Aegon & Meredyth - Fools
69 AC
Aegon
The Queen’s apartments had always been a sanctuary, a world apart from the rest of the Red Keep. Within these walls, he was not merely the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne—he was his mother’s son, indulged and adored.
And yet, even here, he could not escape expectation.
His father’s court grated on his patience, the endless parade of lords and their droning words about laws and levies. His mother’s chambers were softer, kinder, but duty lurked in the corners all the same.
So he left.
He strode through the Queen’s corridors with no destination in mind, moving as he always did when frustration took him—quick, aimless, desperate for something else. And that was when he saw her.
She was seated in the Queen’s solar, half-hidden behind a carved wooden screen, the candlelight catching in her ashen blonde hair. A quill scratched softly against parchment, her wrist moving with the practiced ease of someone well-accustomed to writing. He might have walked past her entirely—another lady-in-waiting, of no interest to him—had she not looked up at that exact moment.
She did not startle.
Most women, upon finding the Prince of Dragonstone watching them, would lower their eyes, curtsy, simper. She did none of those things. Instead, she regarded him with a measured gaze, her expression calm, unhurried.
Aegon frowned. “Who are you?”
She set down her quill with deliberate ease. “Lady Meredyth Sunglass.”
“Sunglass.” He echoed the name without much thought. A minor house vassal to Dragonstone, not one that had ever occupied his mind.
If she took offense, she did not show it. “I serve the Queen.”
Aegon studied her more closely. She was not the most beautiful of his mother’s attendants, not the sort of woman who turned heads instantly. But there was something about her—an elegance, a presence—that made it impossible to dismiss her outright.
“You write letters for her,” he guessed, nodding at the parchment.
A hint of a smile touched her lips. “No. I was writing to you.”
That caught him off guard. His brows lifted slightly. “To me?”
Meredyth’s expression remained serene. “Her Grace asked me to remind you to attend the court session tomorrow.”
Aegon rolled his eyes. “My father wishes to parade me before the lords again.”
“I believe the Queen’s words were ‘he must learn to take an interest in his realm.’”
His scowl deepened. “And you put it to parchment? A waste of ink.”
She tilted her head slightly, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Better ink than breath. Had I sought you out to tell you myself, you might have walked away before I could finish the sentence.”
Aegon blinked.
Most courtiers either fawned over him or feared him. But not her. She was not intimidated, nor was she seeking his favor. She spoke to him as if he were any other man, and that—more than anything—kept him rooted to the spot.
He leaned against the wooden screen, watching her closely. “And if I do not attend?”
Meredyth simply picked up her quill again. “Then I will have wasted my ink after all.”
Her tone was light, but there was something knowing beneath it.
He let the silence stretch between them, waiting for her to falter. She didn’t.
At last, he smirked. “You are a bold woman, Lady Meredyth Sunglass.”
She inclined her head, unruffled. “I am a practical one, my prince.”
Aegon chuckled, shaking his head. He should have found her impertinent. Instead, he found himself lingering.
The night no longer felt quite so stifling.
70 AC
Meredyth
Whispers carried in the halls of the Queen’s court like drifting embers, needing only a breath to catch fire.
Meredyth had spent years mastering the art of ignoring them. But it was growing harder.
She could feel the weight of the other ladies’ gazes when she entered a room, the glances exchanged behind the Queen’s back, the way conversation lulled when she stepped too close. It was not outright scandal—not yet—but the edges of one were beginning to take shape.
She had been a lady-in-waiting to the Queen for five years. She had served dutifully, kept her place, and drawn no undue attention. But then there was him.
Aegon.
It had been a year since their first encounter, and in that time, their paths had crossed almost daily. Some meetings were incidental, others... less so. He sought her out with increasing regularity, and though she never encouraged him, she did not turn him away either.
She had told herself it was nothing. The idle amusement of a young prince, a fleeting diversion before he inevitably turned his attentions elsewhere.
But people were beginning to notice.
And now, it seemed, so had the Queen.
When the summons came, it did not take Meredyth by surprise. She had known this moment would come. She only wondered if it had come too late.
Queen Alysanne sat at the head of the solar, her expression pinched in frustration as she regarded Meredyth. She had dismissed the other ladies, leaving only the two of them, the silence between them heavy.
"You are to return to your family's seat," the Queen said at last.
Meredyth blinked. "I—pardon, Your Grace?"
Alysanne sighed, the sound edged with irritation. "I am sending you home, Lady Meredyth. You will return to Sweetport Sound at once, and you will remain there until further notice."
Meredyth felt the breath leave her lungs.
So it had come to this.
She had been prepared for reprimand, even disgrace—but outright dismissal? Had she miscalculated so badly?
She lowered her gaze, forcing herself to speak evenly. "I have served you faithfully, Your Grace. If I have given offense—"
"You are not being punished," the Queen interrupted, though there was little comfort in her words. "You are being removed. For your own good."
The room was warm, but Meredyth felt cold.
"So it is about the Prince," she said carefully.
Alysanne's lips pressed into a thin line. She did not answer.
Meredyth let out a slow breath. "If my presence is an inconvenience, then I will abide by your wishes. But I would ask one thing—do you truly believe the Prince’s affections are of consequence?"
Alysanne's fingers curled against the armrest of her chair.
Meredyth did not look away. "He is a prince. I am a lady of a lesser house. We both know what this means."
"Do you?" Alysanne's voice was sharp now, her patience thinning. "Because my son has no interest in taking you as his mistress, nor does he intend to cast you aside. That is the problem."
The words struck her harder than she expected.
For a moment, Meredyth could only stare.
"I assumed..." she hesitated, searching for the right words, "that it was a passing infatuation."
Alysanne let out a dry, humorless laugh. "I thought the same. But it is not, and it cannot continue. My son has little regard for duty, but I do."
Meredyth swallowed. She should have been relieved—grateful, even, that the Queen was intervening before worse could come of this. But a knot was forming in her chest, tight and unfamiliar.
Aegon.
He was not meant to care.
"Return home, Meredyth," the Queen said, her voice quieter now, but no less firm. "Before he does something neither of us can undo."
Meredyth lowered her head in a deep curtsy.
"Yes, Your Grace."
