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emilykaldwen · 1 month

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter One

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Author's Note: After a lot of encouragement, I will be posting chapters in their entirety here and on AO3. Many many huge thanks to @acrossthesestars for being my co-pilot, and for holding my hand through writing this story. Thank you to everyone who has reblogged and commented. Your words mean the world to me.

CHAPTER ONE - THE WEIGHT THAT BROUGHT US HERE

Alicent watched the lords of the council settle into their seats, placing their markers in the proper place. Lord Tyland Lannister took his seat at the opposite end of the magnificent table, Lord Lyman Beesbury to his right. Maester Mellos and then Lord Larys at her own left hand. Jasper Wylde sat beside her father’s usual place at the right hand. The power of the realm all concentrated right in this room. They prayed to the Crone for guidance and wisdom at the beginning of every meeting, a practice that had thankfully not reached the ears of the king, as he’d been cloistered in his rooms since his illness had taken more of his body. It was one thing to allow her Faith to grace their dinner table. It was a whole other to have the Faith find its place at the Small Council. While his signature still graced the decrees, and his decisions still paramount for he was the King, Viserys had left the dealings of the realm to them. It was for the best - Viserys’ mind was giving way to his illness and the less seen, the better. Alicent didn’t know what she preferred: her husband demeaning her and neglecting her children, or him calling her Aemma when she came to care for him at night.

She grazed her fingers over the polished black marble ball in front of her as Maester Mellos began rattling off the never ending fighting between the Brackens and Blackwoods that not even the Father bearing down from the heavens himself could stop. They continued to tear themselves apart as if they would win all the gold in Casterly Rock for the longest, most ridiculous spat that the Tullys were no longer capable of handling. Sometimes she wished she could just drag charcoal lines along the map, piece off the floodplains to the north and the west and the mountains, let the other kingdoms take their pieces.

“Begs the question if perhaps it isn’t time to elect a new Lord Paramount to bring them to heel,” Lord Wylde harrumphed in his self-important way. The man was well and agreeable enough, Alicent thought, but every time he spoke, she missed Lyonel Strong. None of his proposals contained this ‘begging the question’ sort of nonsense, and none of Wylde’s attempts had any of the late Lord Strong’s well thought out solutions and easy friendliness.

“Unless grievous injustice is done, we cannot normally strip the title of Lord Paramount, but their inability to bring either house to heel since given the title is threatening the stability of the realm. Blackwoods own more land than the Tullys, and now we have reports they’ve gone undermining one another’s orchards, and putting others at risk.” Jasper turned his gaze to Larys, who had not spoken since the prayer. “Strong, your holding is Harrenhal. What do you have to say about this matter?”

Larys’ manner did not fool Alicent, but it worked wonders, as always, on Jasper. “This quarrel of theirs has lasted as long as the dynasty and longer still. King Jaehaerys brokered peace, and we cannot ascertain what sparked it again.” From the nervous licking of his lips to the fidgeting of his hands, he was a master at seeming far less dangerous than he truly was. “You might seek instead the opinion of my dearest uncle Simon. He is the castellan and knows both it and the Riverlands far better than I do, as I’ve been here during most of this recent infighting. ”

Wylde humphed, twitching his nose in such a way that his bushy mustache reminded Alicent of a walrus she’d seen at Driftmark. She dug her nails into her palm to hold back her laugh. “Should we offer the Tullys more incentive?” Wylde blustered, reaching for a solution that he could take credit for.

“Incentive for not letting their bannerman destroy harvests?” Tyland Lannister snorted, reclined in his chair as if he were the one running the meeting. “That’s their duty. If they can’t do it, then there’s a bigger issue to deal with.”

“Perhaps a betrothal,” Lord Beesbury spoke up, his eyes darting from Larys’ to hers. Alicent straightened, watching the man try to figure out how to present his own suggestion. “The Tullys are proud, and the Riverlands command a great host when they come together. Lord Tully’s great-grandson is around Princess Helaena’s age. It would be a show of friendship and goodwill.”

“A show of a dragon is what you mean, isn’t it?” Her father’s voice cut in smoothly, but she could see the annoyance in his eyes at the prospect of Helaena being sent to the Riverlands. She did not want her sweet girl sent so far away either, but his words hurt in their easy protectiveness of her daughter, when they had never done for herself.

“Dragons are a statement, my Lord Hand. If not the princess, perhaps… Lord Strong, your youngest sister is not yet married,” Beesbury continued, flush with ideas. Was Rhaenyra feeding them to him?

“If Grover Tully, or whomever is handling their seat, cannot bring them to heel, we should have the Lords Bracken and Blackwood come and explain themselves to the crown,” she cut in before Beesbury could really get his momentum going. Heads turned to look at her, and Alicent looked to the Grand Maester. “Send ravens today. By the moon’s turn, I want them before the Iron Throne explaining themselves.” There was a curl of satisfaction on her lips as the aging Mellos gestured to his assistant. “We should also have Lord Tully, or his son, also come to answer. I know Lord Grover has been recently ill,” she continued. Authority and compassion were the balance she must always strike, so that her decisions could not be questioned, her judgment nothing but sound. She was the Mother of the Realm after all.

