Alicent's POV:
She had understood, from the moment she was wed to Viserys, that her children would be touched by the legacy of Old Valyria. But she had imagined dragon dreams, perhaps, or a conqueror's fire. Never—never—had she imagined this.
From the moment Aegon first opened his eyes, he had surprised her. His first word, spoken at just three moons old—"Kepa"—had been for his father, a fact Viserys cherished. But his second, a week later, was "Muña," and the way his small hand had patted her cheek as he said it made her weep with a joy that still echoed in her ribs. He was walking before he could properly crawl, not on his name day, but by seven moons, his steps steady and purposeful as he crossed the rug to reach for a ring she held. By his second nameday, he was not just reciting his letters but reading simple verses from a maester's scroll, his small finger tracing the lines with a focus that was unnerving. Those early marvels had filled her heart, and they had filled Viserys with a pride that was both intoxicating and dangerous. It gave fuel to the lords who urged the king to see the boy as the future, to speak of his heirship as a certainty.
But the wonders did not remain so simple.
By his fourth nameday, Aegon's questions had outpaced Grand Maester Mellos. He saw patterns in numbers that made seasoned stewards frown in confusion, and his High Valyrian was more fluid than that of the Dragonkeepers. The maesters praised his intellect, the court whispered of omens, and she herself felt a fierce, possessive pride. He had everything one could want in an heir: a sharp mind, a strong will, and the blood of the dragon. What more was there?
Yet a shadow fell over his brilliance after Viserys was dismissed from the small council. Aegon, now five, grew quiet, retreating into a silence that felt heavier than any child's sulk. He would pace the length of his chambers, muttering under his breath as if the weight of the realm already rested on his small shoulders. She would catch him staring into the middle distance, his thoughts turning in realms she could not reach.
But in his strangeness, he was endlessly patient with Helaena and Aemond. He would hover by their cradles, explaining the constellations to a babbling Helaena or promising a wide-eyed Aemond the fiercest dragon in the world. He loves them, she would whisper to herself. He is a good brother. He is a good son.
It was only concerning Rhaenyra that his behavior gave her pause. He never shouted, never sulked in her presence. Instead, he perfected a kind of polite oblivion. If Rhaenyra entered a room, Aegon's gaze would slide over her as if she were a piece of furniture. During the few times Viserys had attempted to gather all his children for a lesson on history or duty, Aegon would answer his father's questions with cool competence, but if the King mentioned Rhaenyra's name or tried to include her in the discourse, a subtle veil would descend. He would not look at her, would not acknowledge her contribution, his small jaw setting in a line of quiet defiance. The first time it happened, Alicent had felt a spike of alarm. But she quickly dismissed it. Was it so strange for a boy to inherit his mother's feelings? To see a rival where one had been placed? It was the simple, predictable friction of a blended house, nothing more.
She had mentioned his intense silences to Mellos, but the old man could only marvel at the Prince's intellectual fervor. And now her son had summoned the court. She prayed—silently, desperately—that whatever he intended would not brand him as cursed, the way the world had turned on the last of the Old King's daughters.
Viserys, meanwhile, seemed to look through the boy these days. His initial, glowing pride had curdled into a kind of bewildered distance once Aegon's brilliance became something he could no longer comprehend. And she… she loved her son with a ferocity that scared her. But she could not deny the cold prickle that crept up her spine when he fixed her with those too-knowing eyes, as if he could see the doubts she hid even from herself. She would never give voice to such a thing. She would sooner bite off her tongue.
He was not like other children. She had known it from the first moment he looked at her and seemed to see straight through to her soul. Even the way he fussed about his hair, pulling at the long silver-gold strands, insisting they "felt wrong" against his neck, twisted her heart with a worry she could not name.
Still, he was her firstborn. Her brilliant, strange, beloved boy. He had the makings of a perfect heir. And whatever awaited him in the yard, she would face it by his side.
The queen found them in the shaded heart of the inner courtyard gardens, a place usually reserved for quiet contemplation. Now, it was the stage for her son's latest, and most public, marvel. King Viserys was there, seated comfortably with a goblet in hand, his expression one of benign amusement. Lord Lyonel Strong stood at his shoulder, a steadying presence, while the rest of the small council and a handful of curious courtiers formed a loose, murmuring circle.