She left the solar in silence, but her mind was loud with thoughts she had never dared entertain before.
She had packed lightly.
There was little for her to take—her gowns, her jewelry, a few treasured books. Most of her life was here, in the Red Keep, but soon it would belong to someone else. Another lady-in-waiting would take her place, another woman would stand beside the Queen, whispering soft reassurances and taking careful steps through the maze of courtly life.
She would go home. And soon enough, her father would see her wed to some knight or minor lord, away from court, away from him.
It was better this way.
She told herself that as she folded the last of her dresses, smoothing the fabric with steady hands.
She told herself that as she placed her jewelry into a small wooden chest, pressing the lid shut with more force than necessary.
She told herself that as she heard the doors slam open behind her.
She turned sharply, heart in her throat—only to see him.
Aegon stood at the threshold of her chambers, breathing hard as though he had run to find her. His silver hair was windswept, his violet eyes ablaze with something fierce and unrelenting.
"You're leaving," he said, his voice thick with accusation.
Meredyth inhaled deeply. "Yes, my prince. As per your mother’s command."
"Don’t call me that," Aegon snapped. He strode into the room, pushing the door shut behind him. "You mean to leave without even speaking to me?"
She turned away, picking up her satchel, willing her hands not to shake. "There is nothing to say."
"You think that, do you?" He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her back. "Then allow me to prove you wrong."
Meredyth sighed, finally facing him. "Aegon—"
"I will marry you," he said.
Her breath caught. "What?"
"I will marry you, Meredyth. Before the gods, before my family, before the whole of the realm if need be." His voice was steady, but there was something desperate in his eyes, something raw and untamed. "Tell me what needs to be done, and I will do it."
Her chest ached at the earnestness in his words, but she forced herself to be cruel. "And what of your father? Your mother?" She scoffed, shaking her head. "You would cast aside your duty for me?"
"Yes." The answer came swiftly, without hesitation.
Meredyth swallowed, searching his face. "Aegon..."
"If my father disinherits me, so be it. If they try to wed me to another, I will refuse. If your father would see you married off elsewhere, I will kill the man who dares claim you. I will take you to Essos, if that is what it comes to."
She laughed.
It burst from her lips before she could stop it, dry and knowing and unbelieving.
"You'll never abandon your future crown, Aegon." She shook her head, eyes gleaming with something between sorrow and amusement. "For all the hatred you spill on it, I know you want it more than anything."
His jaw tightened, but he did not refute her words.
She took a step forward, pressing a hand to his chest. "I will not be the woman who ruins you. I will not be the reason you forsake what is yours by right."
Aegon caught her wrist, holding it firmly, his grip warm and unyielding.
"You are mine by right," he murmured, his voice low and dark. "And I will not let you go so easily."
Meredyth closed her eyes.
She could feel the thunder of his heart beneath her palm, could feel the weight of the choice before her.
But there was no choice.
Not really.
She pulled her hand away.
"You already have," she whispered.
And then she turned, picking up her satchel, and walked past him—leaving the Prince of Dragonstone standing alone in the chamber they would never share.
Aegon
The tension in the council chamber was thick as Aegon stormed in without warning, his boots echoing sharply off the stone floor. The guards posted outside the doors reached for their weapons out of reflex, their gazes darting to the young prince’s face—but the fury in Aegon’s expression stopped them cold. He gave no nod of respect, no pause for pleasantries. His violet eyes burned as he strode forward.
Jaehaerys looked up from his council table, the pointed arch of his silver brows furrowing. Across from him, Queen Alysanne’s lips thinned, a deep crease forming between her brows. She knew why he had come, and though her posture remained poised in her chair, she was bracing herself for the storm.
"You sent her away," Aegon said, his voice loud and clear, sharp enough to pierce the uneasy silence. "You stripped her from this court without so much as a word to me."
Jaehaerys set down the quill in his hand and leaned back in his chair, measuring his son with the same deliberate gaze he reserved for lords who overstepped their bounds. "You gave us no choice, Aegon."
"No choice?" Aegon barked, incredulous. "You had every choice. She did nothing wrong—her only offense was catching my eye. She served this court faithfully for years. And yet you throw her to the winds like she's some common chit dismissed from a bedchamber?"
Jaehaerys' frown deepened, and Alysanne let out a soft, measured sigh, eyes briefly closing as if to steady herself.
"This is exactly why she had to go," Jaehaerys said, his tone still calm, though the flint in it was unmistakable now. "You have lost all sense of what it means to be a prince—to serve your duty, to protect your family. Your petty whims have turned into something reckless, into something dangerous."
Aegon struck the table with his palm, leaning forward in frustration. "Do you even hear yourself? Calling love dangerous, as if I'm threatening the realm. Is that what you think, Father?"
"It is not your love that threatens the realm, Aegon," Alysanne interjected softly. Her tone was kinder, but far from yielding. "It is your short-sightedness. You speak of Meredyth as if what you feel is all that matters, but you are a prince. Everything you do carries consequence—with your choice, you risk dividing lords and houses, you endanger the crown. Would you have her suffer the weight of that? Would you condemn her to be the subject of hatred and scorn?"
"Alysanne speaks wisely," Jaehaerys added, his words cutting like steel. "This infatuation has blinded you. We have been kind in sparing her true disgrace—what future do you see for her? You cannot marry her, and you would make her what, your mistress? That is cruelty beyond words."
Aegon’s fist clenched, his nails digging into his palms as he stared at his parents like strangers. "Stop speaking of her as if she’s a pawn on your board. She’s a person. A good, honorable woman who is worth more than half the councilors gathering dust in your court."
"She is not Targaryen," Jaehaerys said coldly, the heat rising in his voice now. "Nor is she of a house great enough to strengthen our banners. Your duty is to your blood. To your future. Do you think I would have named you my heir, given you Dragonstone, if I thought you incapable of understanding this? Do you believe you can defy me and keep what’s yours?"
Aegon flinched. There it was—the threat left unspoken until now. What’s yours. His father’s meaning was clear enough. His birthright, his title, the damn crown, all of it dangled like a sword over his head.