“Well said, your Grace,” Larys said softly, that shadow blink of a smile on his face. Lord Beesbury’s suggestions were easily dismissed.

Tension knotted between her shoulder blades, and she shifted in her chair to relieve the pain. She drummed her fingers on the armrest of the chair as her father’s warning spun dizzily through her thoughts.

Either you prepare Aegon to rule, or you cleave to Rhaenyra and pray for her mercy.

That morning, Ser Criston found the boy who might be king passed out in the stables with his cock in hand; at least her father hadn’t found out. Alicent felt nauseated at the idea of sacrificing a girl barely younger than she’d been in an attempt to corral her son into leadership.

The doors of the chamber opened. Ser Harrold Westerling entered the room with the head dragonkeeper, Arryx, following behind. Her father rose not in a show of respect for the Kingsguard Commander, but some show of power - the unyielding stone and height of the tower that would not bow to neither wind nor storm.

“Forgive my tardiness, your Grace, my lords.”

Her father waved a hand and sat back down. “We were told that you were attending to an urgent matter, Lord Commander.”

Ser Harrold clasped his arm across his chest and bowed to her. “This morning, I was alerted to events that transpired last night inside of the dragonpit. Keeper Arryx wanted to speak of the matter to you personally.” Ser Harrold stepped back to allow the aging keeper to take the floor. Alicent gave her own nod to the man as he rose from his prostration.

“Dreamfyre has laid another clutch of eggs. Only three, your Grace, and she will let no one near them. Vhagar has been circling,” Arryx said.

Alicent frowned. Dreamfyre had not laid a clutch in several years now, and Vhagar rarely came to the pit. She was too old, too large, with little desire to be kept with her smaller brethren. The horrific beast preferred a rocky outcropping far out into the bay.

Aemond had given her a quizzical look when she’d brought it up once, when he was still bedridden and recovering from his mutilation. Her sweet boy was now strung through with a confidence that she’d never seen ignite within him when he had both eyes. The dangerous glint that confidence took as he’d grown older was also new.

She’s protecting what is hers, mother. We both are, he’d said.

“I have spoken with the Commander of the City Watch, your Grace, to ensure that those in the areas closest to the pit keep their distance unless absolutely necessary. It has allowed us to take stock of the current state of those neighborhoods.” Ser Harrold turned to look at Ser Otto. “A full report will be on your desk.”

Her father nodded, and Ser Harrold looked once more to the keeper.

Arryx shifted on his feet, and Alicent watched his eyes flick to the Grand Maester with an expression that she could not discern. The Citadel and the Hightowers have always stood side by side for the betterment of the realm, Alicent, and you’ll continue to foster that friendship, won’t you?

“Five of the kitlings have also died, your Grace. They were unbonded, brought from Dragonstone before…”

Before Daemon had come back.

“How many dragons does this put us at?” Her father’s deceptively mild tone was the opposite of his glee when Aemond had claimed Vhagar. The numbers requested were ones he’d calculated in his head, monthly, since he’d come back.

“Claimed, my lord?” Arryx asked, pausing momentarily. “Eleven, throughout the family. Lady Rhaena’s dragon hatched, but it was born twisted and sickly and did not last. I have not received word otherwise of any intention for Lady Rhaena to come and try to claim another dragon.”

Half of the dragons were claimed. Alicent watched her father drum his fingers along the table. Identifying the pattern took only a moment. He was counting.

Specifically, the dragons that were on their side.

“I want reports of the necropsies upon their completion,” her father said with a narrowed and assessing look, disturbed by the news. “The last thing we need is some strange illness to rip through all of them.”

Alicent chewed on the inside of her lip and watched the shining outline of the seven-pointed star beaming down on the table.

“Syrax is almost big enough for two riders now. Will you come touch the clouds with me, Alicent? Please?” Rhaenyra had always begged, mouth close to her ear, hands stroking her arms, her wounded and bloody fingers.

The joyful look that Aegon once gave her now reserved for a beast: “I’ve never known love until Sunfyre, mother. It’s like the world has color now that we’re together.”

“Dreamfyre keeps me tethered to the ground even as I fly in my dreams. She’s the only anchor I have,” said Helaena, who would withdraw from her touch as if it were a sting from a bee.

Little Daeron and his dragon clutched in his arms: “I can’t leave Tessarion behind, mother! I won’t know how to be happy without her!”

Dragons had robbed Alicent of everything.

“Thank you, Arryx. I will speak to the children and see what Prince Aemond might do about Vhagar.” The idea of her sweet, once immaculate and tender-hearted child being near that twisted, hoary thing still terrified her, no matter how gently reassuring Aemond could be.

Arryx did not move to leave just yet. “Forgive me, your Grace, but Vhagar is no Vermithor or Sunfyre: she is old and willful, and although she is bonded with our prince, I would suggest caution. He is… young, and Vhagar was forged in the fires of battle.”

He bowed once more before taking his leave.

Even in indescribable pain, in the face of his own father’s disregard and disdain, Aemond sought to soothe her. “Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

What else would her father do to get more dragons on their side?

