Thing We Do For Love
The King's chamber exuded warmth, the air heavy with the oppressive heat that radiated from the sun-baked stones outside. Aegon had only ventured into this room a few times in his life. Typically on his name days, or during those rare occasions that his father would be in a talkative mood, regaling him with tales of ancient Valyria or when Draco, himself, came to plead with him not to send Daeron to Old Town, or the times when Aegon asked to be sent to Old Town because he wished to learn Warcraft, History, Healing and Magic of Old with the Maesters of Citadel.
So considering the circumstances, he could only guess Aemond, Daeron, and his sweet Helaena presence was even scarcer than he could remember. Because while Draco had been used to a distant father who never acknowledged his deeds and existence until his life was on the line, his siblings have not. In another life, he had been like them too. Hoping against the crushing weight, the need for recognition from a man he had always looked up to. Striving to prove his worth as he yearned for his father's warmth and a simple gesture that would mean so much. But his father had loved him more than anything. Draco was his heir, but Lucius Malfoy was just not a man of affection.
And Draco only understood that when he saw how his father's heart burned with a resilient flame as he tried to keep his head aloft amidst the tumultuous whirlwind of chaos and war, saw the fierce determination etched upon his father's brow, his unwavering resolve to safeguard their family, to shield Draco from the encroaching darkness.
Some parents just don't know how to love their children, Aegon always thought as he stared at the back of father's figure, who had leaned his head back, eyes closed, and a coverlet on his knees. In their own struggles, they may lose their way. The intent might not be unkind or malicious. But parents were not gods. They make mistakes. They too, could lose their way.
Then why is Rhaenyra different? A voice that sounded familiarly like his grandsires spoke in his head, distant and strange. That question always seemed to run through his blood and seep into his bone when in the presence of his father. He paid it no mind. He was a man in a child's body. Draco should know that a legacy of pain unhealed and concealed would leave people uncertain of the love they yield.
And Rhaenyra had been there before them by 13 years, and his father had cruelly cut Aemma Arryn like a pig for a male child. And not a few months later, he had married another woman, a friend of his daughter's, taking her only and last companion away, once and for all. He might be compensating. Even parents, as mighty as they appear to their children, are still humans, shaped by their pasts. And are sometimes only capable of a flawed embrace, leaving their child burdened with despair.
He knew that. He had been a witness to such love first-hand.
Still, he hoped Viserys could try and remember he had more than one child when the time came. He hoped his siblings knew their father loved them even if he couldn't show it.
"Father," He announced his presence, waiting for him to blink his eyes open and acknowledge his presence... a confusion in his eyes that were probably muddled with poppy wine. "You have called for me," Aegon says as if to revive his memory lest he forgot. At least he was not in pain. Better to be drugged to numb the brain than to live through the pain that consumed his every waking moment.
"Ah..." King Viserys nods his chin as though he remembered, his purple eyes squinting to see through a haze. There were heavy bags beneath his eyes even with all the sleep Maester Orwyl had him forced to endure. "Rhaenyra, come sit."
"It's Aegon, Father," Draco was glad it was not Aemond or Daeron in his place right now. Still, without much prompting, he stepped into the room to sit before his kingly father.
"Right, Aegon," He nods again. "Yes. Yes." He took another moment to gather his bearings whilst Draco stayed silent, letting him ruminate over his muddled memories as he took in the sculptures of old Valariya on the table just across him. It was not entirely complete. Even the smallest of tasks seemed laborious for him these days. He hoped his father had enough time to commission somebody before his failing health took him away from them. It would at least give the deteriorating King a minuscule satisfaction to see it finished.
It would probably be different than what his father had imagined, but Aegon doubted his failing wits would even help him recognise someone else had done it anyway. And lying would be the least of the atrocities he committed. It would be a nice gesture. Though he doubted his mother, with her seven-pointed star and teachings, would allow him to do it.
Aegon sometimes did not understand his lady mother. Mainly though, he did not understand her religion. The Faith of the Seven, with its strict adherence to rituals and ceremonies, seems more concerned with external displays of devotion than genuine introspection and personal growth. And their representatives, from what Draco had seen, only highlight the dangers of blind faith and religious zealotry.
They preach virtues such as justice, compassion, and mercy, yet they do nothing to help the people in need. Instead of blaming the fathers and mothers for their desires and infidelity, they blame the children. And even if one doesn't deign to question the notion of having seven gods with specific domains, it is still difficult to place your faith in an elaborate pantheon prone to corruption, manipulation, greed, and the pursuit of power.