"Do it, then," Aegon spat, his voice trembling with rage. "Disinherit me. Strip me of Dragonstone, name someone else—Vaegon will take it gladly, I’m sure." He stepped forward, his voice rising again. "But do not pretend that you’re doing this for the good of the realm. This is about you. And your godsdamned traditions. You’d rather see me wed my own sister than allow me a chance at happiness."
The room fell silent.
Jaehaerys' expression grew darker, colder, but it was Alysanne who sucked in a sharp breath. "Do not speak of your sister that way," she said, quietly but with iron behind her words.
"Why shouldn't I?" Aegon turned toward her, his voice more wounded now. "You and Father decided my life when I was still in the cradle. I am to marry Daenerys because that's what we do, isn't it? That’s what’s expected of us. And you never once considered how unfair that is—to me or to her."
Alysanne’s face softened at the mention of Daenerys, but she said nothing. Jaehaerys answered instead. "You speak as though Daenerys is some forced burden. She’s your blood, your kin—"
"My blood, yes. My sister, yes," Aegon interrupted, stepping closer once more. His chest heaved, his anger barely contained now. "But not someone I can love in the way you ask. She is frail, Father. Frail enough that all of Dragonstone keeps its breath held whenever she falls ill. Do you wish to see me wed her, to lie with her, to give her heirs when her body might shatter under such a weight? You have bound me to a choice that could kill her."
Jaehaerys faltered. It was momentary, subtle—the faint flicker of surprise in his sharp gaze—but it was enough for Aegon to see it, to feel it, to press on.
"Have the courage to admit the truth," Aegon continued, his voice cracking now with the weight of betrayal. "You want me to wear your crown, to mirror your reign. You think to rule doesn’t permit love, doesn’t permit choice. But I am not you. I will never be you."
The silence that followed felt thick enough to drown them all.
Alysanne spoke first. "Then what do you intend to do?" Her voice was soft, sorrowful.
Aegon turned toward her, his face hard but his eyes filled with storm. "I intend to fight for her," he said simply. "I’ve spent my life being told marriage is duty, that it must serve the realm. Then hear me when I say this: Meredyth will not weaken me. She will strengthen me. And if I must burn down your traditions to have her, I will."
Neither Jaehaerys nor Alysanne spoke as their son stormed from the chamber, his fury trailing in his wake like smoke from some deadly fire. But in the silence, the weight of the moment lingered.
And then, Aegon left.
71 AC
Alysanne
Alysanne slid from Silverwing’s saddle with practiced grace as the dragon folded her wings neatly behind her, the beast letting out a low, reverberating rumble that sounded like the muted roll of distant thunder. The air here carried with it hints of brine and wet stone, along with a biting chill unique to the windswept cliffs overlooking Blackwater Bay. Sweetport Sound, with its smooth gray walls rising defiantly against the crashing waters below, possessed a quiet kind of strength. It was no Dragonstone—there was little of fire or fury in this place—but the keep and those who kept it struck her as the sort to endure what could not be bent.
The Queen adjusted her cloak, the white fur-lined mantle soft against her skin, its silver clasps shimmering subtly in the midday sun. Once upon a time, when she was a girl fresh to the court of King’s Landing, every detail of her appearance had been scrutinized, her silks and jewels the subject of endless whispers. She had risen above it all over the years, unbothered, her confidence growing alongside the sleek strength of her dragon. Now, as Alysanne glanced toward Jaehaerys dismounting from Vermithor on her left, she suspected their riding leathers—severe and unadorned save for subtle embroidery—would seem stiff and formal to their hosts, almost removed. That was intentional, of course. There was little room for warmth when one came to judge, even if it left Alysanne quietly uneasy.
Jaehaerys wasted no time after dismounting, his long legs bridging the rocky courtyard as his ever-present cloak, heavy and black, billowed faintly in the gusting winds. He only briefly paused to run his fingers over the smooth bronze scales of Vermithor’s massive flank, murmuring a quiet command to the dragon before joining her on the flagstones.
It had been years since she had first married him, and Alysanne prided herself on how well she could interpret her husband’s mood. The furrow of his brow, faint as it was, held displeasure—not the roaring kind, which he wielded when lords or councilors betrayed Westeros itself, but the cold frustration he saved for matters like this. Matters of family. Her hand twitched as if to reach out to him, to placate, but she stopped herself. Jaehaerys believed in meeting rebellion directly, flaws head-on. If she wanted to guide him today, it would have to be subtle.
Her gaze flickered to Lord Uther Sunglass and his small retinue of sworn men standing at the base of the long, winding path leading to the keep. Uther wore the white-and-gold colors of his House plainly—pragmatic but dignified—along with the well-worn bearing of a lord accustomed to storms. His features shared something with the cliffs surrounding Sweetport Sound: strong, weathered, but unyielding. He and his men wore no finery, none of the ostentation favored by the lords of the Reach or Crownlands; there was something restrained in their presentation, a show of competence rather than splendor. Only the golden clasp of his flowing white cloak, engraved with the sigil of his house—a blazing sun—caught the light enough to dazzle.
Even now, as a pair of dragons loomed behind him, the faint stretch of Vermithor’s wings casting shadows that swallowed most of the courtyard, Uther’s back remained impossibly straight. If he was awed or afraid of standing before the King and Queen, alongside the echoes of draconic power, he gave no sign.
Alysanne noted the way Jaehaerys’ expression flickered at Lord Uther’s composure—no fear, but no bowing and scraping, either. Her husband preferred lords who wielded power but knew their proper station. Uther would have to tread carefully today.
"Your Grace," Uther said at last, his deep voice calm as he sank into a precise bow before Jaehaerys. He turned his hazel eyes to her next, and though they carried a faint hint of warmth, they stopped short of anything like pleasantries. "Your Grace," he said again with a lower but equally polite inclination of his head.
Jaehaerys wasted no time, the sharp tones of his voice cutting through the hiss of the wind. "Lord Sunglass. You've made no protest about the matter of my son's choice to marry your daughter—not publicly, at least."
Alysanne felt the moment tighten, like a rope just beginning to fray at its edges.
Uther straightened slowly, his movements meticulous but not hesitant. For a moment, he held Jaehaerys’ gaze unflinchingly, as though weighing the measure of the King himself. Then, finally, he answered, his tone steady but deliberate: "To speak against it, Your Grace, would be to speak against a prince of your house. It was not my place to argue once it was made clear that the choice belonged to the Prince himself."