Nervous tension pulsed in the silence left when the doors closed behind the dragonkeeper, filled only by the soft creak of the Kingsguard’s mail and the gentle clink of the chain around Grand Maester Mellos’ neck as he shifted in his chair, barely audible. The enduring mystery and curiosity of dragons was a specter of The Stranger above them all. Alicent had heard her kingly husband remind Rhaenyra repeatedly: Dragons were not pets. The bond with them should not blind their riders to the power that thrummed ancient and thick in their veins.

She breathed slowly, letting the quiet ease, refusing to meet anyone else’s eyes as the tumult of feelings inside of her crashed upon the jagged edges of her broken ribs. This was the right choice. Her babies were only half-Targaryen, and Rhaenyra’s bastards were the same, whether she’d ever admit to it or not.

Everyone in the room had grown up with the stories that the Conquerors spread when they forged the throne: The Valyrian blood magic that had made them dragonriders was only to be found in their Targaryen blood. That bloodline needed to remain pure. Yet, Rhaena’s pure Valyrian blood did not save her first dragon from being born sickly and dying quickly, while Aemond - Targaryen only by half - bonded with Vhagar, the most powerful beast in the world.

There were no further reasons to believe the Targaryens were gods after all, and above the realm they had conquered.

The great chair of the King creaked as she slowly rose, taking in the council before her. There were no Targaryens in this room, even if she had birthed her own clutch of half-dragons. Alicent bore this task without joy or fanfare. It was a duty to be endured for the good of her family, for the good of her realm.

She stood with her hands folded in front of her, the image of the Mother of the Realm. Alicent had done this once before, when she had declared that she was standing in an official capacity for her husband.

“My lords of the council,” She hedged a glance at her father before moving her gaze to each man at the table. Ladies of the realm should be on the council. “It is with great joy and love that the King and myself, with Lord Larys Strong, announce to the small council that we have arranged the betrothal of our son, Prince Aegon Targaryen, and Lady Abrogail Strong.”

Each of the lords straightened in their chairs. Lord Beesbury frowned and glanced away from her. The uncertain and uncomfortable shifting in his chair belied the embarrassment he was attempting to hide. Alicent felt no need to point it out. It was a fine idea that he’d presented and not his fault he did not know what had already been decided. Even if he was Rhaenyra’s lapdog, Alicent would be the better person, and not rub his face in it.

The congratulations buzzed in her ears as she sat back down in her chair, and beneath the table, she tore at the skin along her left thumbnail. The pain was as dull as the congratulations in her ears. Her father’s voice was distant, jovial even.

They hadn’t even told Aegon and Abrogail yet. She remembered standing in the same position, knowing what was coming, knowing what it would destroy and desperately hoping that it might not.

I have decided to take a new wife. I intend to marry Lady Alicent Hightower before Spring’s end.

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Rhaenyra forgive me forgivemeforgiveme.

“A feast is in order to announce Prince Aegon and Lady Abrogail’s betrothal,” Tyland’s jovial tone broke the silence. His suggestion—or statement, depending on how Alicent took it—was not one that she’d expected when she sat down in Viserys’ chair, but welcomed the confirmation of his support.

Meanwhile, Larys’s expression gave nothing away. He simply inclined his head in agreement.

Her son — her trueborn son — for all his faults, deserved to be celebrated. She was happy she didn’t have to fight for this. It was Mellos who spoke next: “Given the last wedding that was celebrated within these halls, it would be a reassuring gesture to the Lords of the Realm if they were given the opportunity, and for us to show unity within House Targaryen. With the Prince’s nameday in a few moons, perhaps we can celebrate with a tournament.”

Alicent’s eyes cut to her father, who smiled lightly, nodding in agreement but careful not to say a word, allowing the Maester to be responsible for the idea.

“Even better,” Tyland raised his goblet in agreement. “We haven’t had a proper celebration in years. What better occasion? Lord Rickard Reyne will be overjoyed to hear the honor bestowed on his granddaughter.” He looked over at her father. “I take it you’ll be writing to him, Lord Hand?”

The last time Alicent had seen her uncle Lord Rickard had been at her mother’s funeral: now no longer the worst day of her life, but the memory that was still seared into her mind. She recalled Lord Reyne as a stoic man, but he’d been kind to her in her grief. Alicent hoped the years had not taken that away from him, but they likely had.

Time always stole away kindness.

Lord Beesbury looked pensive. Alicent could practically hear the man pushing house markers along the map in his head as the conversation continued. “Was Princess Rhaenyra involved in such a discussion?”

“The Princess Rhaenyra has continued to seclude herself and,” he paused, his gaze heavy and considering as he took in those around the table. “Her second husband, Daemon Targaryen, at Dragonstone. Neither has she come to the small council as her status allows, nor has she engaged with matters of the realm that her being heir gives her right to,” her father said smoothly, and he was right. “The king still grieves his daughter’s choices, and she has yet to amend with him. I agree with Lord Lannister and our Grand Maester. This would show the strength and unity and willingness of House Targaryen to bond and celebrate with the realm.”