In the center stood Aegon, a stark figure beside the robed bulk of Grand Maester Mellos. Her breath caught. He had shorn his silver-gold hair again, the short crop making him look less a princeling and more a young novitiate. He wore a simple black doublet, devoid of ornament, and in his hands, he held not a toy, but a long, polished rod of darkwood. At his feet, resting on a velvet cushion, was a complex object of interlocking metal rings, centered on a gilded orb. It was exquisitely crafted, far beyond what she thought a child could commission. She saw the faint, ink-stained tremble in his fingers and knew the cost; this was no mere afternoon's diversion. He had poured himself into this creation.
"Well, my boy," King Viserys boomed, his voice jovial and slightly condescending. "You've gathered quite an audience. What grand secret have you unearthed for us today?" He leaned forward, as if awaiting a clever trick with a hidden coin.
Aegon did not smile. He stepped forward, his posture rigid with a pride that was entirely un-childlike. "Father, Honored Lords," he began, his voice clear and carrying, though still high with youth. "I wish to present not a fact, but a theory. A new lens through which to view the world and the heavens above—one built not on faith, but on observation."
He used the rod to point at the metal sphere. "This is an armillary sphere, a model I designed to test my calculations. For moons, I have not merely read, but I have observed. I have compiled the logs of sailors from Lannisport to the Stepstones, who note how ships appear first as sails on the horizon. I have surveyed the accounts of maesters at the Citadel and Starfall, documenting how the stars shift their positions the farther north or south one travels. I have calculated the predictable curvature of shadows during eclipses witnessed from Dorne to the Neck. The data does not lie. The simplest explanation that fits all these countless observations…" he paused, ensuring he had every eye upon him, "...is that our world is not a fixed plane, but a sphere—a globe."
A ripple of bewildered laughter and sharp intakes of breath went through the crowd. A lord she didn't recognize snorted into his sleeve. Another, a pious man from the Stormlands, made the sign of the seven-pointed star over his chest.
Viserys chuckled, not unkindly. "A sphere, you say? A fascinating notion, Aegon. But what of the teachings? The stars and the Sun are the Maiden's lanterns, set in the crystal sphere to light our world, which the Smith forged firm and immovable."
"And so the texts say, Your Grace," Grand Maester Mellos interjected smoothly, though his smile was tight. "It is the divine order, as laid down in the Seven-Pointed Star."
Aegon's gaze was calm, his tone measured and persuasive. "I would not dream of disputing the divine order, Grand Maester. I started from the writings of the Old Valyrians," he countered, a masterful stroke that immediately snared his father's attention. Viserys leaned forward, his casual amusement sharpening into genuine interest. "They, too, observed the world. Their sea charts, the paths of their dragons across the sky… all suggest a pattern. My theory simply takes these patterns to their logical, mathematical conclusion."
He tapped one of the rings on his sphere, making it spin. "The model I propose is this: that our world, this globe, travels around the Sun. And in this, there is no contradiction with the Faith. For who is to say that the Seven, in their infinite wisdom, did not will this magnificent, intricate dance into being? That the Sun is the Father's great eye, and the path we travel is the Mother's embrace? This is not a rejection of the divine, but an attempt to understand its magnificent, complex artistry. We can never truly know the method of creation, only observe its glorious results."
He then gestured broadly upward, his voice filled with genuine awe. "And if this model holds, consider the grandeur it reveals! The Moon, a companion to our own journey. The Sun, not a simple lantern, but a star of such immense scale it defies belief. The other 'wandering stars' are not mere lights, but other worlds, just like ours, all moving in a harmony so profound we are only beginning to perceive it. This does not make our world small; it makes the cosmos a testament to a power far greater than we imagined."
For the next several minutes, he used the rod to illustrate his points, his voice gaining the eager, rapid-fire cadence of true passion as he explained the geometry of seasons, day, and night. It was a dizzying, coherent, and terrifyingly complete cosmology, spun from the mind of a child.
Finally, he presented a thick, leather-bound book. "This contains all my data, my sources, and my calculations. I present it not as truth, but as a theory for the learned to debate."
