Chapter Text
All his life, Prince Aegon had heard of the countless stories regarding his father. Lord Flea Bottom, the Rogue Prince, the King of the Narrow Sea. A savage man prone to violence, whoring, and drinking. Such stories his blessed mother attempted to shield him and his siblings from, but courtiers talked with little care for young royal ears. Yet the young heir could never reconcile the myth with the man who raised him.
Prince Daemon was a stern father, it was true, and a harsh instructor on the sands of the training yard. He could be foul-mouthed and quick to anger. But it was after the sun set and the family gathered together, bellies full from the evening meal, that the true reflection of his sire revealed itself, where lines on his ageing face spoke of laughter and fond smiles along with anger and heated emotions.
The winds howled outside the stone walls of Dragonstone like a banshee, warning of a lonely death, but inside the solar of the Princess of Dragonstone, there was warmth by the firelight. Aegon was glaring at the cyvasse board, ignoring the self-satisfied smirk stretched across his little sister’s face. He loathed playing cyvasse with her in truth; she liked to cheat. Her inability to adhere to the usual demands of most ladies among her peers—an attitude only encouraged by their father—made her utterly unremorseful whenever she got caught.
The Targaryen brood, holed away at Dragonstone, currently numbered ten in all. The Princess of Dragonstone and her consort, of course, and a collection of eight children. Aegon suspected there would have been more of them were it not for the existence of moontea or whatever other concoction Maester Gerardys could come up with. He was the eldest, followed by Viserys and Visenya—twins. They had caused a hard birth, a moon too early and the labour far too long. After that, their parents waited some years before having their fourth, Aemma, a surprise babe. After her came Alyssa, and then Daella, and finally the newest babes, Baelon and Aemon. So many girls, all spoiled to death by their otherwise terrifying father.
Family gatherings were rarely quiet, but Muña insisted upon organised chaos when playing their games or reading their stories. Or in Kepa’s case, quietly reading. If he was reading.
To any outsider, the strangest sight of all wasn’t the infant curled against Princess Rhaenyra’s chest, or the cradle occupied by the other twin, but rather the male arm that draped across her shoulders, a yellowing tome spread over his lap. Instead of reading it, however, Aegon’s father rested his cheek upon his niece’s head, whispering too lowly to be heard while his thumb caressed her arm. If Aegon had to guess, his father was whispering Valyrian poetry in his mother’s ear, the stanzas long memorised over the years in his quest to serenade like a dragon in song.
The young prince and his siblings were long accustomed to how differently the infamous Rogue Prince behaved around their mother. Gold cloaks in particular remained ceaselessly in awe of the commander they entered brothels with who now refused to detach himself from the companionship of his beloved bride. “He is her shadow,” Aegon once heard Ser Largent admit while they shared a table at the local tavern (even though Aegon was far too young to be there, as his mother later reminded him and his father). “An insult to her honour is the quickest way to get skewered. I’ve seen a man lose both his ears for speaking of our future queen in a sordid manner. Another with his tongue cut out. Your father would rather sully his hands than let a stain remain on your mother’s name.”
And he had seen it firsthand when he was ten. Aegon was watching his father showcasing him a Pentoshi manoeuvre when the sworn shield of a visiting lord had made an untoward remark about what lay beneath the princess’ skirts, a remark Aegon himself would have beat the man in the head for, but the Prince Consort had reacted with such violence, fists slick with blood, that even some of the most seasoned soldiers in the yard turned green. Instead of seeking retribution, the knightless lord admitted even his own lady wife deserved such fierce defence from her lord husband.
The punished knight was left blind and disgraced, lucky to be alive.
The princess tried and failed to pretend she was annoyed with the circumstance, instead kissing her lord husband’s bruised knuckles as a reward for his mad devotion. Anyone lacking the blood of the dragon would never understand this penchant for violence, however even the king seemed disturbed by how willfully his brother maimed and killed lesser men. Princess Rhaenyra meanwhile insisted she would have demanded justice from her husband anyway. That was the last time anyone dared speak on the matter.
Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen were a pair that exuded dominance and power, living and breathing the Targaryen moniker while their king buckled underneath the weight of his family legacy. As long as Aegon could remember, his parents made a point to dress outside the norm of court fashion, preferring instead to don attire akin to that of the East, reminding all who gazed upon them where the dragons truly came from. Queen Alicent always hated it, but the prince suspected she hated how easily her former friend outshone her. It wasn’t a difficult task. His father never seemed to run out of gold dragons to spend upon his niece-wife, ushering in wealth through gold and silk, ensuring even her hair was donned in glittering rare jewels.
Thoughts of his father and mother continued to distract young Aegon, leading to a laugh of victory from Visenya. “Perhaps one day you will finally beat me, dear brother,” the princess sang, mirth glimmering in her mismatched eyes. She was always a pretty girl, the perfect blend of their parents and in possession of mismatched eyes identical to that of their grandmother. The most notable trait she possessed, of course, was the unique birthmark on her face, a lingering reminder of being born too soon. The skin was rough, akin to dragon scales, and the same shade of plum purple as her dragon. She never let the local children bully her for it, sooner throwing rude boys into the closest pile of dung than taking it with a stiff upper lip. Viserys possessed a similar mark, but it was hidden away underneath his clothes in a random stroke of luck.
“No, I will leave that to Viserys,” the prince grumbled instead as he watched her knock over his queen.
“Checkmate!”
“Fourteen preserve me….”
“Oh, please, you didn’t even try this time. You can’t impress cousin Daenaera if you don’t try.”
The flush on his cheeks arrived unbidden, much to his chagrin. It was ridiculous, he had been betrothed to the eldest daughter of Lady Laena Velaryon for several years now, and yet in recent moons he had found himself looking at her just a little bit longer than before. A detail that had not gone unnoticed in his family, and his siblings were ever increasingly annoying about it. Aegon assumed the only reason his own father refrained from any teasing was due to whatever ironclad grip his mother had on the Rogue Prince. That didn’t stop the suggestive glint in his eye the last time Aegon had been in the same room as the girl he was affianced to, however. Not even Rhaenyra could prevent her husband from smirking.
Leaving his younger brother to battle it out with their sister over the cyvasse board next, Aegon tried to keep his eyes on the page of a random book he pulled off the shelf, but movement caught his eye. Muña was just now draping a blanket over her shoulder, covering herself whilst nursing the babe at her breast—he knew not which of his brothers it was—when not in the privacy of her chambers. Kepa didn’t seem to move, his fingers deftly securing the blanket with so much ease he hadn’t needed to shift in his seat. The book in his lap didn’t so much as slide. Aegon watched the pair of them greedily.
He had been rather young when he first realised how… unusual his parents’ marriage was. Rarely were they in the same room and not gravitating towards each other as if a cord tied them tautly together, pulling one toward the other at all times. They could hold an entire conversation with their eyes, his mother would calm the moment their hands joined together, his father’s most impulsive words halted as soon as she muttered his name. Most importantly, they despised being apart at all, always touching, always whispering. Grandsire often complained of it when they visited court, curiously blaming Kepa for it instead of Muña as if she was his prisoner instead of his wife.
Well, if Rhaenyra was a prisoner, she was certainly a happy one. She was giggling about something as she pressed a kiss on Daemon’s cheek, a smirk gracing his lips at the easy act of affection. Aegon normally thought nothing of it, but he was getting older, his nuptials approaching by the day. He wondered if it would be like this with Daenaera. She also loved to laugh, eyes sparkling like a cloudless summer sky. Would he know her needs without asking, as well? He was lucky to have grown up with her, that they had begun as friends. He wondered how his parents were able to transition from their familial connection to a more romantic one. He wanted to ask. Instead, all he could do was watch and ponder.
