"Fear is what keeps a man alive in this world of treachery and deceit."
— Roose Bolton
…
The air in the chamber was thick with the oppressive weight of silence. It pressed upon the assembled lords and councillors with an authority more profound than any spoken command, lingering in the space between breaths, settling into the very stones of the Red Keep. Aegon stood within it, his hands clenched at his sides, his face a study of indignation and incredulity, and yet, in the face of all this, his brother remained entirely—insufferably—undisturbed.
"Did you just say you gave dragons to men of your choosing… without informing me, your king?"
He expected at least a flicker of acknowledgment, an admission of the gravity of such a transgression, or at the very least, an expression of passing interest in the words he had spoken. But no such reaction was granted him. Aemond merely regarded him as one might regard a distant thunderhead—acknowledging the storm, perhaps, but in no great hurry to seek shelter from it.
Instead, Aemond's gaze swept over him with measured indifference before shifting ever so slightly. His single eye alighted on the bent figure lurking just behind Aegon's shoulder, the shadowy specter of Larys Strong, who, for all his cunning, had clearly not anticipated finding himself in such a place, at such a moment. For the briefest of instances, the prince's gaze lingered there, assessing, dissecting, dismissing.
Then, as though the matter were of no true importance, Aemond's attention returned to Aegon with the most fleeting lift of his brow, a gesture that carried the quiet derision of a scholar interrupted in his reading by the unremarkable wailing of an infant.
Leaning back into his chair, Aemond tilted his head with a sigh, the faintest edge of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.
"And what is it that His Grace desires?" he inquired with a languid air, his voice rich with indulgence and wholly devoid of deference. "Have you at last tired of your cups and whores? Have the pleasures of the court grown stale so soon? Does the king now seek some new amusement to pass the time?"
Aegon felt the heat rise in his chest, a flush of mortification that had little to do with the Arbor red he had consumed earlier and everything to do with the tone. It was not a question posed to a monarch but rather to an errant younger brother, one whose intrusions could be endured, but only for so long before one was required to feign a greater engagement elsewhere.
It took him a moment longer than it should have to form a response, and when it came, it was not as forceful as he might have hoped. "I—" He stumbled over his words before collecting himself. "I am the king. It is my right—my duty—to be here."
Even to his own ears, the words did not ring as he wished them to.
The declaration might have been a noble one had it not been undercut so entirely by the way in which it was spoken—not with conviction, but with insistence. And worse still, the realization of that faltering note must have shown upon his face, for it was then that Aegon truly saw where his brother sat.
The weight of it settled over him in an instant.
Aemond had taken his place at the head of the table, the seat of the king.
And no one had spoken a word against it. Not a single member of the Small Council had protested it. Not Otto, not Criston, not their mother. None of them had even looked as though they found it unusual.
Aegon's anger surged anew, the heat of his humiliation rushing to his cheeks. "Get out of my seat," he snarled, pointing at the chair. "That is my place. I am king."
If Aemond heard him, he gave no indication. Instead, he turned his gaze to Otto Hightower, speaking as though Aegon had simply not been present at all.
"The letters, Lord Hand," he said, his voice a calm, measured thing. "Send them as we have discussed. The Tullys, the Lannisters, the Tyrells, and the Arryns must be made aware of the situation at once. We shall require swift replies."
A dismissal. Aegon's breath came sharply, his knuckles white with rage.
The assembled lords exchanged uncertain glances. The weight of the moment was not lost on them, nor on the queen mother, whose silence was as telling as any declaration could be.
For a long moment, Otto Hightower did nothing. He held Aemond's gaze, angry, considering.
Then, at last, his pale green eyes flickered toward Aegon.
And in that moment—in that single, damning instant—Aegon saw the shift.
The faint, imperceptible change in expression.
The movement from anger to irritation. From uncertainty to decision.
Otto rose.
And he rose for Aemond.
Aegon's rage boiled over.
"No," he snapped, his voice loud in the chamber. "Sit!"
The words rang through the hall like the snap of a banner in the wind.
The room hesitated.
Aegon turned, his furious gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. He gritted his teeth, doubling down on his own authority.
"I said sit."
With a sigh, Aemond gave a vague, dismissive gesture and—slowly, hesitantly—they did.
Aegon inhaled sharply, his chest rising with the force of his barely contained fury. Then, turning back toward his brother, he set his hands flat upon the table, leaning forward as he leveled Aemond with a glare that held the full weight of his crown.