Beesbury gave a humorless chuckle. “And nothing to do with presenting Prince Aegon formally.” As a contender. As a choice - that was left unsaid.

Alicent felt a surge of anger inside of her, instinct compelling her to protect her children and pull the wool Viserys and Rhaenyra spun from Beesbury’s eyes so he could see the truths they refused to acknowledge.

Not long after Aemond had been born, Lord Lyonel had enlisted her in trying to get Viserys to hold another declaration to follow Rhaenyra, if she was truly his desired heir even with two healthy boys of his blood. The King had originally chosen Rhaenyra because of the loss of Baelon and Aemma. Everyone wanted to keep Daemon off the throne, lest he became another Maegor the Cruel… and now, he was to be Rhaenyra’s consort, and Viserys still would do nothing. Alicent refused to believe that Rhaenyra would kill her half-siblings, that she would kill Alicent’s children for whatever love had been there. Every dark, curly haired little boy caused her to fear not what Rhaenyra would decide, but what others would encourage her to do. Her father had not been wrong - her sons would be beacons of rebellion, damned by the man who had so desperately craved a son, yet now ignored. How bitter a pill.

Daemon terrified her. They should all be terrified of him. Daemon now had Rhaenyra’s ear and her heart and her body. Daemon was not one to hesitate if something stood in his way.

Did you fuck Daemon Targaryen in a pleasure house? Targaryens have such queer customs.

“Prince Aegon is eight and ten, an accomplished dragonrider, ah…” Mellos trailed off, and the uncertainty on his face clawed at Alicent’s insides. Failure was acid in her throat.

Either you prepare Aegon…

That boy who would be king had groped six serving girls at the last feast before drinking and whoring his way through the Street of Silk.

“My sister and heir is of unimpeachable character,” Larys’ quiet voice carried within the room. “As a child, Abrogail was a playmate of Prince Aegon and his siblings, and she has become a beloved ward of Queen Alicent, who has done a remarkable job of raising her after the deaths of our parents. I would consider her to be a prime example of all our realm offers to a family that has, if I may be candid, gone to great lengths to keep to their own since the conquest. Wouldn’t you agree, Grand Maester?”

That poor girl she’d now chained to him was a picture of the Maiden. It had taken everything to ensure that her father waited for it. She would not have another bride offered to the throne before she was of age, while her father wanted nothing more than for Aegon to grow up.

Tension crept back into the room at Larys’ words. Nobody would think to utter these thoughts had Viserys been sitting there. Mellos cleared his throat and avoided her father’s gaze to adjust the heavy chain around his neck. The title of Grand Maester had been his even before Viserys’ reign, and he was possibly the closest representative that was not her to speak to Viserys’ mind.

“I would agree, Lord Strong. Perhaps even exploring the eventuality of wedding Prince Aegon’s children to Prince Jacaerys’ would… reassure Princess Rhaenyra. She once suggested a betrothal between Princess Helaena and-”

“We already have other candidates in mind for my daughter,” Alicent cut in immediately. She wouldn’t say anything about Jace’s children and future grandchildren. She refused to entertain the idea that Helaena would marry Rhaneyra’s son to cover her indignity and insult to everything that she had been given and born into. “We have time before the wedding,” she said with a gentler tone. “A year should be more than enough to introduce them to the realm and start introducing Prince Aegon to newer responsibilities befitting his station.”

That was time enough to beat her son into someone who could be King.

Morning light streamed through the gauzy, sage curtains of the princess’ room. Abrogail licked the honey clinging to her fingers as she moved towards the washbasin, abandoning half-eaten bread and cold cuts of meat at the table. Helaena also ignored their meal as she lingered at the only window that could give her a good view of the Dragonpit. Vhagar had been on the prowl that morning, unusually territorial, and the change in the dragon’s temperament had entranced the friend whom she called sister. She jumped when Abby ventured near her, eyes wide and body tense as a startled cat, so the redhead pivoted in the opposite direction in order to retrieve Helaena’s bodice. Normally, she did not wear one unless the Queen noticed, but on days when her mind drifted, the structure of the garment seemed to keep Helaena focused on the moment instead of her dreams. The princess was somewhere else in her thoughts, mechanically holding up her arms to have the bodice slipped over her shift.

“I’m going to tighten the laces now, alright, Helaena?” Abrogail told the princess as she always did, walking through the process so she wasn’t surprised by anything.

Helaena gave no verbal indication that she was listening, but Abby noticed her pale blonde head bob in acceptance. Slowly, she began straightening the garment, mindful of keeping her touch on the lacing and the chemise from pulling and pinching uncomfortably and defeating the purpose.

“Pink and red, he might be dead. Blue and black, no coming back,” Helaena murmured. Her gaze drifted to Myrella Penrose, who approached with a yellow, diamond patterned dress for inspection. “I don’t want my scales to be so bright.” Helaena’s voice did not rise from her quiet tone, and her gaze flitted away.

“How about the new one from Sevenmas?” Abby offered brightly before Myrella’s face could twist into the uncertain and disturbed look it took whenever Helaena drifted. “The ocean blue one with the beading. That’ll be nice to feel, right, Helaena?”

