Chapter 1: The Morning After the Whoring Before
The first thing that hit her was the smell. It was a thick, sweet-rotten blend of spilled Arbor gold, cheap perfume, and the underlying musk of unwashed silk and sweat. Naerys stood in the doorway of her brother’s chambers, her own breath tight in her chest. Crimson and gold tapestries hung motionless in the stale air, their embroidered dragons seeming to writhe in the half-light. Dawn was just beginning to claw its way through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured red and gold spears across the floor, illuminating floating motes of dust and shame.
Aegon was a pale shape in the chaos of his bed. He was sprawled on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, the other dangling off the side. His silver-gold hair was a tangled mess against the pillows. His bare chest rose and fell slowly, and on the skin just above his heart, a smeared crimson lipstick stain stood out like a fresh wound.
Naerys moved. Her steps were silent on the Myrish rug as she crossed the room, her gaze sweeping over the discarded clothes, an overturned goblet, a dagger left carelessly on the floor beside a half-empty bottle. She stopped at the window, her fingers curling around the heavy velvet curtain. For a second, she just stared at her brother’s sleeping form, at the boy she’d built forts with, the twin who’d whispered secrets under covers, now reduced to this… this sleeping monument to indulgence.
She yanked the cord.
Light, harsh and triumphant, flooded the room. It screamed across the gilt and the glass, gouging the shadows from their corners, laying every flaw bare.
Aegon made a guttural sound, jerking his arm from his face. He squinted, his violet eyes hazy and confused. “Seven hells, Naerys. Kill the light.”
“It’s past dawn.” Her voice was low, but it cut through the quiet like that dagger on the floor. “You were supposed to be at the Small Council meeting an hour ago.”
He groaned, rolling onto his side, presenting her with the tense line of his bare back. Another lip stain, lower down. “Tell them I was taken ill.”
“I have. Three times this month alone. Mother is furious. Lord Beesbury actually sniffed the air when I gave your regrets, as if he could smell the lie—or the wine.” She stepped closer, the scent of him making her nostrils flare. “And I am tired. So profoundly tired, Aegon, of making excuses for your whoring.”
That got him moving. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, blinking at her. The morning light was cruel. It showed the puffiness under his eyes, the slight pallor beneath his tan. But the sly, mocking glint was still there, fighting its way to the surface. “Is that what this is? A lecture on my moral failings before breakfast? Bring me some bacon and I’ll listen properly.”
“This isn’t a joke.” She didn’t raise her voice. She never did. It was the cold, flat disappointment that always got under his skin. “Grandsire was there. He asked after you. He looked… old. And you were here, sleeping off whatever廉价 trash you found in the city.”
Aegon’s smile faded. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, fumbling for a discarded tunic. He pulled it on, not bothering to fasten it. “Grandsire is always old. And the Small Council is a nest of old men recounting the same old problems. Nothing is ever decided. Nothing ever changes. My presence is a formality.”
“It is not.” She snatched the empty bottle from his nightstand, holding it up like evidence before a court. “It is your duty. You are the firstborn son of the King. Heir to the Iron Throne. They are waiting for you. To listen. To learn. To lead.”
“Lead them where?” He stood, taller than her, and ran a hand through his hair. “To more feasts? More tax debates? Father is healthy. He’ll reign for another twenty years. Why should I sit in a stuffy room listening to Hightowers and Strongs and Lannisters bicker over grain yields when Sunfyre is waiting?” He said his dragon’s name with a softness he reserved for nothing and no one else.
“Because one day it will be you in that stuffy room!” The words burst out of her, sharp with a frustration she could no longer contain. “And on that day, you’ll need to know about the grain yields. You’ll need to know which lord is trustworthy and which is a sycophant. You’ll need them to respect you. They don’t respect a ghost, Aegon. They respect a prince who shows up.”
He walked past her to the vanity, pouring water from a pitcher into a basin. He splashed his face, avoiding her eyes in the mirror. “They’ll respect the man who rides the golden dragon. That’s how it works for Targaryens. Not through ledgers.”