Viserys took it, his brow furrowed. He leafed through a few pages, his expression shifting from curiosity to confusion, and then to a familiar, pained bewilderment. He snapped the book shut. "This is... remarkably detailed, Aegon," the king said, his voice strained. "Grand Maester? What say you?"
All eyes turned to Mellos. The old man's face was a canvas of profound internal conflict.
"Your Grace," he began, "the Prince's scholarly rigor is… unprecedented. To compile such diverse observations is a feat in itself. However," he continued, his tone growing heavier, "the conclusion, however framed, stands in direct contradiction to doctrine. To speak of the world spinning around the Sun is, by the strictest definition, heresy. It is a dangerous fantasy."
Aegon bowed his head slightly, a gesture of perfect, polished contrition.
"Grand Maester," he said, his voice clear and respectful. "I present it only as a mathematical model that fits the observed phenomena. A pursuit of knowledge, for scholarly purposes alone. I apologize unreservedly if my words gave any offense. That was never my intent. I seek only to understand the world the Gods have given us, in all its mystery."
Mellos stared at the boy, his conflict deepening. The perfect apology, the framing of it as reverent inquiry, made it impossible to condemn the boy himself.
"You are… most courteous, my Prince," Mellos responded, his voice softer. "And your dedication is a virtue. The Citadel encourages the pursuit of knowledge, even of dangerous ideas, if only to better refute them. The Archmaesters will be… debating these postulates for decades to come."
Viserys, seizing on the apology and the scholarly framing to defuse the tension, clapped his hands together. "There! You see? A wonderful theory! A credit to your Valyrian blood, my boy. Such a sharp mind!" He spoke as if praising a well-executed sword stroke, completely missing the seismic shift his son had just caused. He rose, signaling the audience was over, already reaching for the wine to wash away the lingering confusion.
The silence in the corridor was a stark contrast to the murmuring courtyard. The heavy tapestries swallowed all sound, leaving only the whisper of Alicent's skirts and the soft, determined tread of her son's boots. She had taken his hand, her grip firm, and led him away from the spectacle, from his father's bewildered praise and the Grand Maester's damning endorsement.
She did not stop until they were in the seclusion of a forgotten antechamber, the air smelling of old dust and beeswax. She released his hand, turning to face him. The composure he had shown before the court was still there, a mask of cool indifference, but she could see the faint tremor in his shoulders, the aftermath of his great gamble.
"You never spoke a word of this to me," she said, her voice low and tight. "Not a hint. All those hours locked away with your books and your diagrams. You designed that… that sphere. You had a book bound. And you said nothing."
Aegon looked up at her, his violet eyes unnervingly clear. "You are a very religious woman, Mother," he said, his tone not disrespectful, but matter-of-fact, as if stating that the sky was blue. "You find solace in the sept, in the prayers. I highly doubt the geometry of celestial spheres or the orbital velocity of planets would be of any interest to you. You would have only worried."
The simple, brutal logic of it struck her like a physical blow. He had not excluded her out of malice, but out of a clinical assessment of her character. It was somehow worse.
"This interest of yours…" she began, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Why must it be so… scholarly? So dangerous? Why can your pursuits not be of history, or dragonlore, or statecraft? Things that are understood?"
Aegon's head tilted, a gesture that was both childish and ancient. "My interest is my own. It is no more your business than the specific prayers you whisper to the Crone are mine." He paused, his gaze intensifying. "You go to the sept and you feel the presence of your gods. You feel the order, the certainty. It gives you strength. When I look at my numbers, when I trace the paths of the worlds… I see a different kind of order. A grander certainty. It is the same feeling, Mother. You find your truth in a holy text. I find mine in a mathematical proof. Can you not understand that?"
Alicent flinched. He had framed it as a parallel, but to her, it was a perversion. His 'truth' had just been branded heresy. "It is not the same. The Faith binds the realm together. Your… your proofs tear it asunder."
He gave a small, dismissive shrug, the moment of poetic comparison over. "If you are worried I am neglecting my duties, Ser Criston says I am the fastest student he has ever trained with a sword. I have time for the courtyard."