The princess tilted her head about, humming. “Yes, that would be.” She threaded her fingers together, pressing in so the knuckles would crack. Myrella visibly winced at the sound, but Abby just shook her head and carefully tucked the laces into the bodice. “The perfect hug,” came the breathless statement, before Helaena’s bright lavender eyes finally focused away from whatever she was tracking to turn around and look towards her. Abby took the dress from Myrella and offered her cousin a smile as she held it up. She was used to Helaena’s inquisitive gazes, as if she was a bug under the pretty Maester’s glass Aemond had gifted his sister. “Do you need them, too?”

“A hug?” Abby frowned.

“Scales - armor to protect you,” she clarified. Helaena held her arms up to slide the dress over her head, and Abby left her to do the little buttons down the front herself. “Or would you prefer a pretty carapace? Silver and reds, greens and blue. Pinks and black and gold.”

Abby laughed at the idea of being covered in so many colors, and Helaena even returned the smile as she finished her buttons. It was a good sign, and the tingle of worry that had been crawling up and down along her spine immediately eased. “To be decorated in so many colors? That would make for lovely armor.”

Helaena’s mood was improving, which meant that when the Queen finally came in, she wouldn’t immediately launch into fretting and worrying about the princess being in ‘one of her episodes.’ Abby knew the Queen did not mean it badly, but it still made her uncomfortable. Were her mother still there, she would say something if Abby expressed her concern. She was alone here now, and things were as different as the day and night.

The door creaked open, but it wasn’t Alicent who entered. Helaena’s little smile turned bright and beaming: “Aemond!”

At four and ten, the boy was steadily growing with each passing turn of the moon. While bypassing Abrogail in height was no difficult feat, he now stood as tall as his sister and mother. Prince Aegon was the next family member he was bound to outgrow, and the Queen had already tasked her with ordering clothes to be made ready for when Aemond shot up again. Lord Otto towered over most, and he japed that Aemond might make it where Aegon had failed to surpass him.

Hearing Helaena’s joyous declaration, Abby caught a spray of pink blooming on his pale cheeks, and Aemond reached up to adjust the soft leather strap of his eyepatch. The scar no longer looked angry, but it was prominent; a ridge of thick skin that was only just smoothing out with time. The prince held a jar carefully in his hands. He took several steps before Abby clucked her tongue at him the way she would at her own cat, though Theraxis had not joined her that morning in Helaena’s room. Earlier, a maid brought along with their meals news that the cat was gallivanting in the discarded feathers while the scullery maids plucked chickens.

“Your mother will be up any minute. She said she doesn’t want to catch you in here anymore,” Abby warned with an arched brow. There was no censure in her teasing tone. Aemond was nearly her own little brother, although much was changing as they left their childhoods behind.

“She won’t be here for him,” Helaena said in a voice far more present than it had been before, Aemond’s very presence pulling her back down to earth and away from the clouds. “What did you bring me?” Even though her buttons were only half-done, Helaena rushed across the room to Aemond with her arms outstretched and fingers wiggling. “Oh! It’s beautiful! Abby! Look!” She held up the jar filled with little sticks and leaves – a fat blue and yellow cocoon precariously hanging from one forked stick inside. “I wonder if it belongs to the ones I released last year.”

“You’ll be the mother of all the moths and butterflies in the Red Keep,” Aemond said softly, so softly that Abby could hardly hear him despite standing close by.

Abrogail moved away from the siblings, smiling at Myrella and leading the woman to the opened door. “Thank you for your help this morning. I believe the Queen will need you more today. Let her know we’ll be going to the gardens later, if you please.” Lately, the Queen had been sending the Penrose woman to help Abby tend to the princess’ needs. It had made her nervous. When she asked the Queen if she was being replaced, the words stuck to her throat. Her Grace had been adamant that it was not the case at all, that it was only so Abrogail could learn from her in preparation for her own running of a household, and give Helaena time to get used to someone else helping her.

Another part of Abby wondered if the Queen knew Aemond was still coming to visit in the morning. Or worse, that Uncle Otto was spying. Abby was protective of her friends, her kin. They were siblings bonded through the years of fights in the mud and pranks and stories in the nursery. Bonds such as theirs were not so easily broken; they only changed as time passed, as things happened, like Aemond losing an eye.

Myrella Penrose gave her a tight smile and left down the hall. Abby watched her go, lingering in the door as Aemond and Helaena whispered in the room. Her friend’s quiet giggles were a rare sound, and Abby would do anything to protect those moments for her, for them both. She tugged at the embroidered cuffs of her dark blue-gray dress, thumbs brushing the little weirwood leaves sewn in delicate scarlet thread. Little golden dragons danced through them as a symbol of her ties with the family. Aegon had picked the golden thread, predictable as ever, when she’d asked his opinion.

She thought of the embroidered knot Helaena had been making – silver and green, tangling with red and black and gold. There were so many twists, but Helaena assured her that there was a rhyme to it, a dance with complicated steps. Aemond’s soft laugh cracked a bit, and Abby bit her lower lip to hide her giggle at the sound. She turned her head, and while she couldn’t quite make them out, she could see their shadows along the stone floor. They stood close together, heads bowed over something - maybe the jar, she couldn’t tell.