The question creeped into Aegon’s mind continuously afterward in the following days. He pondered how many sets of siblings would inevitably fall into the trap of the family tradition, as it were. Their mother had agreed only to his and Daenaera’s betrothal—the price he paid for being her heir and Corlys Velaryon being snubbed two times too many—but after that, she was adamant her children would be given a choice like she had. A choice his father was once robbed of. Aegon could never bring himself to envy his siblings. He and Visenya would be a match made in the seven hells, and none of the other girls he’d met over the years were worth conversing with. Neither the queen nor his father would ever allow a match with his aunt Helaena. He couldn’t shake off the sense of malice directed at him from Uncle Aemond when he was in the same room as her anyhow.
Aegon snorted to himself. Ah, poor Aemond, left to yearn for what he couldn’t have. The queen had been successful in one endeavour. To legitimise the other Aegon further for the throne, marriage to his sister would be a boon, the wedding not one that even Princess Rhaenyra attended. As if that wastrel knew how to appreciate a girl from their shared house. Uncle Aegon would be better off rotting in a tavern somewhere in Flea Bottom, far away from anyone of the female sex. Rhaenyra could not halt the engagement, and last they’d heard, Helaena was with child.
Sometimes, sinisterly, the prince wondered if the right brother was the father.
Later that sennight, in the library, Aegon found his mother behind her desk, perusing over a small stack of papers, the distinctively small scroll of a raven in hand. He leaned against his father’s desk as he listened to Maester Gerardys speak, “You will be able to travel on your dragon without issue, I suspect, so long as we take the necessary precautions. I’m certain the prince will ensure those precautions are met.”
The princess of Dragonstone had a melodious laugh, rich and husky like the spiced wine they drank in the dead of winter. “He certainly will,” she agreed with a knowing grin. “If only he had the patience for it, he’d make an excellent maester.”
“I fear he would play at nurse only for you, my princess. He cares for few others.”
“The children?” There was a humourous glint in her violet eyes.
“Dear to him, most certainly, but you are most precious of all.”
Aegon couldn’t argue with that. Neither could the princess, who only blushed. “Leave your notes on his desk. I will ensure he gets them.”
“As you wish, princess.”
The young prince strolled toward his mother the moment her conversation with the good maester ended, his curiosity already tugging incessantly within him. “What was this I heard about travel?” he promptly inquired.
The future queen sighed and offered her eldest son a raven. Taking the scroll, he glanced down at the message:
To the Princess of Dragonstone, I write to you inquiring whether you and your family will be attending His Grace’s name-day celebration, a matter he has been most insistent upon. I understand you have only recently delivered a child and I offer any assistance you might require for greater ease of travel. Write to me with your reply as soon as you can if you please.
Your obedient servant,
The Hand of the King
Ser Otto Hightower
Aegon’s lip curled in disdain at the signature. The name Hightower was all but a curse within the Targaryen ancestral keep. The first time Aemma swore, it had been to insult the man that had much to gain from Lyonel Strong’s untimely death. “Untimely” was no word worth using, however. It took a fool to believe the fire that struck down Harrenhal’s liege lord was an accident, but a means to make way for the green snake to reclaim his position as Hand. Aegon’s sworn shield, Ser Harwin, had been distraught, yet any attempts to grieve together with his younger brother Larys had been suspiciously rebuffed.
“Hasn’t Grandsire been ill?” he asked. “More than before, anyway.”
“So I have been told. Gods know what plans are in place for his name-day, but if the king wishes to see us for it, we should go, don’t you think?”
“Hmm.” Aegon was tempted to just throw the scroll of parchment into the closest open flame but his mother was right. His youngest sister had not yet met her grandsire. There was no reason not to travel to King’s Landing save for a keen desire to relieve Otto Hightower’s head from his body. “What of you? Does the maester think you can travel?”
“I can fly,” Rhaenyra assured him, rising from her seat slowly, “and the twins will be with the nurses on the ship. No need to worry, sweet boy.”
The prince blushed. “Muña…” he grumbled.
“You will always be a boy to me, my love. A mother never forgets the day she first holds her babes in her arms.” She reached to cup his cheek, brushing the skin with her thumb. “You look so much like your father. I look at you and see him from a time where I possess no memories. Only my smile remains.”
On this, Aegon felt only pride swell in his chest. He was proud to be his father’s son and hoped to one day match him in skill as well. “I like our smiles, Muña,” he admitted.
