selcouth | aegon targaryen (ii)

chapter eleven

As the morning sun cast its golden glow across the hall, the reunion between the embittered Greyjoys and Starks was marked by tension-laden conversations and heated exchanges. Aegon, however, found himself seated at the head of the table, an air of detachment surrounding him. The Northern men, engaged in their discussions, failed to capture his genuine interest.

Aegon's gaze fixed upon the rich red hue of the wine in his cup, his fingers idly tracing the rim. The clatter of angry voices around him seemed distant as he sought solace in the crimson depths of his drink. The table was adorned with the intricacies of strained diplomacy and longstanding grudges, but Aegon, unimpressed, chose to drown the hostility in the intoxicating embrace of wine.

He attempted to conceal any signs of exasperation, a mask carefully crafted to veil his true sentiments. While others reveled in the fervor of confrontation, Aegon's indifference painted a silent portrait of a prince navigating the dangerous currents of political gatherings with seasoned nonchalance.

The stone walls of the hall stood as unyielding sentinels against the biting northern cold, their chill seeping through every corner. Aegon felt the icy tendrils of Winterfell's frigid air grip him. The grandeur of the room offered no solace from the bone-chilling cold, and the discomfort intensified as heated words echoed through the frosty atmosphere.

In that moment, Aegon yearned for the warmth of Sunfyre's fiery breath, to escape the frozen confines of diplomacy and soar above the relentless tensions. The mere thought of the dragon's golden wings beating against the crisp air brought a fleeting warmth to his imagination, a stark contrast to the cold reality of the diplomatic ice that surrounded him.

The night before had been a revelry of wine and laughter, a stark contrast to the sobering negotiations that now unfolded. The lack of sleep hung heavily on Aegon's shoulders, weariness etched into the lines on his face as he strained to focus on the tense discussions between the Greyjoys and Starks.

As the Northern lords clashed, Aegon's thoughts wandered to his cousin Hyacinth, imagining what would she do if she was the one sitting in his place. Amid the icy formality, he longed for the warmth of her company. The familiarly of it.

Enjoying another sip of wine, he ignored the loud voices around him to contemplate how disrespectful it would be to return to King's Landing right after the reunion. After all, his job would be done. He just had to be there and 'solve' the problem, but he considered flipping a coin or something.

Or maybe he could ask Hyacinth. She would have an answer to that problem. His mother and grandfather had raised her for it, preparing her to become as scheming as them. It worked, apparently. That girl knew everything about everyone and always had a quick answer at the tip of her tongue. He hated it sometimes.

After the time they spent in Winterfell, maybe she didn't seem as horrible as he always thought. But still, it didn't change the fact that she was exactly like his mother and that the Queen preferred her to her own children.

Nonetheless, he couldn't stop thinking about how useful she would be in that reunion. Maybe she did, in fact, have the right answer.

With a small smirk, he cleared his throat, "Gentlemen, I think that at this point you're simply arguing with each other. Right now, you're not adding anything to the negotiations, and I do believe we would all benefit from a pause, to clear our spirits. Shall we return after lunch?"

"Yes, Your Highness. You are quite right," Lord Bennard Stark agreed, and as soon as Aegon rose from the table, the rest followed.

The room emptied as the Northern lords reluctantly abandoned their fervent discussions. Aegon, flanked by two guards, followed Lord Bennard Stark through the corridors of Winterfell. The cold air outside seemed to bite through their clothes as they strolled along the castle's exterior.