Heavy and purposeful footsteps echoed down the hall. Abby’s head snapped up from where she stood within the doorway, not immediately visible. She strained to identify the cadence, and her stomach twisted when she did.

“It’s him,” she hissed, glancing wide-eyed over her shoulder. Aemond’s head was close to Helaena’s with her hands resting on his shoulders. At Abby’s raised alarm, her fingers twisted in his dark green doublet and yanked him towards the partition, shoving him behind it. Abby snatched the jar with the precious cocoon inside and tucked it on the bookshelf behind the embroidered manticore Helaena had just finished. Otto Hightower’s footsteps were not alone, although the Hightower guards did not enter the Princess’ room when he swept in. Abby immediately dropped into a curtsy, a murmur of, “Lord Uncle.” Helaena bobbed slightly, twisting back and forth a bit. “Good morning, grandfather,” she said, bounding up to press a kiss on his cheek. If Otto had any weakness, it would be his unparalleled love and favoritism of his granddaughter. It was hard to tell how much Helaena enjoyed her grandfather’s attention and how much was one of her games, but whatever it was, it worked.

“Good morning, sweet girl. You look lovely today.” Otto’s voice was fond, his smile more gentle than he seemed capable of. He was an intimidating man. Abby had received nothing but kindness and vague disinterest, but he still made her nervous. “I hope you don’t mind, but I need to borrow your cousin.” She felt her cheeks color as Otto’s gaze moved to her. Her mouth dried as her nerves returned to where they’d been when standing before the Queen, wondering if she was being replaced. Perhaps Larys was sending her back to Harrenhal or her sister was demanding she go to her in Casterly Rock.

Helaena smiled at her, though, with her hands folded across her stomach. “I’ll help you with your carapace later,” she reassured her. “You won’t be without armor.”

Closing the door behind them, the Hightower guards followed a few paces behind as Abby fell in step with him.

“Is everything alright?” she asked as they went left instead of right, towards the Hand’s tower. It had been years since she’d walked this path that had been as familiar to her as the gardens of the Red Keep. Her eyes glanced for the loose stone at the corner of the step, where she’d stow secret messages in the little hollow behind it. Had she left a note there? Was there perhaps a mystery one waiting for her?

“It is. And I hope you have been well yourself.” Lord Otto looked down at her gently, and she nodded. “The Queen says you pray often in the Sept?”

A prompt. A strange one, but a prompt all the same. She swallowed past her dry mouth and put a smile on her face. “Yes, I enjoy the quiet, and it helps me feel closer to my parents.” And brother, but she was careful not to mention Harwin around anyone but a handful. “It’s especially nice when her Grace joins me. It’s almost like I have my mother back.” No one could replace her mother, but the Queen had been there for as long as she could remember, and sometimes, when she tilted her head a certain way and the light caught in Queen Alicent’s auburn curls, she could pretend her mother was there once more.

“Her Grace speaks highly of you – how good you are with Princess Helaena, well behaved and polite. She said that you and the princess have made things for the poor children of the city. A very kind and admirable pursuit for you both. Your father would be very proud.”

“Thank you.” Abby wasn’t sure what else to say or what he was getting at as they began climbing the winding staircase. The familiarity of it hit her like a scent memory - one sudden and revealing of long-forgotten feelings. “I do my best to follow the Queen’s guidance and reflect well on my position within the family and her example.”

“Good. Very good.” She wasn’t sure if it was something she was supposed to reply to, so she hedged her bets and remained quiet. Her palms were sweating, and she discreetly wiped them on her skirt as she held the fabric. “I’ve noticed that you and Prince Aegon do not spend as much time together as you used to.”

Aegon? Why was she being asked about Aegon? Her stomach twisted, and she felt a prickle of heat along the back of her neck. It was true: they didn’t spend as much time together, but they hadn’t for years now, not since she spent more of her time with Helaena and… Aegon? Well, Aegon had been withdrawing slowly but surely for so long, like fraying threads at the seams. She’d be lying if she claimed to not miss him, because she did. She missed the happier boy he’d been, who did not constantly ply himself with drink and was more mercurial than a wild dragon.

Abrogail would also be lying if she claimed they saw little of one another, or spent no time at all because that was untrue as well. Until the past few moons, she’d gather lunch for the two of them when he finally rose well past noon, and he’d take her flying wherever he and Sunfyre desired to go. It had been something quiet and cherished, simply the three of them away from everything. Until Aegon had gotten in the tavern brawl all that time ago. Until Aegon started avoiding her. Until he barely acknowledged her at meals that he decided to join, even when he sat beside her. There was no way that Otto Hightower would not be aware of that, and she would not hedge around it. It wasn’t like anything untoward was happening.

“Not as much, but that is a natural casualty of leaving behind childhood. He found me earlier this week because it seemed there was a lack of honey cakes in the kitchen and I was the first to be interrogated.” There was a note of amusement in her voice, and Abby smiled in memory of his indignation and how silly he looked when she shoved honey cake into his mouth to stop his ranting. “He occasionally accompanies me in the Sept to pray. It’s incredibly kind of him to do so.”