“So do I.” The corners of her mouth lifted into the crooked smile they shared.
***
The dragons were stubborn this morning—even Syrax, who typically remained the calmest. Caraxes was always led to the walkway first, dragon and rider in synch to scope out potential danger before their mates and offspring were released into the open skies. The eldest three would fly with their parents, the younger five travelling by ship for King’s Landing. Visenya watched with no small measure of mirth as she watched the Blood Wyrm snap at the nearest dragonkeeper. She had yet to see that beast calm under any hand other than her father’s.
Her siblings’ ship had already set sail the previous morning, doomed to be slower than on the back of a dragon. Muña tried to hide her tears when kissing the little ones goodbye, but Visenya knew better. The elder princess was always a little more sensitive just before and after delivering a babe. Kepa could be unbearing during this time, catering to his wife’s every whim, prowling around her lest some unsuspecting fool cross whatever nonexistent barrier he’d drawn around her. Perhaps secretly, Princess Rhaenyra relished in her husband’s domineering presence when she was heavy with his child.
Visenya watched her father climb up Caraxes’ wing and settle easily into the saddle, chaining himself in place. As always, the red dragon began moving with no vocal prompting from his rider, so tightly bound together were the pair of them. Greedily she wondered if she would ever be able to accomplish the same. Her mother’s command was difficult to hear, as she instead whispered her wish as she stroked Syrax’s neck. Syrax snorted loudly before at last moving forward, climbing through the cavernous opening of the Dragonmont.
As their mother’s heir, Aegon was the next to mount his dragon, Stormcloud whistling cheerfully, if Visenya had to describe an emotion for a dragon. Viserys sidled up to her. “He’s been brooding again, haven’t you noticed?” he hummed, crossing his arms.
“Has he?” Visenya sighed.
“Mm. And staring.”
“Staring?”
“At Muña and Kepa. I wonder if his impending nuptials are getting to him.”
“Well, if he has questions, he knows who to ask.”
He snorted. “I don’t envy that predicament!”
Their father’s old reputation was no secret, and at one point or another a child of his union with their mother was doomed to stumble upon them in a compromising position. Visenya herself had seen more than she needed to see thrice now. Finding them in the library in the middle of the day had been the worst one. Her cheeks flamed furiously at the mere thought. “Kepa must have frightening stamina,” she muttered with a giggle.
Viserys let out a loud guffaw. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Prince Viserys!” a dragonkeeper called. Arrax grumbled as he was prodded to the end of the landing strip.
“Well, sister, I’ll wait for you at the Dragonpit!”
“I’d like to see you try, brother!” Visenya snapped, but she still laughed as she watched him strut toward his dragon, his walk all too similar to that of Prince Daemon’s.
When at last Aegarax was brought forward, Visenya hastily mounted her and took flight, joining the rest of her family awaiting her in the sky. She wondered, when the smallfolk saw them together, an ever-growing hoard of dragonriders, their winged wyrms growing in size with every passing year, did they see them as gods? Unconquerable and immortal? Did they so easily forget the Doom that their ancestors once fled from? Perhaps they believed no enemy would dare attack this stronghold, no longer recalling the scorpion bolt that pierced Meraxes’ eye.
As always, Syrax and Caraxes flew side-by-side at the beginning of the trip while the three eldest heirs swept to and fro, diving toward the water before hoisting up ever so high. Caraxes would blow fire, click affectionately toward the yellow she-dragon that he shared his nest with. Syrax would trill softly back in turn or playfully nip at the edge of her mate’s wing. Where the princess’ mother and father remained speechless, their dragons spoke for them. Visenya was grateful not to be placed in an arranged marriage, waiting to grow up to marry some man in the North. She envied the easy way her parents were when no disagreements loomed between them. And when they did argue, well, it was impossible to deny it only seemed to increase their want for each other.
Disgusting.
