Mist drifted in heavy curtains over Driftmark's cliffs, draping the morning in hush and shadow. From his small chamber overlooking the sea, Aegon woke early—drawn from sleep by the persistent toll of slow bells and the muffled roll of distant waves against black stone. For a while, he simply watched the fog swirl past corroded gargoyles, feeling the cold in his chest as much as on his skin.
He rose and dressed with deliberate care, hands steady even as his thoughts fumbled. Somewhere on these windswept grounds, dragons dreamed and nobles whispered.
When he opened his door, he nearly collided with Aemond in the hallway. His brother's expression was darker than the weather.
"The council's gathering in the main hall," Aemond said, voice low. "Nobody wants to be late."
Aegon just nodded, falling in step beside him. The path wound past driftwood sculptures and salt-stained banners, servants hurried with their heads down, and the winter wind muffled all but the sound of their own footsteps.
In the high arched hall, the families assembled: House Velaryon wrapped in black, their loss raw under formality; the king yawning in his furs, flanked by Alicent and a retinue hungry for order; Rhaenyra's group trailing last, eyes sharp, posture proud. Aegon scanned the crowd, searching for the smallest shifts—an averted gaze or clenched jaw, quickly shuttered resentment.
Rhaenys hosted the gathering with cool poise, voice clear as she called for prayers to begin. The septon's chants filled the chamber, echoing solemn and deep. Aegon listened politely, mouthing along. He noticed the servants: the cooks, the dock workers, the seamstresses, all clustered quietly at the back, curious yet respectful of the highborn display.
After the prayers, silence pressed until Corlys spoke, inviting all to the afternoon funeral at the sea's edge. "We thank our kin for coming from King's Landing in our hour of grief," he announced—a measured, formal gesture, but Aegon caught the hint of old frustration beneath. He filed the tone away for later consideration.
Meals followed: silvery fish, bitter greens, and tasteless bread, eaten more for duty than hunger. Aegon sat between Aemond and Helaena, listening while the grownups floated careful condolences and platitudes. Daemon was nowhere to be seen; Rhaenyra exchanged only the briefest words with Alicent, cool as the spray off the rocks.
A subtle tension threaded every table. Lords from Oldtown and Blackwater Bay clustered near Velaryon retainers, murmuring about storms and rumors from court. Aegon, remembering his promise to pay attention, tried to read their unease. The talk was all about provisions, patrols, families—practical things where, with patience, politics often hid.
When the meal ended, Rhaenys stood and beckoned the children. Her voice was gentle but brooked no refusal: "Go out to the beach. Get the salt air. Together." There was no warmth in the order, no room for protest.
Out on the stony shore, gray light painted their shapes in thin silhouettes. Cold wind flattened Aegon's hair against his head and made his eyes water.
He stepped back as Aemond and the girls went ahead, collecting shells and skipping stones in awkward silence. Jace and Luke lagged behind, guarded, circling each other with the posture of boys who might one day be men—if Westeros allowed.
Aegon bent to trace lines in the pebbles with his boot, keeping his hands deep in his cloak. He watched the younger ones, the way Baela glared wild at Lucerys, how Rhaena's fists tightened when Jace laughed. Helaena wandered in her own world, voice lost to the wind.
He heard the snatches of argument drifting up: "It's not your place," "It's not fair," "You always take her side!" Tension that no grownup could have missed, yet all chose not to see.
A shout—sharp as a gull's cry—snapped Aegon alert. He looked up; Aemond and Jace were chest-to-chest, Luke red-faced beside, Baela and Rhaena poised to step in. For a heated second, Aegon thought it might all explode, but the girls pulled back, voices hushed. The brothers glared, something settled and something left unfinished.
Aegon stepped closer, voice calm. "Enough! We're guests, so act like it." No lord's son should have to give this warning, but nobody else intended to.
The group fell quiet, Aemond glaring sideways, Jace kicking at the stones, Lucerys looking away. Tension hovered, but for now, the fight broke. The younger ones wandered a few paces off; Aemond lingered, shoulders stiff.
"You don't have to defend them, you know," Aemond muttered, not meeting his gaze.
Aegon shrugged, tone flat. "I'm not. Just don't give Rhaenyra or anyone else more reason to hate us." He heard the bitterness in his own voice and wasn't sure who it was meant for.
They wandered further down the beach, letting the silence fill the spaces that words could not. Aegon kept his eyes moving, counting ships in the bay, noting the banners on new arrivals, measuring driftwood piles with idle calculation. Small habits, useless here but comforting.
Eventually, Rhaenys's maid called them back in, the afternoon chill biting deeper. The funeral would be held at dusk; all were expected to change into black and gather by the sea.
Aegon returned to his chamber to dress. As he adjusted the black cuffs on his sleeves, he looked briefly out his narrow window. Far below, the dragons were restless—Sunfyre shifting and flexing his wings, Vhagar's massive shadow impossible to miss. The sight sent a strange chill up Aegon's spine—power, real and dangerous, sleeping beneath every move these families made.
As dusk bled across the sky, the bells tolled once more, calling all of Driftmark to the cliffs above the waves.
He joined the quiet procession winding out of the keep, following his siblings, parents, and the rival Targaryen and Velaryon lines. Lanterns bobbed in the dusk, footprints trailing across the wet stones. At the head, Corlys and Rhaenys stood by Laena's body, cloaked in silver and pearl, surrounded by sprays of driftwood and shells.
Aegon listened to the prayers, the biting wind, the low sobs behind Princess Rhaenys's steady words. When the body slid into the deep, there was no drama—only raw cold, and the sorrow of a house on the edge of change.
As the first stars poked through cloud, the procession wound back toward High Tide. Aegon fell into step beside Helaena and Aemond, neither speaking. In the growing dark, he could feel the eyes of the court on their backs and the slow pulse of danger beneath the surface. Tonight, there would be no comfort, only the long, patient test of what came next—for Driftmark, for both their families, and for whatever alliances might yet survive the rising tide.