Chapter Text
Rhaenyra squints, trying to make out the different handwriting on the bottom of the letter. She and Uncle Viserys have maintained correspondence over the years. For her, it is a practice to improve her penmanship as much as to keep in touch with her relatives in Dragonstone.
Nudging her younger brother, she points at a certain section of the letter, “do you know what this says?”
“They are words,” Vaegon only gives it a passing glance before returning to the book on his lap. She waves the letter in front of him again, annoyed at his ignorance, “yes, I know, but what do they say, though?”
Finally, he takes the piece of paper from her, skeptically observing it for a bit before returning it to her.
“I am not sure.”
She isn’t sure either. That must be Uncle Aegon’s handwriting. Perhaps, her other uncle must have pushed him to write a few lines to her, with the occasion that it is nearing her name day. Uncle Viserys doesn’t write much other than a few congratulatory lines and a polite offer to visit Dragonstone. She contemplates of asking Baelor to read it for her, but finds her brother still fascinated with swinging his toy sword. A present from Aunt Baela after one of her journeys.
“Rhaenyra!”
She turns to see a little girl in a purple dress, younger and shorter than her in stature. Viserra approaches them in the garden. The other girl doesn’t bother greeting her twins, preferring to talk to Rhaenyra directly. They must have fought again, somehow.
At a certain angle, an object on her sister’s chest reflects the light from above. She squints her eyes to see the new necklace hanging around Viserra’s neck. She points at it, “what’s that?”
The girl lets her touch the necklace. There is her distorted reflection in Viserra’s necklace when she looks closer, a clear-cut amethyst with thin silver chains. Her sister beams, “is it pretty? Do you like it? Oh, I like it very much, muña gave it to me.”
Her younger sister tends to go into a habit of rambling. She has found it to be annoying but her parents think differently, finding Viserra's habits endearing. Agreeing, she nods. Her little palm cups the jewelry. It is befitting for a princess, but too heavy to be worn if one were to move around too much. It has given her some ideas about what she wants for her approaching name day, though.
The letter from her uncles is soon left forgotten. Rhaenyra folds them and shoves the papers down her pocket. She hasn't heard anything from Baelor's favorite aunt after her latest trip to visit Aunt Rhaena at Oldtown.
“Wouldn’t it hit your chest or your face when you run?” Baelor voices her concerns, dropping by with his toy sword in tow. It sheathed neatly on its scabbard, a thing created only for the little prince. Her younger brother must have been tiring himself out after beating a tree bark with his wooden weapon.
She always finds his habits to be pointless, preferring to wait until they are given the chance to carry around a real sword one day like what Aunt Baela does. He doesn’t listen, though, barely refraining himself from carrying it everywhere and hitting everything with that toy of his until he gets scolded by an adult.
“Oh, but it is beautiful, just like the color of my eyes,” Viserra holds the gem beside her eyes for them to compare, beaming a smile while they compare it to her. That is something that Rhaenyra will feel envious of. Her eyes do not have the same exact color match, one purple and one blue. It is such a petty thing to feel down about when she already has so much, yet she just can't get rid of the feeling for now.
“You should have waited until you are an adult. After all, you are clumsy,” Vaegon’s irritated voice interrupts them. She is unsure if her brother is capable of not being annoyed. Viserra whips her head to glare at her twin, clearly finding his remarks to be insulting.
The younger girl waves off her twin irritatedly, “just go back to read one of your books. You don’t know good jewelry when you see one.”
Vaegon shrugs, then returns back to reading. He sits a few feet away from them, leaning on the other side of the same tree she sat under moments ago. He hasn’t moved. Out of the siblings, Vaegon is the only one that can tolerate long reading of books. Numerous of them. That is the latest consensus anyway, Rhaenyra isn’t sure if Helaena and whatever the name of her youngest brother have any literary interest yet.
Their parents haven’t even settled on naming her latest sibling. He is the only one who grows copper-brown colored hair, taking after their father. Sometimes their mother would argue that the babe’s appearance is closer to their grandmother. His name has become a dispute between the two even a year after his birth. Sometimes it is Lucerys or Laenor according to her father. The other times, her mother would call the boy in his arms which ranges from Aenar to Aerys. A name that starts with A is what the Queen prefers, as far away from the King’s suggestions.
Meanwhile, Helaena isn’t old enough to follow their activity. She hasn’t weaned, relying most of her movement outside of the cradle on Septa or the maidservant who is tasked to follow the youngest Princess. Helaena is there, just under the roof of the Keep on the arm of a nanny. She swings her chubby limbs as if trying to reach them.