"The small council had come forward to me with a decision," His father shifts in his chair, adjusting the Myrish blanket on his legs. Though he was two and fifty, King Viserys seemed much older. His body was soft and shapeless beneath his silk robes. "Your sister was part of the small council since she was a girl of nine as a cupbearer. You are now thirteen. They think it time for you too to sit upon the council now."
"And what do you think, Father?" He knows what he thinks without even reading the King's thoughts. Still, like a hopeful fool, he couldn't help but ask, wishing it to be different, desiring for him to say something he could not predict.
"There is merit to it," That surprised him, but not for long. "I have only ever heard praises about you. But I also hear what the Lords aren't saying, especially your grandfather."
It stung, of course, like it always did whenever Viserys Targaryen prioritised Rhaenyra's interests over his other children - a familiar sharp twist of pain stabbed at his insides. No. It is only because of the prophecy, Draco tries to tell himself, as he thinks back to the omen that's passed down from generation to every heir to ascend the Iron Throne. He was but three when he heard it in his father's thoughts when he was still trying to build the shields of Occlumency and failing.
And it remained a tale he tells himself, time and again when he's straining not to wilt under the gaze of another father who seems to wish and forever remain another distant figure. Convinces himself that it is only because Viserys Targaryen believed Rhaenyra's bloodline would be the key to the Song of Ice and Fire. And like every King before him, who wished the good of the realm, he wished to have his house united. He didn't want a greedy lord or a crown to tear his family apart.
"You need only ask, Father, and I would reject it in a heartbeat," Aegon says calmly, without a sign of dissent. The King looked stricken at the ready approval; it made Aegon think not for the first time how well his father knew him and his siblings. The aching hollow it had left made the young prince's bones feel like lead.
At least Lucius Malfoy knew of Draco's interests, was acquainted with his opinions, and kept a watchful eye on his experiences at school. Aegon shook his head. It was hard to forget your parents, no matter how many years it had passed. And it felt like a crime, comparing one to another. But it is harder said than done. "Tell the Lords of the small council I'd rather go to Citadel for the year to learn what all catches my fancy than pour wine in their cups and eat my opinions away."
Aegon did not know what Viserys saw on his face. Maybe a flash of anguish in his eyes or how instantly it had turned to hardness. Or maybe, it was the hard edge of contempt infused in every word. "My son," he began fumbling for the words which should have come easily when bidden but somehow eluded him. There was silence once more before the King broke it with another slow, resigned nod. "Citadel, you say?" He says, at last.
"I know you said we would revisit it at some later time when I brought forward the subject three years ago," His mother had been wroth about it then, and she would be so now. Especially so when she understands her lord husband had only agreed to it so Aegon would not enter the small council. "But this excuse could end the bother of the Lords for a year or so, and I get to do what I truly wish to do, and Rhaenyra's claim would remain undeterred as you wish."
He felt childish at the bitterness reflected in his tone, not at his sister, but at his father. He couldn't fathom what his siblings would've felt when they saw his feelings so plainly when he himself couldn't deny the wrongness of a father's affection -couldn't deny the anger and spite that sometimes struck him so suddenly that he struggled to hold himself up.
"Alright," The pale-faced King agrees with a long sigh, and a tremble in his hands tells them he's tired for the day. "If that is what you wish."
Aegon bows as is customary and leaves the chambers without another word. Because he knows if he was to open his mouth, the harsh words on his tongue would snap the little thread thats' hanging between them and leave nothing but the charred flakes of his anger drifting on the wind. All for nothing. Because words mean little, anyway. They would not transcend the hurt blossoming like a vine in Aegon's heart, nor would they move the stony heart of his father. Not unless the man willingly puts down the mantle of the King to be a father of 5 children for once.
"My Prince," He did not even notice Ser Criston's presence in his room until the Knight had called him out, closing the doors behind him. Had not realised he had made his route back to his quarters with Ser Lorent behind him as he charged into his rooms like he had so many times before without splintering the wood. "Do not take His Grace's words to your heart." He says.
"Why, Ser Criston? When it was so clear what he meant from it," The words spilt out before Aegon could temper them, coming from someplace within me he had not known before tonight. It was not the self-pity in him that made him speak his mind but the fierce indignation and injustice. "What more does he wish from me? What more can my siblings do to earn his affection? They are tired of reaching their hands out only to feel empty air in their grasps." Irritation surged in his breast. "Every time I think to myself, how much longer do I have to keep telling my brothers and sister that the only reason our father isn't like others has been because he's a king before a father? That he loves them but doesn't know how to express it? How Rhaenyra only has one parent, so he feels sorry for her and tries to compensate?"
