60 AC, Dragonstone
Aegon the Unwanted
Aegon Targaryen, son of Maegor the Cruel and Rhaena Targaryen, bore a name that carried a curse: Unwanted. It was whispered in the halls of the Red Keep, hissed by courtiers, and etched into his soul from the moment he could understand words. He was Maegor's heir, a title that weighed heavier than any crown, a reminder of a father whose shadow loomed like a storm cloud over his existence. At thirteen, Aegon was a boy adrift, his heart a fragile thing, bruised by rejection and softened by sorrow.
Dragonstone was his exile, his prison of black stone and salt air. The island's bleak cliffs mirrored the ache in his chest, the endless crash of waves a lullaby for his restless thoughts. He sat now on a jagged outcrop overlooking the sea, his silver hair whipping in the wind, his violet eyes distant. The world called him unwanted, and he felt it—every day, in every glance, in every silence.
Only Alysanne had ever shown him kindness. His aunt, with her gentle voice and warm hands, had raised him as her own when Rhaena's grief and Maegor's legacy left no room for a son. Alysanne had braided his hair, told him stories of Old Valyria, and wiped tears he was too proud to admit he shed. But even her love could not shield him from the truth: he was a relic of a hated king, a boy born to be feared, not loved.
And then there was Balerion.
The Black Dread, the beast of Aegon the Conqueror, had chosen him. At thirteen, Aegon had crept into the dragonmont's shadowed depths, heart pounding, half-expecting to be consumed by fire. Instead, Balerion's ancient eyes had met his, and the dragon had lowered his massive head, a bond forged in silence. It was a triumph, a flicker of pride in a life starved of it—but it came at a cost. The court whispered louder now. Maegor's son, wielding Maegor's dragon. The fear in their eyes was palpable, and none felt it more keenly than his uncle, King Jaehaerys.
Aegon's fingers traced the rough stone beneath him, his thoughts drifting to that day—the day everything changed.
Flashback: 59 AC, The Red Keep
The throne room was a cavern of echoes, its high ceiling swallowing the voices that clashed within. Aegon stood before the Iron Throne, his small frame dwarfed by its jagged edges, his hands clasped tightly to keep them from trembling. Jaehaerys sat above him, his face a mask of regal calm, but his eyes betrayed a storm. Queen Alysanne stood at his side, her expression torn, her hands twisting in her skirts.
"You cannot mean this, Jaehaerys," Alysanne said, her voice sharp with rare defiance. "He is a boy, your nephew—our blood!"
"He is Maegor's son," Jaehaerys replied, his tone cold, unyielding. "And now he claims Balerion. Do you not see it, Alysanne? The court sees it. The realm sees it. They look at him and see his father's cruelty, his father's madness."
Aegon's throat tightened, his voice barely a whisper. "I am not my father."
Jaehaerys's gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. "You think it matters what you are, boy? It matters what they believe you to be. You ride the Black Dread, and they see Maegor reborn. They see war, blood, fire."
"I claimed him because he chose me!" Aegon's voice cracked, a desperate edge to it. "I didn't ask for this! I didn't ask to be born to him, to carry his name, to—" His words faltered, tears burning his eyes. He hated how small he felt, how his anger dissolved into sorrow before it could take root.
Jaehaerys rose, his shadow stretching across the floor. "You are a threat, Aegon. Not by your will, perhaps, but by your blood. The realm cannot heal with you at its heart, stirring memories of your father's reign."
Alysanne stepped forward, her voice trembling. "Jaehaerys, please. He is a child. Banishment is too cruel."
But Jaehaerys's jaw tightened, his decision made. "He will go to Dragonstone. Let him live there, far from the court's whispers, far from the throne. It is for his safety as much as the realm's."
Aegon's heart sank, a hollow ache spreading through him. He wanted to scream, to beg, to prove he was more than Maegor's shadow—but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he stood silent, his shoulders sagging, as the weight of his uncle's judgment pressed him down.
Alysanne crossed the room, kneeling before him, her hands cupping his face. "You are enough, Aegon," she whispered, her eyes glistening. "Never forget that."
But as the guards led him from the throne room, her words felt like ashes, scattered by the wind.
60 AC, Dragonstone
Aegon blinked, the memory fading like smoke. The sea stretched endlessly before him, gray and unforgiving. Balerion stirred in the distance, his low rumble a reminder of the bond that had cost him everything. Aegon had claimed a dragon, but lost a home. He was not Maegor, yet the world would not let him be anything else.
He rose, his movements slow, as if the weight of his name dragged at his limbs. Dragonstone was his now, a place of exile and solitude. Perhaps here, among the ash and stone, he could find a way to be more than unwanted. But as the wind carried the scent of salt and sulfur, Aegon felt only the ache of a boy who longed for a family that would never claim him.