Rhaenyra gets up, looks up to see the sun above them, and considers the time she has on her hands for the rest of the day. It has been a particularly monotonous day so far. Their lessons are finished early due to some conflicts at the court and she isn’t keen to prepare for tomorrow's lessons. Viserra and Baelor seem to be busy forming a plan to annoy Vaegon.
Out of the corner of her eyes, Rhaenyra catches a sliver of movement from her father. Even when there is barely a sight of him, she still recognizes him from afar. His brown hair is a stark contrast to their colorings which makes him all the more recognizable.
She gets up, running towards where he is. The rest of his siblings do not bother to follow her.
“Where are you going?” Baelor calls to her when she is a distance away from them. She shouts back, “kepa!”
The rest of the way she skips ahead. Usually, they would meet their mother every day for the week at the table during their meals. However, with his growing pregnancy, he is taking his meals at his chamber lately. They haven’t seen him for a day or two.
She tugs on her father’s clothes to get his attention. It is a habit of his to visit the Queen during lunch, always taking the same routes to go to their chamber.
“Rhaenyra?”
Beaming at him, she reaches out to hold his hand, “are you going to visit him? Can I go with you?”
“Yes, walk with me,” he takes her hand in his. Halfway through, a nobleman stops them in their tracks, calling on his father from behind, “my King, apologies, but this is a matter concerning House Rogare.”
The other man is nervously wringing his hands. There is an irritation in her father’s voice, “is it urgent?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” the man glances at the Princess. Then, her father nudges her to go on, “it’s fine, go meet your mother first, I will take care of this.”
As she walks away along the familiar path of her mother’s chamber, she combs through her hair using her fingers, smoothing out all the tangles that are often present when she is done prancing around. It is important for her to be tidy before meeting the Queen. Rhaenyra is silver-haired like her mother, but her hair has slight curls the way her father does when he grows his hair out. He doesn’t like to do it, though, cutting his hair to his preferred length unlike what most Targaryens had done.
However, she doesn’t know much about their traditions. She can only see examples from the pictures from a book or the paintings on the wall. There are a few Targaryens that she knows of aside from her mother and siblings.
Aegon chews on the food slowly. He only craves the weirdest combination of ingredients during his pregnancy, every food he used to like somehow turns unappetizing. The tray in front of him is supposed to be his breakfast, yet he found it hard to lift another spoonful to his mouth.
The door creaks open. A tousle of fair hair peeks in, followed by a pair of wide adorable eyes. His daughter catches the sight of him before stepping into the room. Then, she pulls the chair in front of him. Aegon welcomes her with a smile, tidying the strands that bunches up on her head.
“Muña, when will you stop being pregnant and starts playing with us?” Rhaenyra asks with impatience, resembling more like a princess whose requests are never rejected before. He must have spoiled her too much. “Don’t you want to see us fly on our dragons? Baelor managed to do that last week, though I don’t think his dragon will be able to take him up for a flight longer than an hour.”
A hitch in his throat, but he quickly masks it well after years of practice, “soon, maybe, when your father no longer wants more children.”
Truthfully, Aegon doesn’t see this ending anytime soon. Maybe Jacaerys will want a dozen of children to round the numbers up, meaning another half a decade for him to go through, but he doesn’t say it to his daughter who is now gawking at him.
“Can’t you just say no? That sounds pointless when I have so many siblings already.”
Yeah, he wishes it can be that easy. Noticing his lack of answer, she observes his reaction, a bright child for her age even when she is somewhat rambunctious.
“Is it…what I have to do too when I get older?”
Aegon stutters, “no…no. If you are an alpha, you can just get an omega to do the job for you.”
In a way, there is a bitterness to his answer, a reflection of his own fate. Turning him into an omega saves Jacaerys from all the other problems concerning a living usurper of his mother’s throne. The punishment he sentenced Aegon to, the benefits Jacaerys earned from fucking him, and the legitimacy Aegon lend to his reign. Only someone mad enough will do it, imprisoning and impregnating their mother’s murderer that is, and Aegon hasn’t seen any sliver of sanity from his own husband. He supposed the two of them have lose it a long time ago.
No matter how loving a husband is, he still lets his wife suffer on the birthing bed. Let alone Jacaerys with his own twisted interpretation of love, Aegon is too broken to stop it. Their marriage is a constant walk on thin ice, waiting for the ground beneath them to break and swallowing them up in their past wrongdoings. Yet there is love buried under the layer of hatred and spite, uncovered only when Aegon is too tired to feel anything else.
