twin flames | daemon targaryen

sixty-two

King's Landing, Three Days Later

The chambers of the Small Council were silent, each chair around the table standing in the center of the room was filled beside one. The advisors sitting at the table eyed each other wearily, feeling the weight of the tension in the room rest heavily on their chests. No one dared to speak. No one dared to even shift in their seat for fear of making a sound.

Members of the Kingsguard lined the walls of the chambers, their white cloaks brushing against the stone floor, their hands resting firmly on their hilts. A small boy stood alone off to the left, a large pitcher of wine grasped tightly between his hands, his lips pressed into thin, nervous line as his round eyes darted about the room.

Aegon sat at the head of the table, sitting in a large ornate chair that had been occupied by his father for decades and his grandsire before him. His hands grasped the arms of the chair tightly, the pads of his fingers digging into the wooden dragons etched into it. His violet gaze, once so joyful and earnest in his youth, was dull and flat. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his skin a near-deathly pale. Atop his white hair was the crown of the Conqueror, majestic and fear-inspiring. Instead of feeling powerful and glorious, he felt only one thing.

Grief.

His father, dead.

His older sisters, his enemies.

His wife, a betrayer.

His brother, a kinslayer.

Within the blink of an eye, everything had slipped from Aegon's grasp: his family, his love, his throne. All semblance of control in his life eluded him as his world slowly began to fall apart.

Aegon closed his eyes. He found himself back in the Dragonpit, staring down at Rhaella from the raised platform as his older sister stared back up at him from the ground. She stared up at him, her skin pale and dirty, his eyes haunted and full of betrayal. She stared at Aegon like he was a stranger, not the little boy she had helped raise, not the man she had loved as her own son.

Aegon sighed, a sound heard by all in the Small Council chambers. He felt his heart cracking painfully in his chest, splitting into a million pieces just as it did every time he thought of that fateful day nearly a fortnight before. It felt like a hole was tearing into his very soul with each day that passed, his heart shattering, the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders with every minute spent with Rhaella seeing him as her enemy. He never wanted this. He never wanted to betray her.

"Your Grace."

Aegon's eyes opened, and the King quickly blinked away the tears that had formed when he was lost in his memories. He looked up to find Otto staring at him expectantly, his grandsire sitting poised and proud in the chair directly to Aegon's right, the seat of the Hand. Aegon fought the urge to scowl at him.

"We should begin, Your Grace," Otto said. His voice was slow, condescending, speaking to Aegon as though the King was no older than four name days and still lost in the complexities of social interaction. The members of the Small Council murmured their hesitant agreement from around the table, but Aegon shook his head resolutely.

"Not yet," the King grounded out, his gaze once more darting to the empty chair beside where his mother sat with her gaze focused firmly down on her hands in her lap. The members of the Small Council shifted uneasily in their seats, and Tyland Lannister sighed and reached forward to grasp his chalice of wine, downing the drink in one gulp.

"Your Grace, Prince Aemond is still recovering from his injuries," Grand Maester Orwyle spoke up, his voice hesitant, a placating expression drawn over his aged features. Aegon did not spare the old man a glance, his gaze firmly set on the chair his brother should have been occupying.