His breaths were coming quickly; all things that had swirled in his brain since he entered his father's quarters were finally out of his lips, leaving a taste of bitter ash. "I am trying... I have been trying so hard to fill the silence of his neglect, but I don't know what more I can do. You know, Daeron stopped writing letters to him now. Helena and Aemond don't even ask about him anymore. Did not enquire why only Nyra seems to get his affection? He no longer questioned why they did not get to sit upon his lap like Jace had during his name day when Daeron sat in a chair across from him. Sometimes even I can't delude myself into thinking he loves us all, so I know it's foolish to believe my siblings would."
His torment was plain in his taut shoulders and clenched fists; Ser Criston could hardly blame him.
"My prince," The Dornish Knight's hand came to rest on his shoulders. His eyes expressed nothing beyond a terrible silent sorrow that Aegon could never associate with the man and beneath it all, a simmering fury. For as long as he knew, Ser Criston's presence has always been this stable figure, a great warrior spiteful of his past mistakes and faithful to his mother.
Still, that was all it needed for the four-year-old Aemond to ask why Ser Criston couldn't be their father instead of the King. "You are a good son, Aegon. Everything a father could ask for, and more. It is your father that is blind to the possibilities before him. I wish he could see you as I do, as the lords of the seven kingdoms do."
Draco looked touched that the Lord Commander of the Kingguard felt so outraged on his behalf - That even without the shared blood in their veins, the brief childhood Ser Cole had spent when he remained a guard of his mother, and the years he had mentored Aegon could still stir him to such feeling. But it did nothing to confront the consuming ire that tainted his thoughts, the despair he felt for his sibling's plight.
Still, he nods a small act to express his gratitude, the rest of his feelings withering and dying on his lips. "Well, there is no use fighting an uphill battle against forces beyond our control," Aegon says plainly, waving his hand in an indifferent way.
"Sometimes when you feel like circumstances seem insurmountable that it makes you question whether your efforts make any difference, you must remember that even in the face of adversity, we have the power to shape our own destinies," says Ser Criston Cole to the young prince in a clear voice, a new emotion rising up within him like there was not enough room in his body to contain it. "Your mother had shown me that."
Suddenly, Draco finds himself seized by the memory. The Knight's heartache gripped at Aegon's throat as Ser Criston kneeled before a heart tree, his morningstar in his hand, ready to end his suffering, and suddenly his mother was there, reaching her hand out to a drowning man barely holding on to a raft.
And perhaps this was the reason he accepted the Knight's presence. While Larys Strong's thoughts clung to his skin, rolling like oil that made him wish to heave, Ser Criston's words were not something planned or deliberated over. They were plain to see, quite enough to observe on their own without a hint of duplicity.
And then, they were locked in a long silence, feeling the weight of the unspoken words and the quiet certainty that settled within themselves. "Take care of my lady mother while I am gone, Ser Criston," Aegon says, the heaviness of his vow to his father breaking over him. He'd be away from his mother and siblings for a year. Far enough that he'd be unable to protect them swiftly if the need were to rise. "Aemond and Helaena too. Try to keep them away from my grandsire if you can."
"Rest assured, my prince," The Lord Commander vows, his tone laden with a seriousness one cannot dismiss. "I will not fail my duty, even if it means giving my life in the process."
Even when he relied on Ser Crsiton's word that he'd truly die before any harm befell on them, Aegon knew there would never be anyone he could fully trust with the safety of his small family, even with a network of spies at his beck and call. They might die to protect them, but who would save them after? They were too many vultures surrounding them, and his mind haunted him with how quickly things could go wrong without reprieve.
It had been a foolish thing I proposed; the silver prince would think when he was on his dragon's back a week later on his way to the Old Town after giving a hug to his tear-filled mother and kiss on the forehead to his two siblings and a nod to his glowering grandsire. But he hadn't seen Daeron for a year and a half and had promised he'd visit him - a promise he had been trying and failing to keep since now. The thought rattled in his mind whenever he thought about the youngest sibling, that had a penchant for wearing mismatched shoes and collecting dry leaves and flowers.
He had been merely five years old when circumstances had torn him away from his loved ones. And Aegon did not wish to remain a shapeless figure in his memory that would fade like whispers in the wind with each year that passed. He did not want Daeron to feel abandoned by his family, craving his mother's touch and the soft smiles and praises of the rest of his siblings and never receiving them.
And Draco, himself, needed to know how the magic of this world worked so that he could better protect them all. He had been trying and failing, but with how things were looking, he did not believe his pre convinced process would give him the results he desired anymore. He needs results. And he needed it yesterday. And this was the only way of getting it.
And so the prince leaves at the end of the fourth moon of 119 AC, only to return to Driftmark 10 months later for the wake of Leana Valaryeon.