"You forget yourself, brother," he said, his voice low, threatening. "I am king. Not you."
A pause.
Aemond did not so much as blink.
Then, with an expression that bordered on amusement, he gestured toward the chamber. "Then let the king speak his mind."
Aegon's jaw clenched. With effort, he steadied his breath, forcing himself into composure. He would not allow Aemond to steer the moment, to reduce him to some quarrelsome child bickering over a toy.
Stepping closer to the table, he spoke again, his voice more measured this time. "Explain yourself," he demanded. "Concerning the dragons."
And yet—even now—Aemond's response came with the same unbothered ease.
"I had riders secured for Sheepstealer and Seasmoke," he said, his voice smooth. "They have been sent to our allies, ensuring that, should the Blacks act in aggression, our own forces remain unchallenged."
It was a reasonable answer. A logical one.
But it was not what Aegon wanted.
"Who gave you permission?" he pressed, his voice harder now.
Aemond crooked a brow.
"Since when," he asked, "have I ever required your permission?"
The chamber paused.
The words hung there, cold and sharp, each syllable a precise and deadly blade.
Aegon's pulse thundered in his ears. Truly, Aemond had never asked for permission. Not from him. Not from Otto. Not from their mother.
He did as he pleased, because he could.
The realization left Aegon speechless. But only for a moment.
"That changes now," he said, voice tight. "From this day forward, you will require my permission before executing any action in my name."
The chamber held its breath.
And then Aemond chuckled.
It was a low, unbothered sound, so quiet that it might have gone unnoticed—had it not been for the sheer weight of it.
Aegon clenched his fists.
Aemond turned back to Otto, still chuckling. "The king has nothing of importance to say. We are finished here, grandsire. Shall we continue in private later?"
"You will not dismiss me!" Aegon snarled, slamming his hands against the table, his fury boiling over.
Larys stirred behind him. "Your Grace, perh—"
Aemond's eye snapped toward him so quickly, so precisely, that Larys stilled at once. The prince did not so much as blink. "Ser Criston."
Cole turned his head slightly. "My prince?"
"If Lord Strong speaks again," Aemond said, voice smooth, measured, "carve out his tongue."
Larys immediately lost his composure. His mouth parted slightly, his pale eyes darting between Aemond and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Criston, to his credit, did not react outwardly. But he moved his hand deliberately, curling his fingers around the hilt of his blade in a manner that was entirely unambiguous.
The message was clear.
Larys closed his mouth.
It was Alicent who finally moved. She reached across the table, placing a hand over Aemond's own. A silent plea.
Aemond held her gaze for a long moment. Then, in a rare show of something that might have been fondness, he patted her hand.
"Give us privacy, Mother," he said.
Alicent hesitated—but then, with obvious reluctance, she rose. She cast a final glance at Aegon before stepping away, the skirts of her gown brushing the stone floor.
One by one, the others followed. Otto. Jasper Wylde. The council lords. Even Larys, who slunk from the chamber like a rat escaping a sinking ship.
Aegon's breath came hard and uneven.
"No," he said, voice thick with rising frustration. "No. You will not—"
And yet, the doors shut all the same.
The great, towering chamber was suddenly much emptier. Aegon turned, his gaze furious, disbelieving.
Only six men remained.
Aemond. Aegon.
Criston Cole.
And two silent, ever-watchful Kingsguards.
Aemond had not once taken his eye off him. And when the sound of footsteps on the other side faded with an ominous finality, the younger prince leaned back in the king's chair, his expression unreadable.
"Sit," he said.
Aegon's jaw tightened. He did not move.
Aemond arched a brow—then turned to the Kingsguards and gestured.
The knight nearest to Aegon stepped forward.
"Unhand me, you fucking—" Aegon hissed, struggling as the man seized his arm.
The burly knight did not heed him. With practiced ease, he wrenched Aegon toward the seat and shoved him into it.
Aegon tried to rise immediately but the knight forced him back into the chair with a single, heavy hand pressed to his shoulder. He twisted in the seat, glaring at the Kingsguard, searching for some flicker of hesitation. Some sign that they would not stand for this, that they remembered who he was.
Nothing.
Froom the side, Criston Cole watched with a detached expression, his fingers curled loosely around the pommel of his sword. The others did not move. No one came to his aid.