“That is how you conquer. Not how you rule.” She walked up behind him, their reflections stark in the glass. Twins, yet strangers. The same hair, the same eyes, but where his face was arranged in lines of practiced boredom, hers was etched with a fierce, weary urgency. “I covered for you today. Again. I said you were reviewing dispatches from the Stormlands. Lord Wylde seemed almost impressed.”
Aegon met her gaze in the mirror. A flicker of something—gratitude, shame—passed through his eyes before it was extinguished. “My clever sister. Always the ready lie.”
“I shouldn’t have to lie for you.” Her hand came down on the vanity, startling them both. “Do you think I enjoy it? Do you think I like standing before them, weaving tales about your dedication while you’re still stinking of some… some silk shadow’s perfume?” She gestured violently at the stain on his tunic. “You used to care about more than where your next cup is coming from. We used to talk about the histories, about laws, about what we would do differently.”
“We,” he mocked, turning to face her. The space between them was charged. “There is no ‘we’ on the throne, Naerys. There’s only one. Me. Your dreams of being the power behind it… they’re just dreams. You can’t want it for me more than I want it for myself.”
The truth of it was a physical blow. She took a small step back. The fire in her eyes didn’t die, but it banked, smoldering with a deeper, more painful heat. “I want you to be worthy of it,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Before it’s too late. Before everyone, including Father, sees you as nothing but a beautiful, hollow vessel.”
He flinched. That landed. For all his barbs, her opinion was the chink in his armor. His defiance softened, just for a moment, into a sullen boyishness. “What would you have me do, then? Go now? Walk into the council chamber smelling like a brothel and apologize?”
“Yes.” The word was simple, clean, and absolute. “Better that than cowardice. Show them you’re irresponsible, but show up. Let them see you. Let Mother see you try. Let me see you try.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, the silence stretching between them filled with the ghosts of a thousand childhood pacts. Finally, he let out a long, weary breath, all the fight draining out of him. He looked young, and tired, and lost.
“Fine.” He turned away from her, fumbling for a fresh tunic in a carved chest. “But you tell Mother. And you get Ser Criston to stand outside and keep Beesbury from lecturing me on fiscal responsibility before I’ve had any bloody coffee.”
A small, reluctant victory. It wasn’t repentance. It was capitulation to her nagging. But it was movement. Naerys watched him dress, the rigid line of her shoulders easing just a fraction.
“And Aegon?” she said, as he buckled his belt.
“What now?”
“Wash your neck. The lip paint is… extensive.”
He shot her a look, part glare, part rueful acknowledgment, his fingers going to the side of his throat. He scrubbed at it with water from the basin, the red stubborn against his skin. A mark he couldn’t simply fly away from. Naerys turned and left him to it, stepping out into the cooler, cleaner air of the corridor, the first skirmish over, but the war for her brother’s soul feeling, as always, impossibly long.
Naerys turned and left him to it, stepping out into the cooler, cleaner air of the corridor, the first skirmish over, but the war for her brother’s soul feeling, as always, impossibly long.
Naerys turned and left him to it, stepping out into the cooler, cleaner air of the corridor, the first skirmish over, but the war for her brother’s soul feeling, as always, impossibly long.
She hadn’t taken ten steps before a page in the red-and-black livery of the household guard fell into step beside her, his young face carefully neutral. “Princess Naerys. Their Graces the King and Queen request your presence in the King’s solar. Your brother, Prince Aegon, as well.”
A cold trickle, unrelated to the morning chill, traced down her spine. Requests from both parents, delivered together, were never about pleasant things. “Now?”
“Immediately, Princess.”
She nodded, dismissing him with a wave, and turned on her heel. Back to Aegon’s door. She didn’t knock, just pushed it open. He was half-dressed, trying to knot a sash into something presentable.
“Forget the Small Council,” she said, her voice flat. “Mother and Father. The solar. Now.”
