaguering her mind endlessly. 

He said nothing, his purple eyes tearing holes right through her visage. Her tears continued to flow lightly, tears flowing down her cheeks in thin, clear lines. 

She hated that silence. She hated how he had to leave. How she had made this whole mess in the first place. She had messed up, and now she was paying the price. She hated it all, every single aspect of it. 

“I’m sorry,” she offered weakly, lowering her head in defeat. “Please don’t go, I need you here, please,” she begged. 

It was all she could do. She did not have fanciful words to win him over. Sound arguments based on logic and reason. Aegon had every reason to leave, to go win the war, to crush their enemies. Yet she wanted him here, with her, more than victory itself. 

“I have to, Rhaena,” he said, his voice steeled with determination. He moved toward the cradle across the room, no doubt intending to deposit Aerea there before he left. But Rhaena tried one more time, desperation clinging to her like wet clothes. 

She reached out her hand, grabbing him by the armored wrist. Her slender fingers wrapped tightly around the cold steel as he was stopped in his tracks, Aerea in his right arm while he turned his head to look at her. 

“Just for tonight,” she whispered, her voice meek and frail, “just for a little while… can you pretend that you love me?”

The silence in the room after that could have swallowed a dragon’s roar. Even their daughter’s quiet breaths were swallowed by the all-encompassing silence. Her eyes met Aegon’s, desperation and fear pouring out of her unbidden and unrestrained. 

He looked at her first, his eyes completely unreadable. Then down at her daughter, Aerea, his heir. She did not see his eyes then, but then he turned his head back toward her, his face twisting in a series of motions she dared not decipher. 

His left hand clenched, and the mail sharply screeched as he closed his hand tightly. His eyes closed in a deep sigh. Then, as if the gods themselves had decided to save her on that very day, his shoulders slumped. 

Carefully, he handed off Aerea to her. Rhaena took her eldest daughter back into her arms, nestling her right back where she had been before. But her eyes remained on Aegon. 

Piece by piece, he began to remove his armor. The leather straps were undone, the plate metal dropping to the ground with dull clanks. His gauntlets came next, the blackened steel falling away in turn. Then his cloak, dropping to the ground behind him. 

Rhaena did not say a word, but her heart jumped.

Aegon stepped forward, still silent, but she did not need to hear his words to know that by the grace of the gods, she had succeeded. Without a word, he reached down and lifted her to her feet. 

He ushered her toward one of the larger sofas, continuing to peel at his armor, removing his breastplate and vambraces as they made their way over toward one of the soft, velvet sofas that adorned the nursery. Rhaena took her seat first, eagerly looking up at her husband as he took his seat next to her. 

The two of them sank into the sofa, their combined weight pressing the cushions down as Aegon pulled Rhaena against him. Her head landed in the crook of his neck as he kicked his feet up, reclining into the chair as Rhaena leaned against his leather tunic. 

Aegon took Aerea from her again, nestling their eldest daughter against his tunic just like she had. Meanwhile, Rhaena adjusted herself only slightly, ensuring that Rhaella was comfortable as her little family sprawled across the large sofa. 

Rhaena's frantic heart slowed, her tears dried as her terror left her, replaced rapidly by exhaustion. But she didn’t fight it. She wouldn’t, not now, not while he was still here. She closed her eyes, her grip on him never loosening.

Aegon did not move, but he did wrap one of his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him. This was what she wanted, nothing more, nothing less.

Next Chapter is off to Oldtown. So stay tuned for that!