On the rarest of days, he can feel his heart stir upon seeing his husband. A good kind of feeling. Romantic, even, but he doesn’t dwell on it for too long. If he does, he will overthink it and circles back to his feelings of hatred. There is already plenty of that. He can’t fill his days living with nothing but spite. He has grown tired of it eventually, everyone does.
Rhaenyra observes him, detecting something conflicting in his answer. Aegon holds his round belly, his other hand tousling her hair, “tala, don’t let anyone make you do what you are unwilling to do.”
It is a piece of advice he should have followed. If he didn’t get crowned, maybe things would have turned out much differently. Maybe it would be his brothers in his place, but at least he wouldn’t end up in the crossfire and blame himself for the rest of his life for his relatives’ death.
“You are a princess, you should be able to say no,” he squeezes her hands, finding one of the rare moments when they are able to see each other eye to eye.
The door to his room opens once more, Aegon recognizes his footsteps so well from years of bracing himself when Jacaerys is nearby.
“Kepa, are you done?”
Jacaerys picks her up and swings her around, eliciting a happy shriek from their daughter. After putting her down, he steps near Aegon, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. Aegon smiles warily, “how is your day?”
“Not yet over,” the other man picks from his plate, eating part of his food that Aegon has no intention of finishing. His husband reaches for his belly. A smile begins to show on his face and a look that is difficult for Aegon to understand. In a split second, Aegon catches his gaze. They share a look before Jacaerys turns around to talk to their daughter, “are you excited for your new brother?”
A flash of disappointment flashes by her face, “oh, I was hoping for a new sister, actually. We already have enough brothers to go around, especially after uh…” Rhaenyra scratches her head, trying to name her last siblings without making them quarrel. “...well, the last one.”
“Aenar,” Aegon supplies hopefully, “like the dragonlord.”
However, Jacaerys shakes his head slightly, “I was thinking about Lucerys, really, since he looks like one.”
Suddenly, the conversation between the two turns stilted again. They are both holding back from a full-blown argument, considering that their daughter is staring at them. She must have known about their petty fights. Not the full context, but enough since this isn’t her first time witnessing it.
“Haven’t we agreed to name none after our brothers?”
They avoid arguing in front of their children, putting much effort into keeping up the illusions that everything is fine. Aegon wants to give them the happiness that he barely experiences in his childhood for them, even if it feels like a charade. He knows he has failed with his previous children, driving them all to their early graves.
In a way, he is determined to make up for all the things he did wrong and wipe all those horrible memories off his head.
Try as they might, there are some unavoidable and unpredictable circumstances such as this when they get unprompted questions that they struggle to answer.
Jacaerys whispers under his breath, “well, there is Helaena.”
Narrowing his eyes at the other man, he almost spats back. Aegon has been irritable lately, more so with the morning sickness and all. He has been through this numerous times, but can’t ever get used to it. Each pregnancy carries different obstacles. Jacaerys’ inconsideration frustrates him.
“I think both names are good,” the girl interrupts, but with slight confusion in her voice, “why have you agreed to name none after your brothers? Aren’t they kind? Uncle Viserys and Uncle Aegon certainly are.”
They never prepare the answers to questions like these. Some conversations are too difficult to talk about. The only thing they can reach an agreement on is that none of their children should be named after their brothers. Jacaerys acceded on naming their daughter Helaena after Aegon reminded that the other man has named their first daughter after his mother. However, it does seem to encourage Jacaerys to be brazen and name their youngest son after Lucerys. Thus causing them to argue again.
“To avoid confusion,” Jacaerys finds an excuse. He glances at him, which Aegon returns with a nonchalant shrug. Any answer is better than none. Children tend to be curious and theirs are not the exception.
Rhaenyra finds the pause to stretch too long between her question and his answer.
“Right.”
Aegon grasps his daughter’s hand, cheering her up, “you can name the next one if you like. We are not yet sure if it will be a new brother or sister for you, but any suggestions are welcomed.”
That seems to do the trick. She likes the idea, bouncing back to the same energy as before, “okay.”
It seems that their daughter’s questioning has hit too close to uncomfortable truths. Jacaerys sighs, then he escorts her out of the room, “come on, I think your mother needs to rest.”
“So soon?”
Aegon nods slightly when the other two stare at him, waiting for his answer, “you can visit me tomorrow.”