Alysanne saw Jaehaerys raise a single silver brow, the faintest flicker of irritation in his expression. Careful now, Lord Sunglass, she thought uneasily. Jaehaerys did not tolerate veiled defiance well, particularly from those far below him on the ladder of power.
"And do you approve of it?" Jaehaerys’ voice had hardened further now, though there was no true anger. No, her husband was testing Uther, and Alysanne recognized the tactic: pressing, prodding to see what reaction the man would give.
Uther hesitated visibly for the first time, though it was brief, barely a flicker of thought before he responded. "I approve of my daughter's happiness. And I trust she will prove herself worthy of the title of Princess."
From the corner of her eye, Alysanne caught what might have been a faint twitch at the corner of her husband’s mouth. She watched as he folded his arms neatly behind his back, addressing Uther with a faint scoff. “Belief,” he said dismissively, his voice cutting like cold steel. “We would all prosper from fewer beliefs and more caution where princes are concerned.”
Resentment flared in her chest, sudden but swiftly contained. Once again, Jaehaerys chose to brush past her role in these matters—as mother, as Queen, as someone with her own thoughts and authority. Aegon is as much my son as yours, husband. But Alysanne gave no outward sign of her frustration, keeping her composure untouched. There would be a time for that fight, but it was not here.
Instead, she adjusted her fur-lined cloak and took a half-step forward. "And can she?" she asked Lord Uther gently, keeping her tone soft enough to steady the tension while sharp enough to press her own question.
Uther turned his gaze from the King to the Queen, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something more in his hazel eyes—pride, perhaps. “Meredyth has been a dutiful daughter of House Sunglass all her life, Your Grace," he said, his voice firmer now. "She has been raised to respect tradition, to act with grace, and to serve loyally. If the Prince believes in her, I do as well.”
Alysanne tilted her head thoughtfully, studying Uther carefully. He did not boast, as men so often did when their children rose high; there was something steadier in his reply, a quiet faith that her years of judgment told her was not misplaced. He would not have let her daughter fly this far if Meredyth was not capable.
She parted her lips to speak, but her husband cut through before she could. “Faith in princes is a dangerous thing, Lord Sunglass,” Jaehaerys said coldly. “Faith in their choices even more so.”
It was a subtle dismissal, and Uther—wise enough to know when he had said all that could be—offered a respectful bow of his head. Alysanne turned her gaze back toward the smooth iron doors of the keep, wondering how much of this steel and resolve was passed to Meredyth herself.
Perhaps she is more his daughter than we first imagined, the Queen thought, her curiosity piqued.
And perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing.
Meredyth
The low and distant shriek reverberated across the cliffs, a sound that captured the essence of dragons: neither beast nor storm but an unholy thing born of both. The cry brought Meredyth Sunglass to a sudden halt on the stone terrace, the skirts of her gown blowing against her legs as the bay winds pressed at her. From atop the keep, its highest point, she could see far across the waters of Blackwater Bay, the waves dark with foam and glittering faintly beneath the pale midday sun. When the shapes appeared on the horizon—two dragons breaking through the hazy light—time seemed to stretch and slow.
They blotted out the sky as they approached, great wings folding and unfurling like banners of shadow and flame. Vermithor, larger by far, glinted bronze in the sun, his molten body rippling with each stroke of his immense wings. His very presence seemed to stiffen the air, making the sea winds momentarily still. Silverwing followed close behind, her gray-silver scales catching the sun like captured starlight. She seemed lighter, more graceful, though no less terrifying as she watched the keep with intelligent eyes, her long tail curling in the air.
The beating of their wings grew thunderous the closer they came. Meredyth wanted to avert her eyes—wanted to shy away from their primal power—but she could not look away. A streak of awe rippled through her chest, mingled with an unease that made her knuckles pale as she gripped the stone balustrade.
“They’ve come to judge me,” she thought. The very air seemed to hum with that truth, reinforced as both dragons descended upon the keep.
Aegon had spoken of dragons often, usually with passion evident in his voice as he described what it meant to bind oneself to such a creature. He had even laughed once and told her how riding a dragon was like defying the bonds of crown and earth alike. To him, they were freedom, fire made flesh. But Meredyth had always suspected he spoke more of his own heart than the dragons themselves. For all his charm, for all that easy bravado he wielded, she had always seen something behind it—a desperate need to assert himself in a family and a realm that would always regard him as Jaehaerys’ son first.
Now his parents—their dragons—were here, their presence unavoidable, surpassing all other things. No one in Sweetport Sound would sleep tonight without recalling the giant shadows they cast.
Vermithor clutched the battlements of the keep, black talons digging into the pale stone as shards broke loose and scattered below. Silverwing alighted gracefully beside him, her neck curling as though scanning the keep expectantly. Meredyth could feel the raw power of them even from a distance; it wrapped around Sweetport Sound like smoke and heat, intangible but smothering nonetheless. They were here for her. For her family.
Taking a steadying breath, she tore her gaze away from the cliffs and retreated into the keep. There was no time for awe now—not when the King and Queen had arrived to pass judgment.
The receiving chamber’s heavy stone walls loomed dark and oppressive, the air within cold despite the roaring hearth that crackled at the end of the hall. Meredyth felt the weight of those walls, old as her bloodline, bearing down on her slender shoulders as she stepped inside. The sound of her footsteps echoed faintly as her soft slippers met the stone, but that sound was drowned almost immediately by the sharp thud of boots as the King and Queen entered from the opposite side of the chamber.
It was hard not to feel dwarfed by them.
Queen Alysanne was the first to catch Meredyth’s gaze—a beautiful woman dressed in riding leathers faintly embroidered with silver thread, her silver-gold hair swept elegantly back, though its windswept ends betrayed her recent descent from the skies. There was a strength to her that was impossible to ignore, but Meredyth caught something more in her first glance: she was watching. She saw not just the room but everything in it, every detail of Meredyth herself. And though Alysanne’s face was composed—neither cruel nor overtly kind—it was clear that nothing would escape her judgment.