He froze, the silk hanging from his hands. “Why?”
“The page didn’t have a scroll detailing their reasons, Aegon. He said ‘immediately’. Move.”
The walk to their father’s solar was tense and silent. Aegon, for once, seemed to grasp the gravity of a summons that included the word ‘immediately’. He kept pace beside her, his earlier petulance replaced by a wary tension. The Holdfast was coming alive around them, servants scurrying, the smell of baking bread from the kitchens wafting through the halls, a mundane world carrying on beneath the weight of royal whim.
The Kingsguard knight at the door, Ser Willis Fell, gave them a curt nod and opened the ornate door.
King Viserys Targaryen sat in a high-backed chair by the hearth, where a low fire took the edge off the morning’s damp. He looked thinner than Naerys remembered, the costly velvet of his doublet seeming to hang on a fading frame, though his smile was warm. Queen Alicent stood by the window, her green gown severe and perfect, her hands clasped before her. She did not smile.
“Come in, my dears,” Viserys said, his voice a gentle rasp. “Sit. Some wine?”
“No, thank you, Father,” Naerys said, taking the offered seat. Aegon remained standing, leaning against the stone mantelpiece, a picture of casual insolence he hoped would mask his unease.
“We have had news,” Alicent began, cutting straight to it. Her gaze was fixed on some point between her children. “A raven from Oldtown. The negotiations with the Starry Sept have concluded. The Faith has agreed to formally endorse the line of Viserys, and all subsequent Targaryen successions, without reservation.”
Naerys blinked. This was good news. Monumental. The Faith’s uneasy tolerance of Targaryen practices—their incestuous marriages, their dominance by right of dragonfire—had always been a silent threat. An endorsement solidified their rule, legitimized it in the eyes of the millions who prayed to the Seven. “That is… wonderful, Mother.”
“It is,” Viserys agreed, beaming. “It brings a stability the realm has needed since the Conquest. It grants us a sacred legitimacy.”
Alicent’s eyes snapped to Aegon, then to Naerys. “Such a concession requires a reciprocal gesture of faith from the Crown. A demonstration of our commitment to the Seven’s teachings on the sacredness of the union between man and wife. A union that is pure, and sanctified, and beyond reproach.”
The cold trickle in Naerys’s spine became a flood. She knew, then. She knew with a sudden, terrifying clarity where this was headed. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair.
Aegon, slower on the uptake, frowned. “What gesture?”
Viserys leaned forward, his expression one of grandfatherly benevolence. “The Faith has long been… unsettled… by the traditional marital practices of our House. To secure their full and permanent blessing, we must provide them with a symbol. A royal wedding that exemplifies purity and piety.” He spread his hands. “A joining of two Targaryens of impeccable lineage, raised in the light of the Seven, to produce heirs who will carry this blessing forward.”
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
Aegon pushed himself off the mantel. “You cannot be serious.”
“It is decided,” Alicent said, her voice leaving no room for breath.
“Who?” Naerys asked, though the word felt like glass in her throat.
Viserys looked between them, his smile softening, as if he were bestowing a great gift. “You two, of course.”
Aegon barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “No. Absolutely not.”
“It is not a request, Aegon,” Alicent stated.
“We’re twins,” Naerys said, her own voice surprising her with its steadiness. “We are siblings. The Faith’s teachings abhor–”
“The Faith’s teachings abhor the wedlock of brother to sister when it is done outside the sight of the Gods, for base desire alone,” Alicent interrupted, her composure iron. “This union will be solemnized by the High Septon himself in the Great Sept of Baelor. It will be a holy covenant, blessed by the Seven. It transforms a sin into a sacrament. That is the point.”
“I don’t want to marry her,” Aegon said, blunt as a hammer.
Naerys flinched. The sting was immediate and hot. “The feeling is profoundly mutual.”