“Kepa,” the little girl tugs on her father’s robe, pouting, “why do muña never say my name?”
They are just done visiting her mother. The King stares at her. There is a tug in her heart, a twist of wariness when he pauses too long as if she is gazing at a stranger with cold dead eyes from below. His hands are dripping with red substances. A sword is held above his head.
However, she is getting used to these flashes of illusion. It always happens when she is tired or under stress. Rhaenyra shakes her head and her vision is returning back to normal. She should go to bed early today before exhaustion rears its ugly head and fills her mind with nightmares.
Usually, she knows her father to be the smartest person in the world, having answers to each of her questions. This time, he averts his eyes and seemingly is at a loss for words when he was just fine moments ago.
“Is it because my name is ugly?” Rhaenyra guesses again. Then, she is terrified at the possibility, “is there something wrong with it…with me?”
“No, no, of course not. Come with me.”
She takes her father’s extended hand, lifting her arm up. Even if she has had a growth spurt in recent years, she hasn’t been able to match his height.
They walk until they reach the throne room. Rhaenyra relishes these rare occasions of being able to spend time with her father. After all, being the King means his duty would keep him busy most of the time.
She has passed through these halls countless times, greeting her father by the throne room as soon as the servants announce that she is allowed to do so. The King always greets her when he is away from the piles of melted swords.
One time, when she sneaked in while he was still on the throne, he would let her sit on his lap, telling tales of old about Targaryen kings and queens, conquerors and dreamers alike.
“It will be yours someday,” he promised. Rhaenyra asked, "which one? All of them? The whole kingdom?"
"All of them," he ruffled her hair, "which is why you shouldn’t be skipping your lessons."
That had made her cheeks reddened. Her father knows of her absences and pays close attention to her education. Ever since then, she has made more effort towards attending her lessons. They are all boring, so far she hasn’t discovered anything that peak her interest. However, she wants to avoid disappointing her father as much as she could, preferring that their rare meetings would be filled with praise rather than scolding.
The light shines through the glass-stained windows, illuminating the colors that flood the hall. The floor is decorated with various shades from the mosaic.
Rhaenyra steps around it to enjoy the light reflection fully and avoid casting shadows. She often goes through this hall just to get to her destination. The windows are beautiful, yes, but she fails to see how this will answer her question. The figure of the woman in a red-black dress and a golden crown is forever etched on the window. Her eyes are the color of amethyst gems, like the one Viserra wears around her neck.
“That is who you are named after,” her father looks up to see the figure fully. There is a somberness to his tone, yet he is somewhat proud. Rhaenyra gazes in the same direction as he, listening to the way the man speaks fondly about the woman, “she is your grandmother. My mother. The Queen before me.”
Her father kneels in front of her so they can see eye to eye and utters, “there is nothing wrong with your name, Rhaenyra. You are named after one of the greatest women I know and you will be a wise ruler.”
“But, why wouldn’t he be willing to say my name? I have never heard it from him,” her face crumples, watching as her own father struggles to give answers.
“Give it time,” he tousles her hair after advising her. She groans when all her tidying effort has gone to waste. The pair of father and daughter walk side by side in the long hallway filled with statues of their ancestors. Rhaenyra tugs on her father’s hand again, “it’s my name day soon. Do you remember?”
“Yes, of course,” he takes the bait, “what do you want for your name day?”
Either she has thought too much about it or it isn’t enough since she finds herself stumbling for an answer. A lot of things really, jewelry that matches her eyes or a new saddle for her dragon. Then, she ponders on it a bit. There should be no problem in asking for those even outside of her name day, but she wants something different this year.
The paper in her pocket rustles as she moves. It is then that she remembers the letter’s existence. Rhaenyra has something in mind.
“She wants to go to Dragonstone,” Jacaerys casually remarks, facing away from him to take off his attire for the day. That manages to pause him in his tracks, Aegon caresses his belly as a sign of unease, “why?”
“To visit her uncles.”
He loosens his braid, carelessly tugging on his silver strands. A few fall off and get stuck in between his fingers. “Why don’t you invite them here? Wouldn’t that be easier…and safer too?”
Jacaerys senses his nervousness. The alpha hovers behind him, helping Aegon to let his hair loose and grabbing a hairbrush to comb through the tangles. Then, his husband’s hands rest on his shoulders as soon as he puts down the brush, sliding the nightgown down his body.