His breathing was uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Aemond sat unmoving in his seat—the king's seat—watching him with an expression that was neither gloating nor apologetic. Just… waiting.
The silence in the chamber pressed down on Aegon's skin like a weight.
And then, at last, Aemond leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, hands clasped before him.
"What," he said, his voice cool and quiet, "did you hope to achieve by interrupting the council?"
Aegon refused to answer.
Aemond waited.
When the king did not speak, his younger brother rose from the chair.
Aegon's body tensed on instinct as Aemond rounded the table, boots echoing softly against the polished floor. The prince did not stop until he stood just before him, looming. Then, with slow, measured ease, Aemond bent at the waist, bringing himself to Aegon's eye level.
Aegon met his gaze head-on, glaring.
Aemond stared back, unblinking.
And then, without warning, his hand whipped through the air.
The slap cracked like a whip.
Aegon's head snapped to the side, the sting of the impact blooming across his cheek in an instant.
The silence in the room deepened.
The Kingsguard did not shift.
The sound of Aegon's own breath came ragged and uneven, half-stifled by his stunned silence.
Aemond's voice was cool as glass. "Are you deaf, brother?"
Aegon turned his head back slowly, his face burning. The gall. The audacity.
"You—"
The second slap landed before he could even finish.
His skull rattled, his cheek burning. He snapped his head back up immediately, his mouth parting in disbelief.
His brother had slapped him.
Him. The king.
Aegon blinked. "You—"
A third slap.
Aegon clenched his jaw so tight he felt his teeth creak. "You fucking slapped—"
A fourth.
His entire face felt hot now, his ears ringing. He barely heard himself when he croaked, "You slapped the king."
Aemond blinked. Then, in a tone so unbothered it made Aegon's fury burn hotter, he said simply, "I did."
Aegon's chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven gasps. His hands clenched into fists against his thighs, nails biting into flesh. He wanted to lunge at him, to wipe that look off his face—but the Kingsguard were still standing there, their hands on their hilts, their presence a silent warning.
For a long, suffocating moment, Aemond just watched him.
And then, finally, he straightened.
He turned away without another word and walked toward the chamber doors.
Aegon swallowed. His cheek throbbed. His dignity burned.
The room had not moved.
Then, just as he was considering whether to do something, Aemond spoke again. "Bring the king," he commanded.
The words sent a spike of cold down Aegon's spine.
The Kingsguard grabbed him before he could react.
"No—"
His protest was ignored.
The hands on his arms were unyielding as they dragged him to his feet and forced him forward. He twisted and jerked, but the men holding him were trained knights, and his struggles might as well have been those of a child in their grip.
Aemond led the way out of the chamber, not once looking back.
They descended deep into the Keep, through halls Aegon barely recognized.
The air grew cooler as they moved downward, into a hidden, twisting passageway tucked away beyond a large mirror. And then they reached it—a chamber unlike the others.
Aegon's breath hitched.
Two guards stood at the entrance, their expressions unreadable as they stepped aside to let them through.
The room within was dimly lit, but Aegon's senses caught something immediately—
The smell of milk of the poppy.
His pulse quickened.
There were servants within, milling about, tending to the chamber. And at the center—
Aegon froze.
There was a man seated before him, slouched within his chair. Unmoving. Wrapped in a thick blanket. His eyes fluttered half-lidded, his breathing slow, heavy, labored.
Aegon's stomach dropped.
No.
No, that was not possible.
The figure before him—the man who should have been dead—
Viserys.
Aegon felt his entire body go cold.
His father. Alive.
The rotting king was barely even breathing, nothing more than a husk now, a shadow of a shadow, his face waxy and pale, his body too still, too thin beneath the blankets. Aegon stumbled back, eyes wide with horror. "What…?"
His voice came out breathless, disbelieving. He tore his gaze from Viserys, turned it on Aemond—demanding answers. But his brother was calm as ever.
Aemond pulled out a chair, seating himself at Aegon's left. A servant approached then, placing a small table between them. Another came forward with a tray—three goblets, a flagon of wine, and several vials of… something.
Aegon barely saw it. His gaze remained locked on Viserys, his mind racing.
His father should have been dead.
He should have been dead.
Aegon turned back to Aemond, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Why…?"
Aemond reached for the flagon of wine, pouring three cups in leisurely fashion. Then, as if discussing the weather, he said, "He made himself a nuisance."