“It doesn’t matter what you want,” Viserys said, though his tone was still kind, as if explaining a difficult concept to children. “It is what the realm needs. What our House needs. This alliance with the Faith will do more to secure your future reign, Aegon, than a hundred dragons ever could. Peace is built on more than fear.”
“So I am to be a peace offering?” Naerys shot back, her composure cracking. “A sop to the Starry Sept? My life, my… my self, bargained for their endorsement?”
“You are a princess of the blood,” Alicent corrected, coldly. “Your duty has always been to the continuity and security of your family. This is that duty, made manifest.”
Aegon was shaking his head, pacing a short, furious path on the rug. “This is absurd. I won’t do it. Find some cousin. Marry me to one of the Lannister girls, or a Baratheon. Unite two great houses. That’s sensible.”
“The Faith requires the symbol to be pure Targaryen,” Alicent insisted. “A reaffirmation of your unique lineage, sanctified by their Gods. Any other match dilutes the message.”
“I am not a message!” Aegon shouted, his voice echoing off the stone. “I am a man. I will not be shackled to my own sister for the sake of some old men in septs who can’t stand the thought of us!”
“You will,” Viserys said, and for the first time, the gentleness left his voice. It was not loud, but it was final, edged with the absolute authority of the throne. “You are my son and heir. She is my daughter. This is my command. The betrothal will be announced tonight at the feast. The wedding will take place in two moons’ time.”
Naerys felt the world narrowing, the rich tapestries on the walls bleeding together into a blur of color. The fire’s warmth turned oppressive. Duty. Always duty. A cage gilded with the words ‘for the realm’. She looked at her brother, really looked at him—the boy she’d loved, the man she despaired of—and saw her own horrified reflection in his violet eyes. The thought of his hands on her, his mouth on hers, the lifetime of his indifference and her resentment formalized in a sacred vow…
“No,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Alicent and Viserys said, in unison, a wall of will against which their children’s protests broke and meant nothing.
The silence that followed was heavier than any crown. Naerys felt it press down on her lungs, making each breath a shallow, stolen thing. Aegon had gone very still, his previous agitation frozen into a cold, stiff posture. He was staring at their father as if seeing him for the first time, the King’s kindly face now a mask of implacable authority.
Alicent stepped forward, her skirts whispering across the stone floor. “You will both be present at the feast tonight. You will smile. You will accept the congratulations of the court. You will embody the unity and future of House Targaryen.” Her gaze, sharp as Valyrian steel, pinned each of them in turn. “Is that understood?”
Naerys found her voice, though it was thin and strained. “And if we refuse?”
Viserys’s sigh was one of profound disappointment. “There is no refusal, my child. This is the course of history. It is your duty, and your destiny.” He leaned back, the audience clearly over. “You may go. Prepare yourselves.”
They were dismissed like children.
Naerys stood on legs that felt carved from stone and walked out. Aegon followed, his footsteps unnaturally loud in the quiet corridor. They walked side by side, the space between them crackling with unsaid things. When they reached a deserted balcony overlooking the training yard, Naerys stopped, gripping the sun-warmed stone ledge until her knuckles turned white.
“This is a farce,” Aegon muttered. He pulled a flagon of something from inside his tunic—where had he been hiding it?—and took a long, defiant swig.
“It’s a prison sentence,” Naerys corrected, her eyes fixed on the far horizon where the Blackwater Bay glittered. Freedom, out there. An illusion.
“Same thing.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Two moons. We have two moons to think of something.”
“Think of what?” she snapped, turning to him. The frustration boiled over, hot and bitter. “You heard them. It’s decided. The ravens have flown. The Faith is invested. We are a transaction, Aegon. A symbol. Symbols don’t get a choice.”
“I am not a symbol!” he roared, flinging the flagon against the far wall where it shattered, the sound echoing like a small rebellion.
“You keep saying that,” she said, her voice dropping to a dead calm. “But you are. You’re the heir. I’m the spare. And now we’re to be welded together into one pretty, politically useful piece. That’s all we are to them.”