Jaehaerys, however, struck her differently. The King’s expression was as stern as stone itself, his hands clasped tightly behind his back in a posture that radiated authority. His sharp features and pale complexion, framed by that familiar silver-gold hair shared by all of dragon’s blood, made him seem more akin to Vermithor than man—a creature of severity and fire ready to burn away the unworthy. He regarded her now with the might of his station and the weight of his expectations, saying nothing as she curtsied low at their arrival.
“Your Graces,” she said, her voice softer than she intended but anchored by a practiced calm.
“Rise,” Alysanne instructed, her tone neither warm nor cold.
Meredyth straightened, though her heart fluttered in her chest. She forced herself to meet their eyes, hazel meeting lilac: hers steady, theirs… immeasurable.
“So,” the King began, his voice low and cutting as iron. “This is Aegon’s choice.”
It was not a question but a statement. And yet, the weight of it made her stomach churn as though she were meant to answer nonetheless.
“I am honored to be so, Your Grace,” she said, offering the slightest dip of her head.
“Honored?” Jaehaerys’ lip curled faintly in a cold smile. “Tell me, girl, what did you do to earn his regard? His rebellion, more like it.”
The air felt too still. Her gaze did not waver, though her chest felt tight. “I would not claim to know, Your Grace. The Prince sought my company; I did not seek his favor. I served Queen Alysanne faithfully, as was my duty—and still will, if she permits it.”
She turned her eyes toward the Queen then—her mother-in-law. Alysanne’s pale brows lifted slightly, perhaps surprised by the sudden shift in whom Meredyth addressed. The Queen studied her closely, saying nothing for a long moment. Then came the quietly sharp question: “Do you understand what is required of you now?”
Meredyth hesitated. She felt the seconds stretch uncomfortably, the weight of their scrutiny tighter than a noose about her neck. Her lips parted, and she forced herself to speak. “I do.”
Still, she let the words hang briefly, as though allowing herself room to choose them with care. “I know my duty is to him. To the realm that he will one day lead. And I will not fail him in those duties.”
The King’s face tightened, his stare hardening in what might have been frustration or mistrust. But Alysanne’s expression softened faintly—her approval subtle, but there.
“You are brave, I’ll give you that,” Alysanne said at last, and though the words were calm, they carried the faintest suggestion of genuine respect.
73 AC
Meredyth
It was said that few could outmatch the splendor of a Targaryen wedding—the blood of Valyria had always been prone to grandeur, and when that blood ran in the veins of a prince, it demanded nothing less.
Meredyth stared at herself in the silvered reflection of a mirror, her trembling hands smoothing the folds of her gown for what felt like the hundredth time. The gown was ivory, a shade so stark it seemed to catch the light like fresh snow, delicate embroidery of white and gold running along its sleeves and bodice. The design, chosen at great expense by Queen Alysanne herself, had been meant to honor both the Targaryens and her own House—Sunglasses’ sunburst gleaming faintly in a golden thread along the train. A compromise, Alysanne had called it. This day is as much for them as for him.
The wedding would take place in the Great Sept of King’s Landing, the Grand Maester and the High Septon together presiding over the joining of a prince and his bride. Every lord and lady worth naming—and some less worthy who had merely clawed themselves into significance—were gathered in the sprawling city, their banners and voices filling the streets with crackling energy. It was too much, too fast, and yet it had the air of inevitability. Aegon had made his choice long ago, and his family, after much pause—and dragons that threatened to overshadow even the sun—had conceded.
Still, the weight of the Targaryens, of Valyria’s ash-covered legacy, felt suffocating as she stood motionless in her chambers. This wasn’t her wedding, not truly. She was Aegon’s bride, yes, but the ceremony itself belonged to Westeros—to the Targaryens, the gods, the Domes of Dragonstone and King’s Landing alike. In binding herself to Aegon, Meredyth knew she was casting aside what remained of her small, pious world—a girl watching her reflection in Sweetport Sound’s clear waters—and stepping into fire.
“Will you tolerate all the whispers?” her brother had asked when she left for King’s Landing months ago to begin her preparations. “Wife of a Targaryen prince or no, they may never see you as one of them.” She could still feel the phantom touch of his hand at her shoulder, firm but gentle. And yet, when Aegon told her of dragons, wasn’t that risk what made it thrilling? Her betrothed had seen her for who she was and claimed her before his family could crush it.
Her chest constricted with doubt. And what if I’m not enough?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft opening of the chamber doors. She turned swiftly, her heart leaping, only for her pulse to steady as the slender figure of Queen Alysanne entered. The Queen looked resplendent as ever, her blonde hair falling in long waves matched by the pale blue richness of her gown, a shade that always emphasized the commanding presence that made even the Grand Maesters at court fall silent. Yet today, she moved more softly, her piercing gaze holding no trace of judgment. Almost, Meredyth thought, as though she were relieving a younger version of herself.
"You linger too long before the glass," she said simply, her tone balanced—neither scolding nor dismissive. "Weddings never happen within the mirror; they won’t wait for you."
“Your Grace,” Meredyth murmured, dipping a faint curtsy out of instinct. When she rose, her voice was carefully level. “I only sought to ensure... that there is nothing out of place.”
“Everything is out of place,” Alysanne replied, her lips curving faintly into what might have been an empathetic smile. “This is the nature of weddings, child. But do not worry—they will look upon you favorably, even if they whisper.” A pause. “And they will whisper.”
Meredyth swallowed, the Queen’s words landing heavier than she would have liked. “Do you think I’ve made a mistake?”
Alysanne stepped closer, her pale hands moving to adjust Meredyth’s maiden cloak as if it were a trifling excuse to afford herself a clearer look at the girl who had, at last, truly bound herself to her family. After a long pause, she said quietly, "I think you’ve done what most women of this realm will never dare—you’ve chosen. Even if it was not entirely yours to begin with.” The Queen tilted her head, her voice dropping into a lower, warmer murmur, like the flicker of a hearth. “Meredyth Sunglass, this day belongs to you as much as to anyone else in that Sept. Do not let even Jaehaerys or the gods tell you differently.”
The bells of the Great Sept rang out over King’s Landing, their resounding chimes cascading down into the streets below, where crowds of smallfolk jostled and craned their necks for any glimpse of the day’s events. The city was alive with the sound of celebration: the bawdy laughter of revelers, the melodies of minstrels filling the crooked alleyways, and the distant thunder of hooves and carriage wheels rolling toward the Sept.