She mounted a few more steps before realizing that Lord Hightower had paused. She turned to look at him. Morning light streaked through the narrow, delicate paned windows, casting shadow and illuminating dust in the air. He stared up at her, and with a few steps between them, she stood at his height. It was the first time she’d ever met her uncle’s eyes. Unlike her own unreadable brother, Otto’s face was not so impassive. He looked intrigued by her admission. Abby’s hands wound into her skirt so as not to fidget.

“He was not inappropriate, if that is your concern, my lord. Prince Aegon behaved with due respect.” To defend Aegon was second nature to her, and she would do so towards arguably the most powerful man in the realm if it meant to spare Aegon more shame and ire when, for once, he’d done nothing wrong. Which was true. Aegon hadn’t said a single thing. He knelt beside her, lighting candles, and simply stayed with her while she prayed for her family. He hadn’t even put a hand of comfort on her shoulder. She felt that was worth mentioning, given his current proclivities. She would not deny his vices, but she would not break confidence, and she would let no one, especially Lord Otto, think any worse of him if she could help it.

“Very good.” It took everything in her to keep the bewilderment off her face as she tried to understand what exactly he was trying to figure out. Otto resumed their progress, although now he rested a heavy hand between her shoulder blades like a father guiding a child. “So, you have no current complications with him?”

Complications? Did he think she’d lifted her skirts for Aegon? It wasn’t like she’d never thought of kissing him on those lazy afternoons when they’d lay in the grass and stare at the sky somewhere in the Kingswood with Sunfyre sunning himself like a cat. Of course she’d thought about kissing him, especially when he was at his most melancholy, with tears pooling in his eyes, making them pinker than normal. A kiss beyond the games children play, a kiss to comfort an angry prince in the firelight’s glow, his tears coursing down his cheeks with each snip of her embroidery scissors that sent locks of moonlight hair to the ground.

He’d never touched her more than a handhold, and far less than she touched him in her casual affections.

“No. No complications,” she confirmed.

They reached the landing, and Abby ran her hand over the stone dragon curled up in eternal sleep at the top of the stairs. Her fingers scratched along the smooth curve of its head the way she’d done every morning when she visited her father. She felt her uncle’s gaze on her, and she drew her hand away, hurrying to follow him into his office with her cheeks burning beneath her freckles, relieved only just by his vaguely amused expression.

The room was darker than it had been before. Gone were the stacks of books with various slips of paper sticking out haphazardly, or Theraxis lounging lazily along the cool stone floor by the door with his fluffy tail, sending motes of dust into the air. She instinctively clutched her skirt on the right to pull them away, so used to a giant paw the size of her hand grabbing at the fluttering fabric. But Theraxis was not there. The crumbling tome about the Andal invasion was absent from where it once rested on the side table. Instead, Larys stood by the fire with his back to her, as did the Queen, her lovely green dress covering her from neck to wrist with a golden pattern woven in the fabric that caught the firelight. Her face pinched in the way it did when she was uncertain and trying not to pick at her nails.

Abby noticed, of course. It usually meant that someone was about to get yelled at or she would send them away with the other ladies.

The figure in the chair slouched so far down that his silver head nearly vanished behind the back of it. At the clearing of Lord Otto’s throat, Aegon jerked up. His whole body held so much tension that it made Abby’s own hurt just by looking at him. He peered over his shoulder at them with glossy, red-rimmed eyes that give him a strange, ethereal sort of gaze, skin pale enough to prominently display the flushed pink mottling of a strike against his right cheek. He looked stuffy and uncomfortable in his dark green doublet, his fingers absently tugging at the buttons and collar. As his gaze focused, his eyes widened and darted from the uncertainty she knew was on her own face to his grandfather behind her.

The thud as Otto shut the door reverberated through her, and she and Aegon both flinched at the sound. Out of the corner of her eye, Abby could see the Queen flinch as well. Larys, as always, looked unphased. The heavy hand on her back pushed her towards the empty chair closer to the fire, and she had no time to bob a curtsy; courtesies stuck like toffee in her mouth.

The chairs once held the delicately embroidered pillows her mother made. She would curl up with them and read aloud from the books scattered around while her papa worked. He would-

“Queen Alicent and Lord Larys have received several letters expressing interest in you, Abrogail,” Otto said, walking behind his desk. She dug her thumbnail into the pad of her middle finger, and she saw Aegon’s booted foot twitch on the flagstone – a rocking motion from the ball of his foot to his heel before slapping it back down beneath the desk. Wood crackled in the fireplace. “Lord Farman is looking for a wife for his eldest, and Faircastle would be close to your sister.”

He plucked a scroll from the basket as he spoke, and Abby felt her stomach churn with nerves as a red heat clawed along her throat. She did not venture a look at Aegon, save for the foot he kept rocking back, the heel he repeatedly ground into the floor. He’d not gone back to slouching. He could be indolent and rude when he wanted, but not even Aegon dared to in his grandfather’s presence. Abby didn’t understand what this was about, or why Aegon was here.