“They have made several visits to King’s Landing,” Jace lands a kiss near his collarbone which makes Aegon hitch his breath. The alpha’s mouth is soon on the back of his neck, licking the mating wound. It never fails to make him shiver. Searing touches trail down his body, squeezing his teats, tracing the curve of his belly, then groping the inside of his thighs. “And she asks for a visit for her name day. Our daughter wants to see the ancestral seat, too.”
Aegon could have stayed behind, but he doesn’t want to. There is that instinct that nudges him to stay close to where his children are as much as possible. The alpha seems to sense it too, knowing that Aegon will not let their daughter travel without him.
Jacaerys parts his legs open, smirking when the omega trembles under his touches. Aegon can feel the press of Jace’s hardened cock on his back. He mewls, more of a reaction to his husband, “I am still carrying.”
“It will not be due until a few months later.”
Aegon senses the way Jace hands sneak under the fabric of his clothes. An alluring promise on his lips, “I will be gentle.”
The next time his husband touches him, he doesn’t stop the other man. He obediently sucks on Jace’s fingers when the man lifts them up near his mouth, swirling his tongue until they are wet enough. The alpha keeps his promise, pressing in on his clit and rubbing him until he is wet. His other hand toys with Aegon’s nipples. Sometimes pulling and squeezing them until milk comes out.
When Aegon is panting and gasping, Jace feels it sufficient to pump his digits into him, burying his fingers knuckles deep. His husband squeezes his wrist to hold him in place. His mouth bites the nape of his neck, the same place where Jacaerys claimed him for the first time.
Their room is soon filled with the sounds of their gasps and groans. Aegon bites his lips when Jacaerys lifts him up to spear him on his cock. He likes the familiarity, the predictability of it all like something stable to hold on to. He doesn’t know when he starts accepting it as a part of his life. This man, his words, and his touches.
He is forced into it. Almost a decade of his life is molded accordingly to Jacaerys’ wishes. What did he hate? Why did he hate? The memories fade with time, as they often do. Soon, he is only left with the remembrance to feel certain things with barely any reasons to do it.
Aegon doesn’t make an active effort to remember because he wants to stop suffering. His anger has mellowed with time. He is lured into a sense of comfort and security, purposely ignorant of the truth and falsehood.
Jacaerys licks the shell of his ear, burying his grunts on Aegon’s shoulder as he penetrates the other. They are blissfully happy at moments like these. Aegon wishes that this is all there is rather than all those things they did just to screw each other.
The clawing on his hips snaps him back. His husband is near completion, stuttering his movements and placing careless kisses on his back. Aegon reaches down to jerk himself so he can have his own release.
“Gods, what would I be without you?” the alpha asks in a faint whisper in the heat of the moment. Satisfied, Jacaerys comes inside him, all warm and sticky. Aegon pretends not to hear his question that is asked in a post-climax haze. There is no answer he can give to the man that wouldn’t break their momentum.
A better person, perhaps, he ponders about the answer. Not for long, though, Aegon allows himself to be selfish. A lesson that he has taken to heart over the years of being in a relationship with someone like Jacaerys.
“Dead,” he replies, a mix of spite and fondness. His answer elicits a rumbling from the man behind him. Jace finds his answer entertaining, rewarding him with a kiss.
“You are being cruel.”
Funny how Jacaerys is the one saying that. It should be the other way around, he protests quietly. His mating bond tingles after the alpha bites him again that night, reminding him further of what he sacrificed for them to be bonded.
“You would do anything to have me.”
Jacaerys has done everything to possess him. It is an ownership, not a relationship built on equal terms, but Aegon is content. He has some control over the other. Perhaps, he also acknowledges that there is no other choice. He has settled for the best one.
“True.”
Jacaerys completes him.
The surface of the stone stays the same. Aegon stands in the place he once was, overlooking the courtyard below. Dragonstone is still as harsh and unforgiving as ever, except that it is devoid of any screeches of dragons.
“Rhaenyra,” he whispers. Fragments of memories play inside his head. Seeing this place resurfaces what he remembers, slower than a whiplash but still impactful nonetheless. This is the same spot where he commanded Sunfyre to burn his half-sister. Aegon stares emptily. His clenched fists slowly relaxed. This place was the beginning of his end.
His voice is loud enough to be heard by the person approaching him. The girl is startled, shocked upon hearing her name being called by him after never hearing it, “muña?”
He turns his head to the side to be greeted by his daughter. Rhaenyra, not yet an adult, grows up to be tall. She has Jacaerys’ smile and his demeanor. Some said that she has a part of Aegon’s personality too, though he doesn’t believe them one bit. The Princess is her father’s daughter in all but colorings, having inherited the usual Targaryen’s silver hair and eyes.
