~I think of how the mystics read by the light of their own bodies. What a world of darkness that must have been to read by the flaming hearts that turn into heaps of ash on the altar, how everything, in the end, is made equal by the wind.~
Daenys Ve...
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Year: 129 AC
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Aegon Targaryen could not remember the last time he had been in such close proximity to his mother. This closeness was a rarity, tainted by the sharp edges of disappointment that usually marked their interactions, but the day's austerity meant that things were different now. Though the shadows of her disapproval lingered, they seemed softened, muted by the gravity of the occasion — at least she would be less likely to strike him today.
The sunlight, cascading through the carriage windows, painted the interior with a warm, golden hue. Aegon, leaning his head against the frame, felt the subtle vibrations and heard the rhythmic hum of the wheels, creating a hypnotic lullaby that attempted to soothe the turbulence within. With closed eyes, he sought refuge in the illusion the sunlight wove around him, and his thoughts began to drift. In his mind's eye, he was on a ship, sailing somewhere far away, away from his family who all thought him a disappointment, and toward newer horizons.
"Have the decency to look grateful. Do you know what has been done to give you this day?"
Aegon turned to watch his mother. Her lips were pressed into a flat unhappy line and he found himself absentmindedly tracing the wrinkles around the corner of her mouth, from a lifetime of frowning he imagined. As she looked at him, he wondered who she saw, in that moment, without anyone else there to taint their interaction or her perception of him.
He remembered another time then, a time when the frown lines hadn't carved themselves into her skin as deeply, perhaps because her countenance had been less used to unhappiness. He remembered crawling into her bed as a babe, no more than four although he couldn't remember truly anymore, when he couldn't sleep. He remembered not knowing which version of her he would find, but sometimes a boy just needed his mother and it didn't matter. Sometimes she'd hold him and weep, and he'd feel wanted, important, like a vessel for all the grief she carried. On those days he was his mother's son, and he'd carry it all if it meant she kept holding him like that. Other times she couldn't even look at him, and though she would allow him to slide beneath the sheets all the same, she would watch him with sullen resentful eyes the entire time. Eventually, he learned to associate those nights with when his father would call for her.
His mother's maid would come creeping into her chambers, telling her that the king had requested her presence and her mouth would screw into an even unhappier curve. She'd glare at him like it was his fault, then she'd be gone in a whisper and he'd be left alone, wondering if the loneliness he felt when she wasn't there was worse than when she was.
On those days he was his father's son, and soon those days grew in number until they encompassed his existence.
Eventually, he stopped going altogether, but over the years he realized that all the drinks in the Red Keep and all the cunts of Flea Bottom could not return that warmth he had once felt. It would never feel the same but it was easier to indulge in, easier to ask for, and so he never went back.
