SHADOWS OF THE PAST //HOUSE OF THE DRAGON//

Chapter 10

His steps quickened as he followed, keeping a careful distance. The brothel was as he remembered it: a den of flesh and vice, its windows glowing dimly with the light of candles and lanterns. Inside, the scene was a chaotic blend of bodies, sounds, and dim, smoky air. The noise of laughter, moans, and music filled the room, and the scent of sweat and perfume hung heavy. Rhaegar pushed past the throng of naked bodies and half-dressed whores draped over the laps of men. A few reached out to him, their voices purring suggestively, but he brushed them off with a cold look, his focus unyielding.

He kept his gaze fixed on the figure ahead, watching as the young person was greeted by an older woman who seemed to be one of the brothel's proprietors. She gestured toward the staircase with a knowing look, and the cloaked figure nodded, ascending the narrow wooden steps. Rhaegar followed, moving silently, his footsteps nearly inaudible on the worn wooden floor. He felt a prickling at the back of his neck, a sense that he was on the cusp of uncovering something disturbing, though he could not yet say what it might be.

The upper floor of the brothel was dimly lit, the walls lined with curtained rooms where whispered exchanges and muffled sounds of pleasure leaked into the corridor. Rhaegar kept his distance, his eyes narrowing as he saw the cloaked figure being led toward a particular room by the old woman. He waited, his heart beating steadily, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword as he watched the scene unfold.

Rhaegar's suspicions solidified when he caught a glimpse of silver-gold hair peeking from beneath the hood of the young man. It was a shade that spoke of Valyrian blood, a color unmistakable to any true Targaryen.

As the older woman accepted a coin pouch from the boy, Rhaegar's jaw tightened, recognizing the figure now entering the private chamber. He had seen him in the Great Hall among the other royal children—a boy his mother the queen had called Aegon.

Rhaegar pressed himself against the shadowed corner as the old madam shuffled away down the corridor, then moved quietly toward the door that Aegon had just disappeared through. He peered in, his breath steady despite the disgust that churned in his stomach. There, in the dimly lit room, the young prince stood before an older, naked whore, who reached out to him with an experienced smile.

Rhaegar's lip curled. The scene was sordid and repulsive; the boy was barely more than a child, while the woman was twice his age, already reaching out to undress him. It stirred a rage in him that he hadn't felt in years, an anger directed at the crumbling state of a kingdom where Targaryens wandered so far from honor. With a swift motion, he burst into the room, the door slamming against the wall.

The whore shrieked, covering herself with the nearest cloth, her eyes wide with fear at the sudden intrusion. Rhaegar's cloak billowed around him as he lunged forward, seizing Aegon by the collar and wrenching him away from the woman. His grip was iron as he spoke, his voice a cold and scathing whisper.

"Does your father know you're in here, my prince?" The words dripped with venom as Rhaegar's eyes bore into the boy's, seeing fear and defiance mixed together. The young prince struggled against his hold, but Rhaegar's strength was unyielding, the disgust evident on his face as he tightened his grip, forcing the boy to meet his gaze.

The room seemed to grow colder, the air heavy with the weight of Rhaegar's judgment as he waited for the boy's answer, his presence as much a reprimand as his words.Aegon's eyes widened in a mix of shock and anger, his cheeks flushed from the unexpected humiliation. "Let me go!" he snapped, squirming in Rhaegar's grip. "you?.. why are you here? let me go!"

Rhaegar's grip tightened, his expression unflinching as he leaned closer to the boy, the dim light casting shadows over his stern features. "that does not matter," he replied, his voice low and controlled. "What matters is that you are here, disgracing yourself and your family." He glanced briefly at the trembling woman, who had backed herself into the corner of the room, clutching the sheet around her.

Aegon tried to push back, his defiance surfacing. "You have no right—"

"I have every right," Rhaegar interrupted, his voice suddenly rising, a dangerous edge in it. "You carry the name Targaryen. Our blood is not meant to be squandered in places like this." He shoved Aegon away from him, letting the boy stumble back against the bed.

Aegon glared at him, his hand reaching for a dagger at his waist. "I don't need you to lecture me," he spat, his youthful arrogance showing. "You think just because you're my father's long lost brother, you can—"

Before he could finish, Rhaegar's hand lashed out and gripped Aegon's wrist, twisting it just enough to make the boy wince and drop the blade to the floor. "I could have you dragged back to the Red Keep in chains,"

Rhaegar growled, his patience wearing thin. "Do you understand the shame you would bring upon your mother and father? Or does such a thought not even cross your mind?"

The boy's face paled, his earlier defiance crumbling under the weight of Rhaegar's words. His voice was barely audible. "No one cares. My father... my mother... they hardly notice what I do."

After a moment, Rhaegar released his grip and took a step back, his expression softening ever so slightly. There was a hint of understanding, of pity, in his eyes as he looked at the boy—a reflection of his own frustrations with the realm's decay. "Perhaps they do not," he said, his tone more measured. "But that does not mean you should surrender to such despair. You are a prince of the blood of the dragon; act like it."

Aegon stared at him, resentment mixed with something akin to shame in his gaze. The boy seemed to have no response, the words sticking in his throat.

Rhaegar turned and strode toward the door, casting one last glance at the young prince over his shoulder. "Now, let's get you back to the keep. You may think yourself forgotten, but some eyes watch even in the darkest of places."

Without waiting for a reply, Rhaegar walked out with his grip on Aegon's shoulder dragging him along, his cloak billowing behind him as he descended the stairs and left the brothel. The night air hit him like a chill, but he welcomed it, letting it wash away the lingering heat of his anger. His hand still twitched with the memory of violence, the bloodstains from earlier now dried and dark on his skin.

As he disappeared into the shadowed streets, a silent vow burned in his chest. The Targaryen name would be restored to its former glory—even if he had to carve that path with fire and blood.