There is a color difference in her irises, one purple, the other blue. For the others, they add uniqueness to her face, but for Aegon, he is constantly reminded of the bite on his scent gland. A mark that told the world he belongs to someone. Something that he did to let his daughter live.
Jacaerys didn’t explain more to him, only reassuring him that she will recover and be healthy in no time. Aegon could only cradle his daughter in his embrace. He doesn’t care more about how and what his husband did to cure her. The only thing that matters is that she is here now, with mismatched eyes and her dragon hovering nearby.
The flying creature is silver-scaled, striking color under the sun. The girl loves it to death, insisting on letting the dragon follow her everywhere she goes.
“Do you call for me?”
Aegon wants to deny it, but he sees the hopefulness in her eyes. So, he smiles and nods, “come.”
The Princess follows his gesture, standing beside him on the bridge. They both overlook the stony courtyard, devoid of anyone else when they already unpacked after arrival.
“What are you looking at?”
Memories that are seared in his mind. Every time he closes his eyes, he remembers them like a repeating nightmare. Sunfyre burned her bright, consumed her whole. He was there to witness it, to finally get his ending, but he was never at peace afterward. Aegon can’t tell his daughter that, so he settles for something easier, “it’s a good view.”
He blinks the thoughts away, convinced that they could just be his exhaustion making it worse for him. After all, it has been a long journey from King’s Landing to Dragonstone, at least for him as a pregnant omega.
Rhaenyra scrunches her face, disagreeing with him and lacking understanding of what entertains him, “it’s not. It’s a dull courtyard, maybe the view will be better up above on a dragon.”
It’s an offer that several of his children have made to him which makes him smile. Other than the fact that none of their dragons have grown large enough, Aegon has his own reservation to decline their invite. The last time he rode a dragon, he broke his legs. How and what caused it, his mind refuses to remember further.
Aegon doesn’t share the same perspective as his daughter, but he ruffles her hair regardless. She shrieks, disliking that she has to tidy her hair again.
“Muña!” protesting, she pouts at him, her hands covering her head. Aegon shifts his gaze from her towards the courtyard. When the mood turns melancholic again, the girl guesses, “this place must have meant a lot to you.”
Aegon doesn’t know what to say. Frankly, he doesn’t want her to know anything about it.
“Happy name day, Rhaenyra.”
That manages to distract her. She brightens hearing her name, “can you say that again?”
“Rhaenyra,” he leans down to face the girl. There are traces of her too in his daughter, even if it is difficult for him to admit that.
“Why do you only say my name now?” she asks, more like grumbling, as she leads them away from here. Aegon takes one last look at the view. He sighs, mentally burying a part of himself that he no longer recognizes. Taking his daughter’s hand, Aegon waddles away with his stomach round with a baby, “I will call you by your name as much as you want. How is that?”
The Princess glances back at him, offering her pinky, “promise me?”
“Yes,” he links their fingers together. She asks again, giddily, “what about now? Say it again, please.”
“Rhaenyra.”
Aegon takes one last look at the place. The weight on his chest lifted as if he finally had closure. Then, he follows his daughter, who has been insistently pulling at his hands, leaving the courtyard.
They make their way to where the rest gather at the entrance. Aegon is no longer himself, too many things have happened to him since. He doesn’t remember exactly why he hates, doesn’t know why love feels so bitter yet he always crawls back to that exact same place where Jacaerys would consume him all over again to make him forget. He doesn’t want to know. It is easier for him to leave his unpleasant past behind, burying it under layers of comfortable memories about the family that he has.
At the sight of them, Jacaerys welcomes him with a hug, his hands lingering on the small of the omega's back. Rhaenyra rejoins the rest of her siblings. All of them are busy admiring the place, finding something fascinating in a place so cold and unwelcoming. Meanwhile, Viserys offers his nieces and nephews a complete tour of the place. Aegon the Younger is nowhere in sight, probably having been warned off early about their visit.
Leaning nearer to him, Jacaerys steals a kiss when no one is looking. A small peck on the lips and a whisper only for them two.
“Avy jorrāelan.”
I love you.
His gut churns hearing that, always. There is something wrong with how it makes him feel. It is only a brief statement of endearment, a pure declaration of love, but for them, it is never that simple. Their uneasy relationship. Their twisted love. Their inverted fate. They are all the ashes of the flame long burnt.
Still, Aegon returns the kiss.