He stared at her, his chest heaving. The morning light caught in his hair, turning it to a disheveled halo. He had always been beautiful, even in his ruin. She hated that she noticed it now, of all times.
“There has to be a way out,” he insisted, but the fire was leaching from his voice, replaced by a sullen, trapped desperation she knew all too well.
“There isn’t,” she said, and the finality of it hollowed her out. She pushed past him, leaving him alone with the broken shards and the impossible situation.
The feast that night was a grotesque parody of celebration. The Great Hall blazed with light, a thousand candles reflecting off gold plate and jewels. The smell of roast boar and honeyed wine was cloying, suffocating. Naerys wore a gown of deep blue silk, her hair braided in an intricate, heavy style that made her head ache. She sat at the high table, a fixed, pleasant smile plastered on her face that felt like it would crack her skull.
Aegon, to her left, was performing his own version of dutiful son. He was drinking steadily, but with a controlled precision that kept him from slurring. He laughed at jokes, clapped lords on the back, his charm turned up to a blinding, brittle wattage. Only she could see the deadness behind his eyes.
King Viserys rose, tapping his goblet with a knife. The hall fell silent, a sea of expectant, smiling faces turned upward.
“My dear friends,” he began, his voice strengthened by wine and triumph. “We gather in joy tonight. Joy for the realm! For today, we have secured a blessing that will shepherd our great dynasty into a new age of peace and prosperity.” He beamed, spreading his arms wide. “The Faith has pledged its unwavering support to our House, to our legacy, and to the continuation of our line.”
A cheer rippled through the crowd. Naerys took a sip of wine, the taste like ash.
“And to seal this sacred covenant,” Viserys continued, his eyes finding his children, “the Faith has asked for a sign of our devotion. A union that embodies the purity and future of our blood. It is with the greatest happiness that I announce the betrothal of my beloved son and heir, Aegon,” he gestured expansively, “to my cherished daughter, Naerys!”
The cheers that erupted were thunderous. Goblets were raised, toasted shouted toward the vaulted ceiling. Confetti in the Targaryen colors was tossed into the air, drifting down like diseased snow. The noise was a physical wave, beating against Naerys until she thought she might vomit.
She kept the smile on her face. She nodded graciously as the cheers washed over her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aegon raise his cup in a mocking salute to the room, his own grin a sharp, dangerous thing.
Across the sea of celebrating faces, only two were not turned toward the king in rapturous approval. Helaena, their younger sister, was staring at Naerys, her large, dreamy eyes wide with a pained understanding. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head, a thread of shared sorrow.
And beside her, Aemond. His single violet eye was fixed not on the king, but on his twin siblings. His gaze was calculating, dissecting. He saw the rigid set of Naerys’s shoulders, the too-bright gloss of unshed tears she refused to let fall. He saw the tightness around Aegon’s jaw, the white-knuckled grip on his cup. A faint, cold smirk touched Aemond’s lips. He saw their misery, and he found it interesting.
Naerys was more upset than Aegon. For her, this was not just an inconvenience or a joke. It was the systematic dismantling of her own life, her autonomy, her very self, repackaged as an honor. The cheers of the court felt like spikes being hammered into her coffin.
Aegon, meanwhile, was drowning his anger in the adulation. He leaned over, his breath warm and wine-scented against her ear, his voice a low murmur meant only for her beneath the din. “Look at them all. So happy for us.” The bitterness was there, but so was something else, a bleak resignation. His eyes scanned her face, taking in the forced smile, the sheen in her eyes he knew so well.
He had always found Naerys beautiful and captivating, even if they didn’t always get along. In the harsh light of the feast, with her composure splintering, that beauty had a devastating, fragile quality. It was the beauty of a locked tower, of a dragon grounded. It stirred something in him far more complicated than brotherly affection—a possessive, furious pull that made the whole charade even more sickeningly perverse. He looked away, draining his cup in one long gulp, trying to drown the thought along with everything else.