Aegon's Pov
I wake slowly, my eyes dragging open to the sight of the cold stone ceiling above my chambers. My head feels thick, my tongue heavy. The urge to piss the wine I drank yesterday pulls me upright, and as I shove the covers away, my hand brushes against warm skin. Turning my head, I find the maid from last night—the one I had pulled into my bed after too much wine. She lies sprawled, her dark hair tangled against the pillow, her body bare.
I reluctantly leave her where she is and stumble into the privy. The air is damp and reeks faintly of stone and piss. As I sit, I cannot help but think of what this day means. Today. Our day. Mine and Maekar's. Ten-and-six. We are grown men now by law and by name. And more than that, today my twin will be named Lord Commander of the City Watch. Our grandsire worked it through with Father, no doubt.
I sigh as I wipe myself and rise. When I return to the chamber, the maid is gone, the sheets stripped clean. Not long after, others came in her place to wash me and dress me. Soon enough, I am clad in a fine doublet and cloak, though my head still pounds from last night's wine.
I had no wish to attend this early breakfast, this private family gathering, but Mother's threats still ring clear: 'No more wine, Aegon, should you not appear.' That alone was enough to drag me from bed.
The doors of the chamber open before me, and I step into the hall. The smell of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spiced honey fills the air. The table groans with every kind of dish a man could want in the morning.
They are all here already. All but Maekar. Father sits at the head, pale and gaunt, half-lost in his plates as he tastes a little of this and that, giving not a single glance in my direction. The same as always. The same wound in my chest, no matter how many years have passed.
Mother's eyes find me at once. Annoyance flashes there, sharp as a blade, though beneath it something softer, more resigned. "Aegon," she says, her voice clipped, "you are late. But at least you came. Come, sit in your place."
Her words cut in their own way. As if my very attendance is a triumph. As if all that can be hoped of me is simply showing up.
I shift slightly in my seat, sliding between Aemond and Halena. Aemond doesn't even acknowledge me; his gaze is fixed on the door, as if expecting someone far more important to enter. Of course, he idolizes Maekar.
Ever since the Driftmark incident—which caused a stir across the Seven Kingdoms, after the king's brother had harmed his son, leaving such a terrible wound—Aemond has been obsessed with following Maekar's shadow.
Add to that the scandal of my half-sister marrying our uncle and the strange rumors of her cruelty because of that marriage, so soon after her husband, Laenor's, death.
And it's no wonder his admiration has only grown. Now, with Maekar about to become Lord Commander, Aemond has told me countless times how he wishes he could do what Maekar does—command, fight, and rule.
Halena sits to my other side, fiddling with some gem Grandsire had gifted her some time ago in her hands. I can't help the cringe that tugs at me. She's always been a fool in my eyes, muttering endlessly about dragons flying or "dragon things" while clutching some disgusting creature she found in the garden. I force myself to look away.
Across the table, my grandsire Otto sits like a statue. Cold. Distant. Silent. Yet he has a way of appearing in judgment whenever I make a scene, especially in public. Today, as I entered, he hadn't even glanced at me. Typical. I tighten my hands in my lap, forcing myself to sit still, waiting for what's coming.
Some minutes later, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from behind the door. Each step grew closer and louder until it stopped just before the threshold. The double doors slowly creaked open, pushed by the two Kingsguard standing silently outside.
Maekar stepped into the room, and every eye immediately followed him. Even at his young age, he had always been larger than most—a head taller than me, broad-backed, and with a commanding presence without a single word. But it wasn't just his size that drew attention. His face, while not the prettiest in House Targaryen—a title I firmly claim for myself—held a cold, unyielding placidity. Not a twitch, not a flicker of emotion. Smallfolk were right to call him the 'Hollow Prince.' His eyes, hollow and consuming, seemed to drain the light from any room he entered, and the burn scar across his neck, black and ugly, only enhanced the menace.
He wore his unique armor of jet black trimmed with blood-red beneath a gold cloak, a tribute to his grotesque, ugly dragon Morghul, and I still couldn't reconcile how Sunfyre and that beast could even be considered the same species.
A faint discomfort welled up in me as he walked further into the chamber. Maekar and I had always shared a distant relationship, ill-suited for brothers, let alone twins. He had never wronged me—except that one time he pressed a blade to my throat—but I admit siding with the bastards to mock Aemond had been in poor taste.
I felt a twinge of jealousy rise within me as I looked at him. Maekar had always been everything I wished for, everything I dreamed of becoming: strong with the sword, sharp of mind, and, above all, commanding respect wherever he went. People noticed him without question, their eyes drawn to him like moths to a flame, while with me… well, unless it was considered rude, most wouldn't even glance my way.
Even Father, usually so distant and buried in his own preoccupations, looked up as Maekar entered. A faint, almost guilty smile tugged at his ill-featured face, marred further by sickness. I could tell Father had always carried a weight about what his brother had done to Maekar, and whenever the boy's desires were mentioned, he had a tendency to bend, to give in without hesitation.
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