✦ New Faith ✦ Aegon Targaryen

○ thirty seven ○

◇

Things changed so quickly after the coronation.

Aegon’s time vanished into endless meetings in the small council room, seated among faces both loyal and watchful. He’d return at night, hollow-eyed, muttering about the “advice” forced upon him and the backhanded “guidance” of men who never looked him in the eye without a touch of distrust. There was no warmth there—only a hunger for control, their whispers thick with veiled threats of Rhaenyra’s ambitions and dark rumors of her strength gathering in Dragonstone.

When we’re finally alone, late in the darkest hours, he unburdens himself, frustration and pain spilling forth. “They corner me, Tanda,” he confesses, voice laced with bitterness. “I’m nothing but a piece on their board, a puppet, with strings they pull as they wish.”

I hold him as he trembles in my arms, sometimes furious, other times lost in grief. He feels the loss of his father keenly, though he rarely admits it, and I can see the guilt shadowing his eyes each time he recalls Viserys’s unwavering wish for Rhaenyra’s ascension. But he’s trapped, and I am with him in this trap, praying each night for the gods’ mercy upon us.

  ( Time Skip )

The great hall fills with lords and ladies, each one summoned to swear loyalty to their new king. I sit beside Aegon, perched uncomfortably as house after house bends the knee. Some kneel willingly; others lower themselves with reluctance in their eyes. House Baratheon pledges itself, with Borros Baratheon’s broad, powerful frame a testament to his loyalty—or at least his pragmatism. Then the Lannisters, cool and measured, with Jason Lannister’s subtle, calculating glance at Aegon’s crown, almost weighing its worth in his mind. Lord Tyrell bows, his expression unreadable, another house trying to secure its place in this newly shifting kingdom.

But not all of them are willing.

Three hours in, the procession is interrupted. A tall, defiant figure strides forward—Lord Steffon Darklyn of House Darklyn. He raises his sword but does not bend. Instead, he flings the weapon to the floor, steel clattering upon stone, echoing through the chamber.

“I, Lord Steffon Darklyn of House Darklyn, honor my oaths to Princess Rhaenyra,” he declares, his voice unwavering. “I will never bend.”

A murmur ripples through the hall. I catch my breath, my hand instinctively finding the swell of my stomach. I glance at Aegon, watching as his expression changes. This isn’t the familiar look of indulgent anger he wears after nights of wine or raucous feasts—this is something sharper, edged with an indignation that simmers in silence.

“My king,” I murmur softly, hoping to steady him, but he does not look at me. He rises from his throne, descending each step with a deliberate, measured calm.

“Will you reconsider, Lord Darklyn?” he asks, his voice disturbingly steady. “I am here now. I am your king.”

Lord Darklyn’s gaze remains hard, his silence unwavering—a final insult that needs no words. Aegon’s jaw tightens. He pulls his sword free, and in one swift, brutal arc, he beheads Lord Darklyn. The man’s body collapses to the ground, his blood pooling dark and deep beneath him.

A horrified gasp escapes me, and I avert my eyes, bile rising in my throat. I hear Aegon’s voice, sharp and cold, slicing through the silence that follows.

“Does anyone else have anything funny to say?”

The lords lower their heads, humbled by the raw display of power. I shiver, clutching my stomach, whispering a prayer to the Seven for mercy and guidance. I glance at my husband, feeling an ache that reaches down to my bones, as if I am watching him disappear into this role he never wanted, a crown pressed onto his brow and duty twisting him into someone I barely recognize.

We return to our chambers long after, but they aren’t the ones we once shared. Now, we reside in Viserys’s old quarters—a grand suite I had barely entered before. When I first walked in, the air seemed heavy with the ghost of his suffering, his final breaths lingering in the walls. Every night, I find myself praying over our bed, whispering litanies of protection and solace for our child. I can’t seem to shake the feeling that this room is haunted by Viserys’s last moments, by the peace he so longed for but never achieved.

Aegon sits in silence beside the hearth, his face shadowed and drawn. “You should sleep,” he mutters, though he doesn’t look at me. I wonder if he’s haunted too—if the crown he wears doesn’t feel like a symbol of triumph, but a chain that binds him to his father’s mistakes.

I try to reach him, touching his shoulder lightly. “I pray each night for strength—for us, for the realm,” I say, hoping to comfort him. But he only sighs, his head falling into his hands.

“What use is prayer, Tanda?” he asks bitterly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If the gods wanted me here, then they are crueler than I ever imagined.”

And though his words sting, I sit beside him, reaching for his hand, hoping that in this quiet, we can find some way to endure.

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