✦ New Faith ✦ Aegon Targaryen

○ twenty six ○

◇

I lingered by the door, a cold ache spread through my chest, tightening with each breath. I wanted, desperately, to run after my family—to throw myself into their arms, beg them to take me back to Sweetport Sound, to home. But I knew better. They were gone, disappearing into the shadows of the Red Keep, and this life was now mine to face alone.

The walk back to my chambers felt heavier, each step dragging under the weight of that final goodbye. When I entered, the dim candlelight cast shadows along the stone walls, and there, sprawled across our bed, was Aegon. He lay tangled in the sheets, half-dressed, with his hair tousled and the faint, sharp scent of wine clinging to the air around him.

I moved softly, slipping out of my dress and into my nightgown, feeling the thin, cool fabric settle over my shoulders. I eased onto the bed beside Aegon, feeling the tension of his presence, even in sleep. I turned toward him, studying his face under the faint glow of the dying embers.

In this light, Aegon looked like someone else. His face, so full of emotion when awake, was softened in sleep—lips slightly parted, his brow free of its usual tension. Even as he lay here, I couldn’t ignore the subtle hints of something dark and troubled beneath his handsomeness. Aegon bore the Targaryen features—the silver hair, the striking lilac eyes that were so rare and unsettling, but they masked something restless, something broken that he carried with him.

I watched him, caught between fascination and a strange, cold dread. Gently, I reached out and brushed a strand of his hair back. It felt coarse and wild under my fingers, as if he’d taken a knife to it himself in a fit of impatience. His face remained still, his breathing deep, though his eyes flickered faintly beneath closed lids. I wondered what he was seeing, what twisted dreams or memories haunted him in these hours when he could let down the mask he wore by day.

Aegon had the blood of conquerors, a legacy of kings, but here, he looked so small, so far from any of that power. There was no strength or grandeur in him now—only a haunted boy, left to shoulder burdens that seemed too great even for the hardened rulers who came before him. I wondered if he, too, felt trapped, if he despised the path laid out for him as much as I feared my own.

As he shifted, his lips curved into a faint, bitter smile, and I thought I saw the faint glint of something darker—a glimpse of what lay beneath that lazy, careless grin he wore in the daylight. I drew my hand back, letting it fall, and lay beside him in the silence, feeling the weight of what bound us.

I closed my eyes, and a tear slipped down my cheek, silent and bitter. There would be no rescue from this life.