━━━━ aegon targaryen ii.
she is not her father's daughter and he is not the prince that was promised. and with all the chaos brought by the dance started by their family, there is always each other.
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112 AC
Aegon didn't know he had cousins from Father's side of the family until the funeral of the Siren of the Vale.
Strangers are everywhere and all he could do was hold onto Mother's skirt with one of his hands while his younger siblings cling with both of their arms as if Mother is going to disappear with the mummified body in front of the people. Helaena is crying, squeezing her eyes shut and her mouth murmuring nonsensical things that Aegon doesn't pay any attention to on a given day. They're probably weird statements about the spine-crawling insects she's starting to show interest in — Aegon doesn't need to hear that, thank you very much. Aemond, his youngest sibling, turns away from the sad sight and presses his face on the crook of Mother's neck. Aegon can see that the action causes her discomfort, with her belly round with another sibling, yet she runs a gentle hand over the back of Aemond's blond head in an attempt to prevent his cries from surfacing through the silence of the burning ceremony. The oldest of the family looks away and instead focuses on the Septon conducting the final farewells to the once enchanting Aellara Targaryen.
He's never met her but just like Father's first wife, she surrenders to the flames as is any member of the Targaryen bloodline.
Once the Septon finishes his preachings, a cry rings out in the crisp salty air of Dragonstone, the final place to witness the glory of the honoured deceased. Heads turn and almost immediately, a look of sympathy and pity washes over their faces.
At the centre of the babe's wails isn't Aegon's younger brother. The little boy is too old to cry without any reason. The source of the cries comes from a newborn babe protected in a black swaddle lined with embroideries of little birds clutched against a girl's chest, a girl only at the same age as Aegon. Beside her is another boy of their age weeping with shaking shoulders, tiny fists furiously rubbing his eyes and leaving behind messy tear tracks and red-rimmed skin.
Mother gasps a hitched breath. "Oh, gods."
Aegon looks back and forth between Mother and the children, two of which have tears streaming down their faces in a never-ending spectacle while the girl only stares at the mummified body with burning eyes that are likely to shed tears at any moment. She keeps bouncing the babe in her arms but it wasn't enough to quell his shrieks. Despite that, Aegon finds her pretty, which isn't the most appropriate thought for the severity of the ceremony. So, he looks away from blatantly admiring the girl's aesthetics. The babe is crying for his mother. The boy of five name days is also crying for his mother. Aegon is left wondering why the girl isn't doing the same. He glances at her again from behind Mother's skirts, trying to imagine the smiles that could light up her face. He thinks they would be no doubt the most radiant thing he'll ever see. Aegon was told snippets of the children's mother, how she is—was—the most beautiful woman in the realm, and thousands of ballads dedicated even at her passing. Surely the woman's beauty will live on in her daughter.