The journey wasn’t long, not compared to the journey Prince Daemon had made to Pentos or the Stepstones, but by the time the lot of them finally landed in the Dragonpit, Visenya’s legs nearly buckled underneath her when she slid off of Aegarax’s back. She was better off than her mother, at least. While technically fully recovered from her labours, it was doubtful such a long flight was comfortable for a woman so freshly released from her confinement. The Rogue Prince cradled her against him as soon as she was on the ground, no doubt itching to carry her in his arms. Visenya knew her mother would kill him if he tried that in public like this.
With the younger siblings still making way from Dragonstone, the rest of them climbed into the wheelhouse that awaited to take them to the Red Keep. The proximity allowed for conversation, yet the small group remained quiet. It was their last moment of respite before the madness of court and of Alicent Hightower’s tyranny. Visenya dreaded it. Being a girl meant she and Helaena were forced to spend time together despite their vastly different interests, and the princess was not about to fault her quiet aunt for wanting her space when her queenly mother so often invaded it. She herself would rather be in the yard with her father and brothers, and was free to do so as she pleased on Dragonstone. Trust a Hightower to ruin everything.
Muña and Kepa were whispering in rapid High Valyrian, and as proficient as Visenya was in the language, she could only catch bits and pieces of what was said. Their hands rested in Rhaenyra’s lap, Daemon’s thumb rubbing over her palm. The princess would say, “Keep an eye on the boys,” while the prince would tease, “Our Aegon is better with a sword.” She heard the queen’s name more than once, met with a sneer each time, and later in their conversation the two of them chuckled together in perfect unison, mocking in tone.
“Cheer up, Vis,” Aegon muttered, patting her knee.
“I’ll cheer up when the green hag is dead,” the princess snapped.
“That day can’t come quickly enough,” Viserys sighed.
“If the gods were kind, she’d take her foul father with her.”
“Shh, we’re almost there. I would rather we avoid a lecture about speaking against our betters,” the eldest hissed before the three of them fell into fits of laughter.
The giggles alerted their parents, unfortunately, and with them so close to the keep now, they had no choice but to restrain themselves. Visenya felt cold as she looked at the fortress built by her notorious ancestors. Her family’s home had been infiltrated by outsiders. She had a duty to love her grandsire, but she would never forgive him for being foolish. Only an idiot would marry the daughter of his Hand, build a whole other family, and expect no resistance with a daughter’s inheritance. While the king turned a blind eye to machinations orchestrated behind the scenes, her mother and father had been carefully planning together, preparing for the worst.
The wheelhouse came to a halt, and her heart beat just a little faster. “Come,” the princess of Dragonstone uttered calmly, “the king is expecting us.”
***
Stars. There were seven-pointed stars. Viserys took it as a personal offense. He let his twin slip her arm around his, as he was certain his feet would have remained frozen to the ground like a marble statue. Their mother’s welcoming party had been pathetic at best. Lord Caswell had been the sole courtier to greet them. Kepa’s eyes had narrowed at the distinct absence of their kin, the queen, and the Hand. Ill as he was, Viserys could not blame his namesake for not trekking so far to greet them.
But gods, the stars. Gone were the distinctly erotic Valyrian tapestries and the dragon mementos. It was as if the High Septon had chosen to redecorate the place when no one was looking. His muña, bless her, was trying her best to guard her expression from the observations of lords and ladies.
“His Grace is waiting for you,” Lord Caswell was saying, walking on one side of Princess Rhaenyra while Prince Daemon remained on the other, his fingers tapping rapidly against the hilt of Dark Sister. On instinct Viserys reached for the knife at his belt, one identical to that of Visenya’s and Aegon’s, a gift for the three of them from their father the day they were at last allowed to train with real weapons.
The stairs were many as they journeyed to the king’s chambers. Their mother took the forefront, as is her right, their father barely a step behind. Ser Harrold awaited them at the door, almost an eternal and ageless figure from Viserys’ earliest memories. “My princesses, my princes,” the knight greeted warmly, bowing at the waist.
“Ser Harrold, I am pleased to see you again. How is my father?” the future queen inquired. Despite her efforts to maintain a brave face, Viserys could hear the slight waver in his mother’s voice.
“Not well, I’m afraid. He’s declined significantly since you were last at court, princess.”
