The bells sounded before the sun rose. Their sober notes rang out across the Red Keep, echoing all the way up to the windows of Aegon's room. He woke tired, blinking in the pale glow before dawn, trying to recall if he had truly slept or simply drifted in and out of restless thoughts. Once again, he was reminded this was not the world he used to know. There was no going home. But there was still today to face—and always someone waiting for him to act like a prince.
Aegon dressed himself with care and checked the way his cloak sat on his shoulders in the dim looking glass. He remembered always hating fancy clothes, but he gritted his teeth and made it neat. In his old life, dressing for work meant survival and routine—he could do the same here. There was no point in giving anyone an excuse to call him lazy.
He opened the heavy door and found the hall mostly empty, except for a pair of guards and a maid scrubbing at a stain on the stones. She stilled at his approach, eyes wide and worried, and quickly bobbed her head. Aegon tried a small nod before hurrying past. They're all watching, he reminded himself. So he must give them nothing to gossip about.
Down in the yard, he found Aemond already at the edge of the training circle, arms folded, scowling at a group of squires drilling with Ser Criston. Even at this hour, his brother looked intense and sharp in the morning chill.
"You're up early," Aemond said, raising an eyebrow. "Trying to impress someone?"
"Just thought I'd practice," Aegon replied. He reached for a wooden sword and weighed it in his palm. "You coming?"
Aemond's scowl softened, just a little. "Try not to embarrass yourself."
Ser Criston noticed, crossing over to greet Aegon with a short bow. "Prince Aegon, keen for morning drills? A welcome change."
Aegon nodded, keeping his face calm. "I need it," he said simply, which was true. He needed something to do with his hands—something to burn off the nerves that crept through him each day.
Criston started easy, testing his basics. Aegon remembered the rhythm from the day before, focusing now: feet planted, arm steady, follow the shoulder, not just the blade. When he stumbled, Criston barked a correction; when he blocked neatly, Criston just nodded, the tiniest sign of approval.
Aemond watched, silent and sharp, then joined in, the two brothers circling each other. It was not the rough play of children but something more careful, almost respectful. Aegon found himself enjoying the contest—a dance of mind and muscle, not just swinging hard for the sake of it.
After a while, both were sweating. Criston gave them water and a brief rest. Aegon sat under the edge of the shade, quietly proud that he hadn't completely embarrassed himself. His arms ached pleasantly. For a moment, the anxiety in his chest faded.
He heard footsteps. Alicent's shadow crossed the dirt as she approached, her eyes sharp and cool. "Early to the yard, Aegon?"
He nodded. "I plan to keep it up."
She stared, as if looking for some hidden meaning, then shrugged. "Be careful not to overdo it. Your father will expect you and your siblings at the Sept soon." She paused, lowering her voice. "There must be no trouble today."
He nodded again, biting back the urge to snap. "Of course."
Her gaze softened for a heartbeat, then cooled. "Don't let him down again," she whispered, then turned on her heel and left.
Aegon gripped the practice sword hard until his knuckles turned white. Don't let him down again. As if it ever mattered whether I pleased him or not. He forced himself to relax. Let the anger go. He would just keep working.
After the yard, the family breakfast was brief. Viserys didn't look at Aegon as he spoke to the table: "This day honors Laena. You will act with dignity. All of you."
Aegon met his father's eyes for a fraction of a second and saw only annoyance, not warmth—not even sorrow. The old Aegon would have slouched and pouted. Now, he just ate in silence, listening.
Later, walking alone in the gardens, Aegon stopped by the old marble benches where scholars sometimes gathered to read. On an impulse, he looked for books—history, records, even basic arithmetic texts. When a maester found him reading and doing quiet sums with a bit of charcoal, he paused. "Taking an interest, my prince?"
Aegon shrugged. "I should know what's written about my own family. And there's little else to do before the Sept."
The maester smiled, surprised, and brought him more: account ledgers, harvest records, a collection of castle maps. Aegon felt the thrill of numbers again—the secret satisfaction of patterns and sums. He found himself working through basic figures with speed and clarity, often surprising the maester by how quickly he understood a problem.
"You have a sharper mind than you let on, prince," the maester remarked. "If you'd like, I can arrange lessons in mathematics or castle management."
Aegon tried not to smile too much. "I'd like that."
He spent part of the morning this way. It felt—if only for a little—like some part of his old self could thrive here. When a servant called him for the royal procession, he carefully closed the books and followed.
At the Sept, the whole family stood for prayers. The gods' statues loomed high over the mourners. Rhaenyra and her children had arrived, their presence felt even when they made no sound. Aegon felt the rivalry as tension in the air—every glance, every whisper a contest.
When it was finally over, and Viserys led them all outside for formal condolences to House Velaryon's envoys, Aegon tried to keep his answers simple and proper. Never give too much away, he told himself. He offered short prayers for Laena and listened politely as others gave speeches full of sorrow and promises.
Later, as the families walked through the gardens, Aegon found himself beside Aemond.
"I saw you at the benches," Aemond said, squinting. "Reading ledgers. Why?"
Aegon met his brother's gaze. "If we're to have real power someday, we should know how the castle works. How the city survives. Father never talks about that, but somebody should keep count."
Aemond nodded, understanding. "We don't need to be just swords."
Aegon grinned. "We need both. Sword and mind."
Their banter was cut off by a shout—one of the royal cousins racing by, chased by a pair of knights. Aegon and Aemond looked on with private amusement, then turned back, more comfortable than before.
A few hours later, Aegon sat again with the maester, this time asking quietly about how supplies were managed in winter, how messages were sent between keeps, how masters of coin kept track of every gold dragon. He took notes in the margins of a spare sheet, careful not to look "too clever."
At dinner, Viserys called out, "Aegon, you seem quiet these days. Lost your taste for wine and games?" His voice held a note of mockery, a test in front of the court.
Aegon straightened his back and answered calmly, "I have plenty to learn these days, Father. If I am to grow up, I may as well start."
Viserys only grunted—a mixture of surprise and disbelief. Aegon looked away, a burst of frustration running through him. He didn't care if his father noticed his efforts or not. He would keep trying, if only to outwork the old man's expectations.
That night, alone, Aegon wrote again—this time, lists of things he'd learned: how many wagons delivered flour each week, how many guards changed with each bell ringing, how many guests the kitchens could feed. It was a start—a real plan, not just idle thinking.
He placed the notes deep inside a heavy book, hiding them well. Then he lay in the dark, not dreaming of home or lost destinies, but thinking of numbers, sword steps, and ways to make his mark in this world, no matter who expected him to fail.