A Stubborn Heir
The boy had been perfect once.
Jaehaerys remembered the early days with sharp clarity—how Aegon had clutched his fingers with delicate hands, how his first stumbling steps had drawn pride from a father who saw a future king in the making. He had been born small, fragile, but grew into a lively child. Curious, clever, stubborn.
At six, Aegon had recited the lineage of Valyria before the court, each name flowing from his lips like poetry, the weight of history already settling on his narrow shoulders. At eight, he had sparred with a wooden sword against boys two years older, refusing to yield until his mother herself had intervened.
He was proud then. How could he not be?
Yet perfection soured.
The first cracks had been small. Aegon's temper, once so spirited, turned sharp. His questions shifted from curiosity to challenge, his cleverness edged with defiance. At twelve, he had questioned Septon Barth openly in council, and though Barth had laughed it off, Jaehaerys saw the lingering tension in the room. At fourteen, he mocked the valyrian customs as 'myths for simple minds.'
Aegon had learned the wrong lessons from the histories he so loved. He clung to tales of dragons and conquest, of defiance and unbending will, but had no patience for the careful governance his father embodied. Valor, he thought, was louder than wisdom.
And yet, Jaehaerys had still hoped. Still tried.
He had taken Aegon hunting, pressing the boy on matters of diplomacy and succession between long rides through the Kingswood. He had invited him to council, guided his hand through the dry scrolls of trade agreements, only to find his son distracted, restless. He corrected him, stern but fair. Aegon bristled.
The breaking point came when Aegon refused to wed Daenerys.
Before the court, before the gods, his heir had defied him. Worse, he had humiliated his sister.
When Jaehaerys had tried to reason, to remind Aegon of duty and legacy, the boy—no, the man—had looked him in the eye and said, "I will not be made a pawn. Not by you."
That was the moment he knew. The perfect child was gone. And in his place stood a son who had learned to value his pride above all else.
Jaehaerys had wanted a son who would be better than himself.
Instead, he had an heir who refused to be molded at all.
81 AC
The air in the Red Keep’s solar was thick with heat, though the hearthfire had long since burned low. Jaehaerys stood rigid, his hands clasped behind his back, knuckles pale. Across from him, Aegon stared back with the same stubborn tilt of his jaw, though his arms remained folded across his chest. Alysanne sat between them, pale and silent, her hands trembling slightly where they rested on her lap, her lips pressed in a tight line.
“Maegor,” Jaehaerys said at last, the name a bitter curse on his tongue. “You named your son Maegor.”
Aegon’s expression remained defiant, but Alysanne flinched as if struck. “You—” Jaehaerys’ voice caught, breaking under the weight of disbelief. “You named your son after the butcher who murdered my brothers? Who defiled my sister? The monster who stained this throne with blood—”
“I know who Maegor was,” Aegon interrupted, his voice sharp, defensive. “He was still a dragon. A king of our blood.”
Jaehaerys’ face twisted with something close to grief, though the fury was far stronger. “Is that what you would be? A tyrant? A kinslayer? Is that the legacy you choose for your son, my grandson?”
Alysanne reached for Aegon then, her hand closing over his wrist. “Aegon, please,” she whispered, the hurt evident in her voice. “You know the pain this name brings us. Why—why would you do this?”
For the first time, Aegon’s eyes flicked toward his mother, softening—just for a heartbeat—before hardening once more. “I chose it because I will not be a puppet of dead men. Maegor was strong. Feared. Our House was never stronger than when his will was unyielding.”
Jaehaerys took a step forward, voice rising. “And his reign ended in ruin! In ashes and blood! Is that what you would have for your son? For this realm? Or do you seek to shame me?”
Alysanne’s voice trembled. “You would never shame us, Aegon. You have always been our bright boy, our hope—”
But Jaehaerys cut across her, his face now pale with cold fury. “You have shamed this house. And you, Alysanne, you have coddled him for far too long. This—this defiance—” His voice dropped into a deadly hush. “You have defied me for the last time, Aegon.”
