"I believe in second chances. I don't believe in third chances."
―Doran Martell
…
Aegon woke to the taste of bile and stale wine, Westeros's king reduced to a mess of tangled sheets and aching bones. His head pounded, each thud in his skull in perfect rhythm with the muffled clamour from beyond the walls of the Red Keep. Sunlight stabbed through the narrow window, a golden spear that skewered him straight through the eyes.
He groaned, curling tighter into himself, trying to shrink away from the light, from the pain, from the world. But there was no shrinking from this. His bed was too soft, his skin too clammy, his mouth too dry. He felt like something dredged from the bottom of the Blackwater, slick with rot and festering in his own misery.
Then he saw the shadow.
Aemond sat in the corner of the room, as still as a statue, as silent as death. His long legs stretched before him, his hands steepled beneath his chin, and that single, violet eye watching Aegon with the cool detachment of a hawk eyeing a wounded hare. The patch he wore over his other eye seemed to disappear into the darkness around him, melding into the shadows as though it were made from the same fabric. He said nothing, merely watched, his posture so rigid it was as if he had been carved from stone.
The sight struck the breath from Aegon's lungs. He lurched upright, his limbs a tangled mess, his hands scrabbling against the stone wall as if he might climb through it and away from that unblinking stare. The sheets twisted around his legs, dragging him down, his back smacking against the stone floor with a dull, wet thud. Immediately, he rose, scrambling backwards, his limbs clumsy, still tangled. His back struck the wall this time, and he slid along it until he was pressed into the furthest corner of the room.
He curled there, gasping, the pain in his head now a secondary ache to the cold, creeping terror that slithered through his veins. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid jerks, his eyes fixed on Aemond. His brother remained motionless, a ghost in the shadows, unimpressed and unamused.
After a long, agonizing silence, Aemond let out a soft sigh. It was not the sigh of a man at the end of his patience. No, it was the sigh of a man who had lost patience long ago and found nothing worthwhile in trying to reclaim it. He stood, his movements slow, deliberate. No sudden motions. No rush.
Aegon's fingers dug into the stone floor as he pressed himself against the wall. He felt the cold seeping into his skin, or maybe that was the fear, numbing him from the inside out.
Aemond moved to the table, his long fingers curling around the silver flagon. The wine glugged softly as he poured it into a cup, the sound strangely loud in the oppressive quiet of the room. Aegon could only watch as his brother brought the cup to his lips, the dark red liquid staining them for a moment before disappearing into his mouth.
Aemond stared out the window, his expression unreadable. The city sprawled below, crooked roofs and twisting alleys, the ceaseless motion of King's Landing like ants on a rotting fruit.
The silence stretched, thin as a knife's edge, sharp enough to draw blood.
Aegon's pulse thundered in his ears. His skin itched with sweat and dread. He had to say something. Anything. The quiet was too heavy, pressing down on him, threatening to crush him where he sat.
"What… what do you want?" His voice came out hoarse, cracked. Weak. He hated himself for it.
Aemond did not move. "Sit."
The word had no weight to it. Just a simple instruction, the sort a master might give to a particularly dim-witted dog. Aegon hesitated, but the look Aemond gave him—brief, sharp, enough to slice through his spine—sent him scurrying to the edge of the bed. He sat, his legs trembling, his fingers digging into his knees.
Aemond turned back to the window, his cup half-full, his posture the perfect picture of calm. "You've been well-behaved."
Aegon blinked, confusion cutting through the fog in his head. "I… I have?"
"Yes." Aemond's tone was flat, devoid of praise or disappointment. "You have done exactly as instructed. Kept to your chambers. Drunk yourself to the edge of stupor. Stayed out of trouble." He took another sip of his wine. "Well done."
Heat flared in Aegon's chest. Not warmth, but anger, hot and sharp. "You told me to stay out of your way," he muttered. "And I have."
Aemond's lips curled, a thin, razor-edge of a smile. "You have." He set the cup down with a soft clink of silver on wood. "Yet I must confess that I find myself rather perplexed."
Aemond's eye pinned him in place. "Our mother. Her insistent on your value. That I indulge you. She believes you indispensable. And yet, I look at you now…." He tilted his head, studying Aegon as one might study a smudge on a mirror. "…and I am at a loss to understand why."
Aegon's hands tightened on his knees. His nails bit into his skin, hard enough to draw blood. "I'm the king," he said, the words brittle, like glass ready to shatter.
Aemond said nothing. He didn't need to. His silence spoke volumes.
Aegon swallowed, his throat tight. "What do you want from me?"
Aemond turned away, his gaze once more on the city. "I fly to Rook's Rest tomorrow," he said, his voice as calm as ever. "Daemon's rabble have made their camp there. The Iron Bank's gold has bought him Essosi blades, and I mean to turn them to ash."
Aegon shivered. There was something chilling about the way Aemond spoke of war—of burning, of conquering. It was too easy for him. Too familiar.
"And when I return, this rebellion at an end, and your crown secured," Aemond continued, "we shall host the tourney I promised. During which, you will announce our intention to go to war with Braavos."
Aegon blinked. "War… with Braavos?" The words tasted like ash on his tongue. "Why?"
Aemond's expression did not change. "Because I decided so."
The room seemed colder. Smaller. The walls pressing in. "And if I don't?"
Aemond turned, his movements smooth as silk. He stepped closer, each footfall a quiet promise of violence. "Then you will remain as you are—a puppet whose strings I have grown weary of pulling. And when history writes your name, it will be in small, inconsequential letters." He leaned in close, his breath warm against Aegon's cheek. "This is the last chance I will give you to redeem yourself, Aegon. The last chance you will get to be something more. Something lasting. Take it… or be nothing."
Aegon's breath hitched. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe.
Aemond straightened, turned away, and dropped his cup to the floor. The wine pooled across the stone, dark and sticky, a spreading stain that reached Aegon's bare feet.
"Think on this, brother. I must go now to make preparations for Daeron's arrival. The boy must be sore from his travels."
Without another word, Aemond left.
Aegon remained where he was, alone in his chamber, his heart pounding and his thoughts swirling. The room felt unbearably cold, the shadows long and dark.
He was the king.
And he had never felt so small.