It was a deflection, and a skilled one. Alicent seized on it, the familiar ground of a mother's complaint. "You are adequate," she said, pushing down her fear with criticism. "But you must improve. You grow complacent. In no time at all, Aemond will be big enough to hold a practice sword, and his determination will surpass your talent if you do not apply yourself."
A strange, dry laugh escaped Aegon's lips. It was a sound devoid of a child's joy. "Even if it comes to that," he said, his eyes glinting with a hard, cold light, "I will be the king, will I not?"
The words hung in the dusty air, bald and uncompromising. Alicent's breath caught. She had spoken such things only in the deepest secrecy, in the trusted ears of her father and her allies. To hear them from her son's mouth was both a validation and a horror.
"Yes," she whispered, the word torn from her. "You will. The people, the lords… they expect a son to rule. Not Rhaenyra."
At the mention of the name, Aegon's face underwent a subtle but profound change. The cool scholar vanished. The mask of the indifferent prince cracked. A flicker of pure, unadulterated annoyance crossed his features, so visceral it was almost a flinch. He rolled his eyes, a jarringly juvenile gesture after such a lofty discussion.
"Must you say her name?" he muttered, his voice laced with a sudden, petulant venom. "It… itches in my ears. The word itself triggers me. Another word of that girl," he continued, his small hands curling into fists at his sides, "and I might have to beat her sons again in the training yard. Jace's nose bled so prettily last time."
He said it with the same clinical detachment he'd used to describe his orbital paths. A statement of cause and effect. An unpleasant stimulus requiring a physical response.
Alicent stared at him, her brilliant, strange, beloved boy.
Alicent's reprimand about the training yard still hung between them, but Aegon's gaze had drifted, as if accessing a forgotten scroll in the library of his mind. He looked back at her, a spark of renewed argument in his eyes.
"You asked why my pursuits could not be of history, or dragonlore, or statecraft," he said, the words precise and deliberate. "I forgot to retort. I have already mastered the foundational principles of those subjects. The lineages of the Great Houses are a simple mnemonic exercise. The conquests of Aegon the Dragon are a matter of strategy and logistics, easily comprehended. The basics of statecraft are merely understanding human greed, ambition, and fear—variables in a predictable equation. There is nothing new for me to learn there that requires my full attention."
Alicent let out a short, sharp laugh, the sound strained and brittle. "By the Seven, Aegon. You speak as if you have already lived a thousand years. You are a child. You do not know everything, no matter what you believe in that inflated head of yours."
Aegon's composure finally showed a crack, not of doubt, but of irritation at being misunderstood. "I know enough. And if a lack is ever discovered, I will learn it. There is time. I will always have time for what is necessary."
"You speak to me as if you were my father," Alicent snapped, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and a strange, wounded pride. She leaned down, her face close to his, her tone dipping into a bitter mimicry. "'A clinical assessment, Mother.' 'It is no more your business, Mother.' You are my son. Not my tutor. Not my king. Not yet."
The tension was thick enough to stifle the very air in the dusty room. It was broken by the soft scuff of slippers on stone. Aemond, small and serious, peered around the doorframe, his large eye taking in the scene. A moment later, Helaena drifted past him, her attention captured by a spider weaving a web in a high corner.
"The metal dragon eats its own tail," Helaena murmured, not looking at any of them. "The threads are silver, but the weave is black. He counts the stars but forgets the steps to the dance."
Alicent closed her eyes for a brief second, a fresh wave of weary incomprehension washing over her. Aemond, ignoring his sister's ramblings, focused on his brother.
"Aegon," he said, his young voice filled with a solemn gravity. "The Grand Maester looked like he'd swallowed a live eel. Was your… study a success?" There was a faint, hopeful note in his question, the unspoken admiration for his older brother clear.
Aegon's posture shifted instantly, the tension with his mother forgotten as he turned to his sibling. A genuine, playful smile touched his lips. "It was, little Pooh Bear. They heard me, at least."
Aemond's cheeks flushed a bright red. "Don't call me that," he muttered, his single eye dropping to the floor in embarrassment.