Aegon’s chin lifted, but there was pain flickering behind his mask of defiance. “I am your son.”
“You are no son of mine.” The words fell like a blade, final and sharp. “You and your children are no longer welcome in my court. Go. Take your defiance to Essos, if you must, but do not return.”
Alysanne gasped, rising to her feet. “Jaehaerys, no—”
But Aegon had already turned away, his face pale, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. He did not look back. Not even when Alysanne called his name, her voice breaking on a sob.
And so the wound was carved, deep and festering, as the son left the father behind, and a mother’s heart fractured between them.
92AC
The winds outside howled as dusk painted the sky a somber grey. The halls of Dragonstone felt empty despite the presence of so many mourners. Aemon was gone, and with him, something fragile had cracked in the heart of their family.
Aegon stood by the hearth in his mother's solar, the firelight casting long shadows across his face. He was not the proud prince who had once left Westeros in defiance but a man hollowed by years of absence and regret. The weight of his brother's death pressed heavily on his chest, though he had found no words for it yet.
Queen Alysanne sat nearby, her embroidery abandoned in her lap. Her blue eyes, so often kind, now held a quiet sorrow as she watched her son. The silence between them stretched until it could hold no more.
"He would have forgiven you," she said softly, folding her hands together. "Aemon never held anger in his heart. He was too much like..." She hesitated, her voice catching. "Too much like you used to be."
Aegon's throat tightened. "Mother...I never meant—"
"I know," she interrupted gently. Rising from her chair, she crossed the room, reaching for his hand. "But your father does not. You wounded him, Aegon. More deeply than you can imagine."
The fire crackled in the silence. Aegon shook his head, jaw clenched. "He hated me long before Maegor. I was never enough for him, no matter how hard I tried."
Alysanne's face softened, but her grip on his hand tightened. "He never hated you. He was proud, once. So proud he forgot you were a boy who needed kindness as well as shaping. And you—" she paused, pain flashing across her features, "—you wounded him more when you left. Maegor is not simply the name of a terrible man, but the name of the monster who killed his kin. We lost our entire family to him. And when you gave your son that name—"
Aegon looked away. "I was angry. I wanted to make him feel—"
"What? Your pain? Your defiance?" Alysanne's voice was sharp but never unkind. "You succeeded."
A long moment passed before she softened again. "He grieves, Aegon. Not just for Aemon but for all he has lost. I cannot bear to lose you both. Please. Speak to him. If not for yourself, then for me."
Aegon hesitated, then nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. "If he will listen."
And so, it was Alysanne who led him to the king's chambers. The door felt heavier than it should as it swung open, revealing Jaehaerys by the window, the sea mist swirling against the glass. He did not turn when they entered.
Alysanne rested her hand on Aegon's shoulder before retreating, leaving father and son alone.
For a long time, there was only silence. Then, Jaehaerys spoke, voice hoarse and low.
"Why are you here?"
Aegon swallowed hard, stepping forward. "I came... to offer my condolences. For Aemon… Daella and Alyssa and…”he paused, as if choked up. “Forgive me, Father. For all of it."
The king's shoulders stiffened. "You came too late."
"I know," Aegon said quietly. "But I'm here now. And I am sorry. For everything."
At last, Jaehaerys turned, his face pale and worn with grief. The anger that had once burned so fiercely in his eyes had dulled, replaced with something colder. Yet, there was a crack in the armor.
"I named him Maegor because I was bitter. Because I thought it would hurt you as much as you hurt me," Aegon continued, voice trembling. "It was cruel. I was cruel. But I am not that man anymore. I swear it."
The king studied him for a long, painful moment. Then, with a weary sigh, he looked away. "You cannot undo the past, Aegon. But you can choose to do better now. For your children. For this realm."
Aegon nodded, voice breaking. "I will."
And though the wound between them did not fully close that night, a thread had been stitched—fragile but real.