Inside the Great Sept itself, however, the air was still, heavy with the kind of silence that demanded reverence. The vaulted ceiling seemed impossibly high, its reach exaggerated by the stained-glass depictions of the Seven. They loomed over the lords and ladies who sat in their finery, their rich silks and velvets pooling beneath them as they murmured in quiet anticipation. Thousands of candles flickered, their golden light dancing off the edges of crystalline chandeliers, filling the space with a warm glow that softened the marble austerity.
Meredyth stood just beyond the great doors of the Sept, her heart pounding in her chest. Her hand rested on the crook of her father's arm, her grip tighter than she would have liked, but he did not flinch. For a moment, she glanced upward, catching her reflection in a towering golden shield polished so brightly it rivaled sunlight. She was radiant—ornate even—dressed in an ivory gown that shimmered when the light touched it. Her maiden’s cloak, draped over her shoulders, bore the colors of her house: pale gold and cream, embroidered with a soft sunburst trimmed in silver. It felt almost unbearably heavy, not for its weight, but for what it symbolized—the last tie to the life she was leaving behind.
The music began, a slow, swelling hymn to the Mother and Maiden, its notes filling the entirety of the Great Sept and spilling out into the streets beyond. Her father glanced at her, a question in his eyes. She nodded, her pulse hammering in time with the hymn, and they stepped forward together. The great doors opened.
The lords and ladies rose.
And the whispering began.
Meredyth felt their gazes on her as she began her slow, deliberate walk toward the altar. Her father’s steady presence beside her kept her upright, though her legs trembled beneath the folds of her gown. The weight of expectation swirled around her, but she kept her eyes fixed ahead, refusing to let herself falter. At the end of the aisle, beneath the towering presence of the Seven's statues, stood Aegon.
He was magnificent, a figure carved from Valyrian lore himself—tall, draped in the black and red of his house, the dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned across the rich folds of his cloak. His silver-gold hair, so quintessentially Targaryen, glinted faintly in the light that poured through the crystal dome above. His posture was princely, shoulders squared beneath the expectations of an entire realm, but when his eyes found hers through the flickering candlelight, his expression softened in a way that felt meant only for her.
When she reached him, she stepped forward steadily, allowing her father to lift her hand and place it in Aegon’s. His grip, firm and warm, dispelled the faint trembling in her fingers. For just that moment, the Sept, the lords and ladies, even the towering weight of the Seven, seemed to disappear. It was only them.
The High Septon’s voice echoed across the Sept as he began the rites, an invocation to the gods to bless the union and to bind the souls of the bride and groom together. Symbols were called forth: the love of the Mother, the justice of the Father, the strength of the Warrior. Meredyth knew she was expected to bow her head in humble silence throughout the ceremony, but her gaze kept flitting upward to Aegon, as if he were her anchor among so many crashing tides.
When the time came for the exchange of cloaks, her father stepped forward once more. He looked at her, his pale gaze solemn as his hands reached up to unclasp the delicate pins holding her maiden’s cloak in place. For a moment, as the cloak slipped from her shoulders, she felt the coolness of the Sept’s air on her bare skin—a symbolic, fleeting separation from her past life. Her heart tightened, but before it could ache, Aegon was there.
With deliberate care, the prince took up his own cloak, proudly made of heavy black velvet embroidered with crimson thread, the red dragon of House Targaryen set across it like fire streaking across the night sky. He stepped closer, his pale eyes searching hers for some unspoken permission before he raised the cloak and gently draped it about her shoulders. The weight of it settled against her back, warm and heavy, and she had to steel herself to keep from closing her eyes. This is my life now, she thought. This is my choice.
The exchange complete, Aegon stepped back to face her fully, his hands still lightly brushing the edge of her sleeves. The Septon raised his voice for the final exchange of vows.
“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Aegon said, his voice low but sure, reverberating in the space between their joined hands. A flicker of emotion passed over his face, too fleeting for the gathered crowd to see. “And I take you for my lady and wife.”
“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Meredyth echoed, her voice softer but no less steady as she met his gaze. “And I take you for my lord and husband.”
The Septon extended his hands high above them, his voice ringing out like the clear tone of a bell: “The gods and all their graces bear witness today. You are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”
Those gathered in the Sept burst into applause as their new prince and princess leaned forward to seal the vows with a kiss. The kiss, beneath the Seven's watchful eyes, was deceptively simple, lasting no longer than a moment, but it lingered in its grace. Meredyth felt Aegon’s hands steady her as she leaned into him without hesitation, the world around them briefly falling away.
When they parted, the cheer of the lords and ladies was deafening, but it was Aegon’s subtle smile she noticed most as he offered her his hand once more. He guided her to turn and face the crowd as their husband and wife, the first true symbol of their unity.
In her heart, under the weight of the black and red cloak, Meredyth felt a spark—a fragile, flickering warmth that might become a hearth if nurtured.
79 AC
Meredyth
Meredyth sat in her chamber, absently twirling a quill between her fingers as Aegon stood before a polished glass, arms stretched, while the tailor adjusted his doublet.
“I don’t recall what age my father sent me to squire,” Aegon mused, studying his reflection. “Aerys is still very young.”
“In two years, he must begin his pagehood,” Meredyth replied, glancing up from the parchment before her. “We ought to decide where he will go before the time comes.”
Aegon sighed, rolling his shoulders as the tailor fussed over the fit of the fabric. “Fine. He can squire for Aemon.”
Meredyth tilted her head, smiling.
Aegon caught her expression in the glass and raised an eyebrow. “What’s amusing? You disagree?”
“Not at all,” she said, resting her chin in her hand and setting her quill aside. “I simply find it a rather sensible decision.” Her smile deepened. “So, does this mean you’ve finally warmed to your father’s desire to see Aerys wed Rhaenys?”
Aegon scoffed. “I am not doing this for my father, nor for Jocelyn Baratheon’s sulking face,” he muttered, turning briefly to face her. “Aemon is a fine knight. Not as skilled as Baelon, but the best choice for Aerys. And he has more sense than Baelon ever will.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “It will serve Aerys well.”