“Edmund Vance, the heir to House Vance, recently lost his wife. A good man, and part of the Riverlands although a small seat. Or, if you married Jesper Celtigar, the heir of Crackclaw, you’d be able to remain in King’s Landing.”

Otto Hightower produced scroll after scroll and Abrogail felt the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks, confusion keeping her words locked away. How was she supposed to react to all of this? What was he trying to say? Were all these marriage proposals meant to make her feel better about herself? No, that was too odd to contemplate.

Why was Aegon here?

“Lord Grover has also written of his interest in you for his grandson. A Paramount seat would let you be close to your home at Harrenhal, and he already has an heir. He would take good care of you, and your children would have every opportunity.” Another scroll plucked from the basket. “It would bring Harrenhal into their holdings. Is that not correct, Lord Larys?”

Right. Harrenhal.

A woman’s lot is to only be worth what she could bring to the table.

Her brother was a man of few words, and he inclined his head with a shadow of a smile flickering across his face. Abby looked at the queen to find that her face was pinching harder. In the interim, Queen Alicent stepped away from the fire and moved instead to the desk with the gentle swoosh of her skirts gliding across the stone. She cleared her throat, a smile fighting its way on her face.

“All the offers were wonderful for you, my sweet girl, but none seemed right.” The Queen reached out to tuck a copper curl behind her ear, and Abby could not tell if this was supposed to be comforting to her or if the Queen sought comfort in the action for herself. Her lungs felt constricted, and it finally dawned on her.

Oh.

The sole of Aegon’s boot continued to drag across the stone in both a nervous fidget and to keep himself from slouching down even further into the chair. The only reason she could hear it was because of how focused she’d been on it, but now blood rushed into her head and Abby broke eye contact with her cousin to look down in her lap.

“What does seem right is for you and Aegon to be married, after your nameday. You’ll be eight and ten, and the pair of you will go to live at Harrenhal, and make your home there.”

Oh.

“Are you fucking serious?” Aegon’s voice was a hoarse, disused rasp from a night with endless drink. When she looked at him again, she noticed that his hair was still damp, and that beads of water from the wet ends had soaked little spots into the collar of his shirt. He wasn’t looking at her, but up at his mother, and then, incredulously, across the desk at his grandfather.

Otto’s face remained impassive following his grandson’s outburst. Abby wanted to grab Aegon and drag him out of the way of whatever was about to come out of the Hand’s mouth, as if the words would physically harm him.

The silence lengthened. Another log popped in the fireplace.

“He speaks.” The amusement in Otto’s voice caused Aegon to draw back further into his chair before he finally turned to look at her. His eyes were so red-rimmed, and his sullen face was so terribly pale that the pink-lilac of his eyes stood out ethereally, inhumanly like the drawing of a fae folk from a book she had as a child - wild and cornered. He’d bitten his pouty, chapped lips bloody.

Aegon searched her face for an answer to a question that she did not know. The only thing Abrogail could do was give him the gentle, reassuring smile she’d given him countless times before. It was what she did in this world: comfort her loved ones in any way possible, even as she needed to bury her own feelings on the matter. Feelings that, in this particular case, she couldn’t even begin untangling in the moment.

“Well, that makes us luckier than most, doesn’t it?” Abby cleared her throat and turned the smile onto the others in the room. She reached up to grasp the Queen’s hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze before she burst into a million pieces. Whether it was her, or the Queen, that might burst, she could not say. “We are fortunate to know one another so well and to be of an age. I thank you Lord Hightower, your Grace.” She looked at Larys, who remained silent in his observations, as always – an owl in a tree, eyes taking in everything. “Thank you, brother, for looking out for me.”

She felt Aegon’s eyes continue to pin on her. She looked back at him.

The wild and anxious expression was still on his face, and instinct compelled her, as it often did, to reach out her hand to take his - but he surprised her by beating her to it. His skin felt like fire engulfing her frigid hand and his fingers tangled with hers with easy familiarity. Before she could register what was happening, Aegon’s chair was already scraping across the floor and he pulled her from her chair with the momentum of jumping from his own. There was no pause in his movement as he dragged her to the door.

“How very fortunate we are.” A laugh bubbled from Aegon’s chest. It was a joyless sound when he laughed in the presence of his mother and grandsire. It was edged with the familiar mania; Aegon laughed when he was afraid, when he was anxious, when he was trying not to scream as his world was coming apart, or the laughter and joy on the back of Sunfyre. He tilted his head to stare up at the ceiling before throwing a look over his shoulder at the three across the room. “How very lucky we are.”

Aegon’s hand was clammy around hers, his grip bordering on painful. He yanked the door open with a protesting whine of the latch. Abby heard the Queen calling after him, but Aegon’s strides were purposeful as they ate up the ground to get away. Only the grip of their hands kept her from being left behind in the claustrophobic room where their future was being decided for them.

It might have been the second bravest thing she’d ever witnessed from him.

[Chapter Two]

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd fic #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x oc #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon x abby #fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #my fics

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