"Why not?" Aegon teased, reaching out to ruffle Aemond's already neatly-combed hair. "You used to cling to that stuffed bear Father brought from the Free Cities. You'd cry if it was out of your crib. It was cute."
"I'm not cute," Aemond retorted, his small fists clenching. He looked up, a flash of defiance in his gaze. "And at least I don't waste my time with stupid metal balls and numbers that make the septons angry. I'm going to be a warrior. A real one."
"A warrior who still needs his Pooh Bear to sleep," Aegon shot back, his grin widening.
"Do not!"
"Do so."
As her sons bickered—Aegon the scholar-king playfully tormenting, Aemond the aspiring warrior fiercely denying his childish vulnerability—Alicent watched them. The fear and fury of moments before receded, replaced by a sudden, piercing warmth in her chest. Egg and Pooh Bear. In the privacy of her mind, she found the nicknames unbearably endearing. They were a testament to a bond that existed outside of prophecies and politics, a scrap of normalcy clung to by her abnormal children. It was a small, fragile shield against the strangeness, and she clung to it, even as Aemond stomped his foot and Aegon laughed that rare, true laugh.
Rhaenyra POV
The relentless clang-clang-thwack of blunted wood on wood echoed across the sun-baked training yard, a percussive beat to a dance of dominance and humiliation. For Rhaenyra, the sound had always been one of duty, of preparation for the burdens of inheritance. But today, each impact was a nail in the coffin of her sons' confidence, a public spectacle that made her blood run first cold with dread, then hot with a mother's fury.
She had arrived to find a scene that twisted a knife in her heart. In the center of the dusty ring, her boys, Jace and Luke, were red-faced, panting, and circling her half-brother Aegon like frustrated wolf pups around a disinterested stag. It was two against one, a numerical advantage that should have been overwhelming, yet it was her sons who were frayed and on the defensive, their movements growing increasingly desperate.
Aegon, by contrast, was a portrait of chilling composure. He wore his practice leathers with the same disdain for ornamentation he'd shown in the garden, his shorn silver-gold hair damp with only a light, dignified sheen of sweat. He moved with an economic, almost lazy grace, his wooden sword a mere extension of his will. He didn't attack; he reacted, parrying a clumsy lunge from Jace with a flick of his wrist while simultaneously sidestepping a wild swing from Luke, the entire motion so fluid it seemed rehearsed.
On the sidelines, the court's divisions were laid bare.
"Keep your shield high, Jace! Don't let him dictate the pace!" Ser Harwin Strong's voice boomed, his massive frame coiled with a tension he could not release in the field. His eyes, fixed on his charge, were filled with a helpless, paternal urgency. "Watch his feet! He's setting a trap!"
On the opposite side, Ser Criston Cole stood as a statue of green-and-white judgment, his arms crossed over his chest. A faint, approving smirk played on his lips. "A clean parry, my prince," he called out, his voice cutting through Harwin's. "Now press the advantage. Feint left to draw the elder, then strike the smaller one on the right. Break their coordination."
Aegon, without ever taking his cold, violet eyes off Jace, replied in a voice clear and sharp as broken glass. "I am aware of the tactical variables, Ser Criston. Your commentary is redundant." The dismissal was absolute, a master informing an apprentice he was no longer needed.
Ser Criston's smirk vanished, replaced by a tight-lipped expression of stung pride, but he held his tongue.
"He's toying with them!" Aemond shrieked from the railing, his single eye alight with a savage, worshipful glee. "They can't touch you, Aegon! They're slow! Slow as septons! Slow as their father!"
At the venomous emphasis, Ser Harwin's head snapped toward the young prince, his face darkening like a thunderhead. But it was Rhaenyra's arrival, a sudden stillness at the edge of the chaos, that stayed his retribution.
Her presence was the variable Aegon had not calculated for.
His gaze flickered toward her, a single, fleeting glance, but it was enough. The mask of bored indifference shattered, replaced by that raw, visceral annoyance she had witnessed in the dusty antechamber. The mention of Rhaenyra, the sight of her, was a trigger. The clinical exercise was over. Now, it was personal.