Meredyth studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet hum, she reached for her quill once more.
“What?”
“Nothing. It pleases me to hear you say that,” she mused. “Though I wonder if you truly mean it.”
Aegon rolled his shoulders as the tailor adjusted the fabric over his broad frame. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Meredyth tapped a finger against the desk. “Because you rarely speak of Aerys unless pressed to.”
Aegon stilled for a moment before turning back to the glass. “What is there to say? He is a bright boy, gentle. His mother’s son.”
“You say that as if it is a flaw.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “It is not. But he lacks…” He gestured vaguely, searching for the words. “A fire, perhaps. A strength that should come naturally.”
Meredyth’s smile faded. “Not all strength is worn like armor, Aegon.”
He gave her a look, one that hovered between amusement and exasperation. “You say that because you see the world as you wish it to be, not as it is.”
“And you see it as a battlefield, where only those with steel in their hands and fire in their bellies survive,” she countered. “Aerys is not like you, nor Baelon, nor even Aemon. But he is kind, thoughtful, and clever. He listens more than he speaks—unlike some people I know.”
Aegon smirked at that but did not argue.
Meredyth reached for her parchment again. “Then it’s settled. Aerys will begin his pagehood at court, under his uncle Aemon, and then—”
“No,” Aegon interrupted, shaking his head. “He will go to Dragonstone.”
She blinked, quill pausing midair. “Dragonstone? Why?”
“Because that is where a Prince of Dragonstone belongs,” Aegon said simply. “If he is to rule one day, he must know the lands that will be his.”
Meredyth studied him, her expression unreadable. “And will he be alone there?”
Aegon’s jaw tensed. “His grandsire will be there.”
“Ah, yes. And I am certain Aerys will find great warmth in his grandsire’s company,” she said wryly.
Aegon shot her a look, but she continued before he could protest. “Aegon, if you wish to make a ruler of our son, then at least have a hand in shaping him. You barely seem interested in taking a page, let alone a squire—and your own heir at that. Aerys is not like you. He is still without a dragon, and you, well…” She gave him a knowing glance. “You have always preferred to take flight.”
Aegon exhaled sharply and turned back to the glass, watching the tailor adjust his sleeves. “I will visit.” But even as he said it, his voice lacked certainty.
Meredyth let the silence linger before speaking again, softer now. “Why not consider a compromise? Lord Boremund is a good man. Aerys could learn much in Storm’s End—more than he would alone in the cold halls of Dragonstone.”
Aegon frowned, but Meredyth pressed on. “You don’t wish for him to be his grandsire’s creature. Then let him be his own man.”
Aegon sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “So now it’s to Storm’s End?”
“It would serve him well,” she said, tilting her head. “And it would keep him close to Rhaenys.”
Aegon made a noise in his throat, neither agreement nor protest. He shifted, adjusting the fit of his doublet. “I have been thinking about that.”
Meredyth arched a brow. “Oh?”
“The match. Aerys and Rhaenys,” Aegon admitted. “Perhaps it is unwise to push it.”
Meredyth’s fingers curled slightly over the parchment, though her expression remained composed. “Unwise, or simply inconvenient?”
Aegon didn’t answer at once. Instead, he turned, meeting her gaze. “I have no wish to make him miserable.”
Meredyth held his eyes for a long moment. Then, with a small sigh, she dipped her quill once more. “Then perhaps, for once, you should ask him what he wants.”
Aegon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “What he wants?”
“Yes, husband,” Meredyth said, dipping her quill once more. “You remember the concept, don’t you? I seem to recall you railing against your father often enough over it.”
Aegon scoffed. “It is not the same.”
“Isn’t it?” She glanced at him. “Jaehaerys made choices for you, all in the name of duty. He thought he was doing what was best, didn’t he?”
Aegon crossed his arms, his mood souring. “You think I am like him?”
“I think,” Meredyth said carefully, “that you are doing exactly what he did—just in a different way.” She let the words settle before continuing, her voice gentle but firm. “You want Aerys to be strong, so you send him away. You want him to be more like you, so you give him Aemon as a knightly model. But Aegon… Aerys is not you.”
Aegon inhaled sharply, but Meredyth pressed on. “He does not command attention the way you do. He does not challenge or demand or fight for a place at the table.” She gave him a knowing look. “You were born wanting more. Aerys was born content. And that terrifies you.”
Aegon turned away, staring at the polished glass as if it held answers. He flexed his hands, feeling the fine embroidery of his doublet beneath his fingers. “Contentment does not make a good king.”
“No,” Meredyth agreed, “but understanding does. Strength can come in many forms. Aerys will never be you, but that does not mean he will not be worthy.”
Aegon’s throat worked, but he said nothing.
Meredyth studied him, then softened her tone. “You love him, Aegon.”
His shoulders stiffened, as if the words were an accusation.
“I know you do,” she continued. “But love is not just wanting what is best—it is knowing when to listen.”
Aegon exhaled through his nose, then turned, his gaze shadowed. “And if what he wants is to be small? To be meek? To sit and let others shape his life?”
Meredyth tilted her head. “Then it is your duty to teach him how to stand on his own. But you cannot do that if you do not know him.”
Aegon stared at her, expression unreadable. A long silence stretched between them, and for a moment, she wondered if she had pushed too far. But then, he sighed, rubbing his face with both hands.
“I will think on it,” he muttered.
Meredyth smiled, dipping her quill again. “That is all I ask.” Meredyth gave a knowing hum but did not press him further. Instead, she shifted the conversation. “And what of Daeron?”
Aegon considered for a moment. “Lord Yohn Royce.”
Meredyth raised her brows, pleasantly surprised. “A fine choice. He is an honorable man.”
“He is also stubborn and unyielding. Daeron will need that.”
She chuckled. “I thought you disliked the Royces.”
“I dislike the way they prattle about their runes and their ‘First Men’s ways,’ but I respect their discipline.” Aegon flexed his fingers as the tailor adjusted his sleeve. “Daeron is different from Aerys. There’s fight in him, but it needs shaping.”
Meredyth smiled, finally setting her quill down. “Then it is settled.”
Aegon sighed in mock exhaustion. “Seven hells, woman. You wear me down.”
“It is my greatest talent,” she teased, rising to her feet.
