✦ New Faith ✦ Aegon Targaryen

○ fifty one ○

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The night is thick with silence, broken only by the faint, rhythmic breaths of Maiarys and Vaerys, their tiny forms bundled in rich blankets within the bassinets beside our bed. I sit close, watching them with a fierce protectiveness, as though the act of looking might bind them to me forever. The thought of them fading, of this peace vanishing, fills me with a fear I can barely comprehend.

Then, a creak disrupts the quiet. The door swings open, and my heart stops as I see Aemond stepping into the dim light, gripping Aegon by the scruff of his neck. Aegon’s head hangs low, his hair falling over his face. He doesn’t resist; he’s limp, almost lifeless.

I rush to them, the faint dizziness from childbirth still making my steps weak. "Aemond, let him go," I say, the tension in my voice almost pleading. Aemond’s single eye bores into mine, sharp and unforgiving. Without a word, he shoves Aegon onto the floor in front of me, leaving him like some discarded burden. Then, he turns and stalks out, leaving Aegon crumpled at my feet.

I kneel slowly, my body protesting with each movement, and reach out to Aegon. He looks up, and I finally see him—truly see him. His face is haggard, eyes red-rimmed, his clothes disheveled and dirt-streaked. The tunic he wears is not his own. It’s rough-spun, commoner’s fabric, stained with the filth of King’s Landing’s alleys.

“What is this?” I hiss, reaching to grab the collar of his tunic, feeling the grit against my fingers. “Why are you wearing these?” My voice rises, sharp and brittle with the anger I’ve held back for so long. “Do you not understand the danger you’re in? The danger you’re putting us all in?”

Aegon flinches, his gaze falling to the floor as though my words have struck him with the force of a blade. His lips part, his breath shaky. “I…can’t,” he mumbles, so quiet I almost don’t catch it. “I can’t do this, Tanda. I can’t be a king…I can’t be a father.”

I stare at him, feeling an ache deep within me. Once, I would have pitied him. Once, I might have embraced him, sheltered him from the weight of his own doubts. But it’s different now. We have children, an heir and a daughter, and the very survival of House Targaryen rests in our hands.

I cup his face, forcing him to meet my gaze. “You’re the king,” I say, my voice steely, though my heart is pounding with fear and frustration. “You can’t give up. Do you not realize what it would mean if Rhaenyra takes the throne? Do you not understand the threat to our children? To your son—your heir?”

The words echo through the chamber, harsh and unyielding, and somewhere behind me, a tiny cry rises. Vearys. I release Aegon, moving to lift Vearys from his bassinet, murmuring soft words to soothe his whimpers.

“Don’t cry, Vearys,” I whisper, my voice trembling despite myself. “I’m sorry.”

As I turn, Aegon’s gaze follows me, his eyes wide with an almost childlike bewilderment, as though he’s only now realizing the weight of fatherhood. “Viserys?” he whispers, voice breaking. He struggles with the name, as if daring to hope he has something to cling to.

“No, Aegon,” I say gently, though I keep my voice steady. “Vearys. Your son. Your heir.”

I step closer, and after a hesitation, I place our son into his trembling arms. Aegon stares down at the small bundle, eyes glistening with unshed tears. He looks utterly broken, yet something else—something fragile and hopeful—crosses his face.

“My heir,” he whispers, barely audible, and his voice catches. I can see it now, the conflict within him—the fear of his own inadequacy, the terror of failing his son as he feels he’s failed himself.

Gently, I lead him to the second bassinet, where Maiarys lies, serene and untouched by the burdens that loom over her parents. Aegon looks down, and his face softens, his tears giving way to the faintest of smiles.

“She looks like me,” he murmurs, as though the resemblance has given him something tangible, something real. I glance down, seeing in her small face a likeness I hadn’t yet noticed, and the familiarity of it soothes something deep within me.

Placing Vearys back into his bassinet, Aegon turns to me. Exhausted, I sink onto the edge of the bed, and he joins me, shoulders hunched and eyes heavy. For a moment, we sit in silence, our bodies leaning against each other as though we’re both too weary to hold ourselves up alone.

“Aegon,” I whisper, resting my head against his shoulder, “we have to rely on each other now. We can’t afford to be weak. No one else will protect our children as we will.”

He exhales, a long, shuddering breath. “I know,” he whispers, almost to himself. “I know, Tanda. I’m… I’m sorry.”

I swallow back the bitterness that rises in me, the resentment I’ve harbored through the nights I spent alone, through the whispered rumors of his escapades, of his weaknesses. He should have been here. He should have stood by my side. But now, all that matters is that he stays.

“People will talk, Aegon,” I say softly, though the pain in my words is sharp. “They’ll remember that the king missed the birth of his heir. They’ll see it as a weakness.”

He nods, shame casting a shadow across his face. “I know…I know, Tanda. I’m sorry. I should have been here.”

For a moment, I consider saying more, letting him feel the full weight of my disappointment. But instead, I reach for his hand, entwining my fingers with his, feeling his warmth, his solidity. For now, I can forgive him—if only for the sake of our children.

And as we sit together, his hand in mine, the sounds of our children breathing softly in their bassinets