Sensing a momentary distraction, little Luke, brave and foolish, charged forward with a wordless cry of effort. Aegon didn't even grant him the courtesy of his gaze. He simply sidestepped, hooked his practice sword behind Luke's ankle with surgical precision, and twisted. Luke yelped, more in surprise than pain, as his feet were swept from under him and he landed in an undignified heap in the dirt.
"Luke!" Jace cried out, his discipline fracturing under a wave of protective fury. He abandoned all form and rushed headlong at his uncle, his sword held high.
It was the opening Aegon had been waiting for. He didn't meet the charge with brute force, but with devastating speed. Thwack. A sharp crack to Jace's helmet that snapped his head back and made his ears ring. Thwack. A stinging blow to the inside of his elbow, sending a jolt of numbness down his arm. Thwack-Crack. A final, merciless strike across his knuckles that sent his wooden sword spinning through the air to land point-first in the earth, quivering.
Jace stood frozen, his disarmed hand throbbing with a white-hot pain, staring at his empty fingers as if they had betrayed him. Luke was down. He was weaponless. Aegon stood perfectly poised, not even breathing heavily, the point of his practice sword leveled at the center of Jace's chest.
The yard fell into a hushed, anticipatory silence, broken only by the sound of Aemond's gleeful cackling.
Jace's world had shrunk to the point of that wooden sword and the shame burning in his throat. His eyes, stinging with humiliated tears he refused to shed, finally met Aegon's. The words were torn from him, a choked whisper. "I... I yield."
Aegon slowly lowered his sword and offered a small, perfectly executed bow. It was a gesture of supreme, insulting courtesy, a performance of condescension.
"You fought with spirit, nephews," he said, his voice as polished and cold as a maester's chain. He then tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over them as if assessing livestock. "Do not be disheartened. For your age... and considering your particular... builds... you are still quite strong."
The pause before "builds" was a masterstroke of cruelty, a silent invocation of the whispers that haunted the halls of the Red Keep. Ser Harwin's hand clenched so hard on the pommel of his own sword that the leather of his glove creaked in protest. Aemond, meanwhile, howled with laughter, slapping his thigh in triumph.
"Jacaerys. Lucerys."
Rhaenyra's voice cut through the tension like a whip. She did not shout, but the authority in her tone stilled the very air. She strode into the center of the yard, her gaze fixed on her sons as if Aegon, Aemond, and the two knights were mere phantoms.
She went first to Luke, kneeling to help him to his feet, her hands gently brushing the dust and grit from his tunic. "Are you hurt, sweetling?"
Then she rose and placed a firm,steadying hand on Jace's trembling shoulder, forcing him to meet her eyes, not the smirk of his uncle.
"You both did wonderfully," she declared, her voice warm and carrying, a deliberate counterpoint to the chill Aegon had left in his wake. "That was excellent form against a superior opponent, Jace. Your footwork is much improved, and your courage never wavered."
Jace looked up at her, his face a miserable canvas of failure and confusion. "But Mother, I– I lost. We both did."
"That is enough training for one day," she interjected smoothly, her tone leaving no room for argument. She turned them both, a hand on each of their backs, and steered them firmly toward the gate, away from the scene of their defeat. "It is time for a bath, and then dinner. I had the cooks prepare honeyed chicken and lemon cakes, your favorite."
She walked them away, her spine straight and her head held high, never once granting Aegon the satisfaction of a backward glance. It was only when they had passed into the cool, dim silence of the cloister, the mocking eyes of the yard safely behind them, that Jace's composure finally shattered.
"He beat us," he muttered, his voice thick and raw, a single tear tracing a clean path through the grime on his cheek. "He beat us both, and he... he wasn't even trying. He was just... waiting. And his words... 'for our builds'..."
Rhaenyra stopped and turned, pulling him into a swift, fierce embrace. She could feel the tremors of humiliation running through his small frame. "He is older than you, Jace. He has been trained to fight with a cold heart. Yours is warm. That fire will make you a better man, and a better king one day. Do not ever forget that. His words are meant to wound because he has nothing else to offer."
Jace nodded against her shoulder, but his posture remained slumped, the sting of his uncle's polite contempt and the memory of the thwack of the practice sword hurting far more, and would last far longer, than any physical bruise.