The tailor finished his work, stepping back with a bow. Aegon rolled his shoulders, finally free of the man’s fussing. He turned to Meredyth, watching as she absently smoothed a wrinkle in the fabric of his sleeve.
“And what of Vaella?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
Meredyth’s face softened, her fingers lingering against his arm. “She is still but a babe.”
“She won’t always be.”
“No,” she agreed, tilting her head. “But for now, she is ours to keep a little longer.”
Aegon exhaled, something wistful crossing his face. He reached down, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. “Good.”
Meredyth squeezed back, her smile warm and knowing. “Good.”
80 AC
Raventree Hall had broken something in Aegon—though he, in his pride, did not yet know it.
Meredyth sat by the window of her solar, watching as the sun dipped below the horizon, its fading light painting the sky in streaks of orange and gold. She cradled her swelling belly absently, her fingers tracing lazy loops across its curve. She was tired—more tired than she cared to admit, her strength waning under the strain of recent events. The words and letters of the day’s correspondence piled before her, unopened. What use were pen and words when her husband’s stubborn pride unraveled all her careful efforts?
The door to her chambers opened with purpose, and she knew it was Aegon without needing to look. He moved too loudly for his own good, dragonfire in his heart and temper prodding his every step. The faint scent of ale lingered in the air even before he spoke.
“So,” he said, voice sharp as steel. “Now the Blackwoods have sworn me off entirely.” He kicked off his boots with little regard for where they landed, the echo of worn leather hitting stone filling the room. “Along with every backwater lord in the freezing North, apparently.”
Meredyth closed her eyes briefly and inhaled, steadying herself. “Did you think,” she said softly, “that pissing on their weirwood tree would endear them to you?”
“It was a jest,” Aegon snapped, waving his hand dismissively as he dropped into the chair across the room. “The Brackens thought it was amusing enough.”
“It always comes back to that feud, doesn’t it?” Her voice was calm, though there was an edge lurking behind it. "The Brackens love what embarrasses the Blackwoods, and the Blackwoods remember every slight as if it were carved into their very bones."
He frowned, sensing her disapproval. “So you’ve come to scold me too, have you? You sound like my father.”
Meredyth felt her jaw tighten at that insult, though her tone remained measured. “Your father would never have allowed the Blackwood Blunder,” she said sharply. “But I am not him, Aegon. I am your wife, and it is my duty to tell you when you’ve made a fool of yourself.”
“A fool?” he barked, bristling. “I am your husband. Do not speak to me as if I’m a child in need of correction.”
“Then stop behaving like one,” she countered, her voice low but firm, a tempered softness that felt like a slap. “Aegon, gods help me, you have made a fool of yourself with this. But worse, you have made a fool of us all—of your family, of our children, of me.”
Her words struck at something in him, though he masked it poorly. The set of his shoulders tightened, his lips pressing into a hard line. “They’re only the Blackwoods, Meredyth. A lesser house of a lesser land. They don’t matter.”
“Don’t matter?” Her voice rose slightly for the first time, and it startled him. “The Blackwoods are no petty peasants. They are allies the Targaryens have relied upon since before the Conquest. Every lord and lady in the Riverlands judges us now—questions whether House Targaryen can command loyalty if its prince can’t muster even basic respect.”
She rose to her feet, walking toward him slowly, her pointed gaze never wavering. “You think it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t hurt you. But it will hurt Aerys. It will hurt Daeron. It will hurt the child who grows in me now. Every one of us will wear your shame, marked by your recklessness.”
Aegon’s face darkened, and for a moment, there was only the sound of his heavy breathing. “It was a mistake, fine. Must you bleed me for it?”
Meredyth let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “I am not trying to bleed you, husband. I am trying to mend you.”
He looked away, his jaw rigid with tension. Something shifted in the silence that followed, a strange, uneasy quiet that made the air between them feel colder than it should have been. It felt, somehow, as though each of them stood on opposite shores of a wide, unyielding river—and neither could find a way across.
Meredyth touched her belly again, rubbing it absentmindedly as she studied him. “What are you doing, Aegon?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “What are you trying to prove?”
He didn’t answer, not at first. He ran a hand through his silver-gold hair, his expression inscrutable as his gaze drifted to the flames flickering in the hearth. “… Nothing,” he muttered after a long pause.
“Nothing?” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe that. You want something. What is it, Aegon?”
His lips parted as if to speak, but whatever he intended to say died on his tongue. He looked tired, then—truly tired, as though some unseen battle inside him was taking its toll. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured.
She tilted her head, her voice infinitely soft. “Aegon.”
He stood abruptly, his sudden movement startling her. “I’ll deal with the Blackwoods,” he snapped, waving her off as if the matter was trivial. “They’ll simmer down eventually.”
“You? Deal with it?” She quirked a brow. “Is this before or after you offend someone else?”
His sharp glare landed on her, the sting of her words undeniable. But Meredyth didn’t back down, her dark eyes steady as they held his fiery gaze.
“You make a mess,” she continued, unflinching, “and I clean up after you. But I wonder how long it will be before there’s a mess too great for me to fix.”
“Careful,” he growled, his voice low. “I’ve never asked you—”
“No,” she interrupted, her voice cutting through him like a knife. “But you expect it, don’t you? To be the calm to your storm. The voice of reason when yours is lost to the din of dragonfire in your veins. Aegon, I cannot always save you from yourself.”
He faltered at her words, his expression caught in a flicker of shock—perhaps even guilt—but it was gone as quickly as it came. He sighed heavily, raking a hand over his face. “Enough of this,” he muttered. “You’re in no condition for an argument.”
Meredyth’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she did not pursue it further. “You’re right,” she said finally, her voice quieter but no less firm. “I’m not. But one day, maybe sooner than you think, you’ll find yourself without me to argue with.”
He froze at her words, his body going taut as if struck, but before she could say anything else, he turned abruptly and strode toward the door. “I need air,” he muttered, and a moment later, he was gone.
Meredyth remained where she stood, her hand resting protectively over her unborn child. The flicker of flames in the hearth cast shadows against the stone walls, and she watched them with a heavy heart.
“I cannot save you from yourself,” she whispered again, this time to no one at all.
And outside, the storm continued to brew.