Aegon felt as though the floor had dropped beneath him.
He stared at his brother.
He had faked their father's death.
The will. The succession. The heartfelt message Viserys had left him—all of it had been a lie.
Aegon's hands trembled.
"Aemond," he whispered, his voice breaking. "What have you done?"
Aemond did not look at him.
He placed the last goblet on the table, reached for one of the vials.
Then, glancing at Aegon, he murmured, "Pick one."
Aegon's mind reeled. "What?"
Aemond gestured at the vials. "Every known poison in the world, from the Iron Islands to Asshai," he said smoothly. "Pick one."
Aegon's breath shallowed.
When he did not move, Aemond chose for him.
"Sweetsleep," Aemond said, tipping the vial into each of their cups.
Then, without hesitation, he lifted his goblet—and drank.
Aegon watched in stunned silence as brother imbibed the poisoned wine down in a single go. The goblet clicked softly against the table as Aemond set it down, his fingers lingering briefly on the polished silver before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. His single violet eye flickered toward Aegon then, gleaming in the dim light.
"Drink."
Aegon did not move.
The word barely registered in his mind. His hands were shaking. He stared at Aemond, then at the goblet before him, the dark wine swirling lazily within.
"I want to leave," he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Aemond merely tilted his head, as though considering the statement. Then, with deliberate ease, he rose from his chair, took the third goblet from the tray, and turned toward Viserys.
Aegon felt his breath hitch.
"Aemond," he warned, but his brother ignored him.
Kneeling before their father's slumped form, Aemond pressed the rim of the cup to Viserys's cracked lips. The old king did not resist—he barely even stirred. His eyes fluttered weakly, too dulled by the milk of the poppy to comprehend what was happening.
Aegon shot to his feet. "Don't—"
But it was too late.
Aemond tipped the goblet.
The wine slid past Viserys's lips.
The old man swallowed.
Aegon froze.
It happened slowly.
For a long moment, Viserys merely sat there, unmoving, his breath thin and shallow. His fingers twitched slightly against the blanket. His chest rose.
Then—
A deep, rattling exhale.
The rise never came again.
The room fell silent.
The servants did not move. The Kingsguard remained stone-faced.
Aegon felt something cold crawl up his spine, curling tight around his ribs.
Aemond, unhurried, wiped a small drop of spilled wine from the corner of Viserys's mouth with his sleeve.
Then, slowly, he turned back to Aegon.
For the first time since they had entered this hidden chamber, Aegon saw something different in his brother's face.
Not anger. Not amusement.
Not even calculation.
Something colder. Something final.
Aemond's voice was soft. Too soft.
"I tolerate your existence, brother," he murmured. "For our mother's sake."
Aegon's skin went cold. The meaning behind the words was not lost on him.
Aemond straightened, stepping toward him with measured ease. "You are king," he continued. "You may drink. You may whore. You may indulge every miserable whim that suits you."
The words were mocking, but Aegon barely heard them.
Aemond stopped in front of him.
"But you will not," he whispered, "interfere in matters that do not concern you."
Aegon felt something tighten in his chest.
He thought of his father's face.
Of the lies, the manipulation, the careful weaving of falsehoods that had led him here.
Aegon had never wanted the crown.
And yet, he had believed—truly believed—that his father had wanted him to take it.
A lie.
Aemond had seen to that.
Aegon's fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms.
Aemond merely watched him.
Then, without another word, he turned back to the servants. "See to it that the king's body is prepared for cremation," he instructed. "It must be done by nightfall."
Aegon felt his throat close. That was it. That was the end of it. No mourning. No state funeral. Only fire and silence. His eyes flickered between his brother, the cup, the dead king in his chair.
The servants bowed their heads and moved at once, lifting Viserys's frail body from the chair with the same impersonal efficiency one might show for clearing a table after a meal.
Aegon stared.
He wanted to scream.
But no sound came.
Aemond turned back to the Kingsguard. "The king is tired," he said smoothly. "See him to his chambers."
Aegon's body moved before his mind could catch up. His feet dragged against the stone floor, his movements dull, distant, as the knights flanked him, guiding him out of the room.
He did not resist.
There was no point.
As the door shut behind him, the last thing he saw was Aemond, still standing in the center of the chamber, his back turned, speaking softly to Criston Cole.
Aegon did not know what he was saying.
He did not want to know.
He did not look back.