“Ah.”
The Rogue Prince’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. They walked into the king’s chambers in twos and threes, Visenya pressed between her brothers, having looped her arm through Aegon’s as well when Viserys wasn’t looking.
Despite the time of day, the curtains remained closed to block out the sun, fire roaring with ferocity regardless of how stuffy the rooms were. The smell was stale, almost acrid, and entangled with the distasteful scent of medicinal herbs, tonics, and rot. Viserys wrinkled his nose and risked a glance at his siblings. His sister’s eyes had widened in unschooled shock, his brother’s spine as stiff as a board. If Muña and Kepa were in surprise, they were much better at hiding it.
“Father?” Rhaenyra called quietly, as if to avoid startling him.
The king sat by the fire, possessing even less hair than before, skin mottled like a man twice his age, one cheek particularly gaunt-looking. He was wrapped in a heavy robe and unlikely to be fully dressed underneath. “There you are!” he exclaimed weakly, smiling. Viserys squinted, then widened his eyes. His grandsire’s right eye was bloodshot, seemingly every vessel burst while the cornea itself was milky white. He could vaguely remember when the patriarch of their family still possessed both arms, and now he was but a shell of the man he once was.
Daemon’s hand curled into a fist. “Brother,” he muttered, almost mourning.
“Don’t look at me like that, Daemon, we both knew it would come to this, which is why I insisted upon your attendance for my name-day. I wish to see my grandchildren, your newest babes. Twins, again! My dear Rhaenyra, don’t tell me you flew here.”
“Of course I did, papa! Not even Daemon could keep me off of Syrax’s back for long.” Rhaenyra carefully knelt beside the king’s chair and took hold of his hand. “Aegon, Viserys, and Visenya are here as well; the others haven’t arrived yet. You will not believe how tall they all have gotten.”
“I can imagine. It runs in the family.”
Aegon was the first one brave enough to step forward after Rhaenyra. He briefly rested his hand on Daemon’s shoulder as he walked past, but their father didn’t acknowledge the comforting gesture, frozen where he stood with his head bowed. None of them have ever seen him like this—so defeated.
“Grandsire,” the heir greeted gently, “are you comfortable?”
“Yes, yes. Alicent ensures my greatest care.”
Visenya chose not to hide how her face blanched at the mention of the green witch’s name. “Not now,” Viserys reminded her. It was doubtful their grandfather could see their expressions from this angle, and even less likely for him to acknowledge the negative reactions directed at his second wife. Regardless of this, the second born prince would not sour the mood of an already tense meeting.
It was decided they would meet for dinner once the other children arrived and the king had rested. Aegon was the first to note their king’s waning energy, a skill he seemed to naturally possess. With any luck, the queen would deign not to grace them with her presence and therefore sour their appetites. Aegon, Viserys, and Visenya dutifully followed their parents to their mother’s solar and gathered around the table. They sat in silence at first, none of them willing to breach the silence.
Their lord father visibly stewed and immediately rose to his feet nearly as soon as he had sat down. His cloak swirled around his body as he paced to and fro, ignoring his wife’s intense stare. “Muña?” Aegon interrupted the silence, his tone questioning in nature.
“No, I did not know he was doing so poorly,” was her response, as though understanding what her eldest son wanted to know.
“Of course you didn’t, mama. You would have said so.”
“He has always been ill, of course, but….” Rhaenyra stopped, her palm rubbing against her thigh, the act more telling of her distress than her lack of words. Viserys rose to his feet as well and reached for his mother’s hand, squeezing it. He offered no platitudes, for he could think of none. It was no secret the king’s ailment, how his health had dwindled since before their father had gone to war in the Stepstones. It was why so often he found his parents pressed together in the library or by the war table, whispering and reading and moving pieces across the war table like a cyvasse board. Blood and death were coming, and much sooner than he would like. His dragon was still small.
“What a good thing it is to be here then,” Visenya pointed out, forcing a smile on her face. “Who knows how much time we have left with Grandsire? I say we enjoy our time here as best we can and give the court nothing but strength.”
It was as soundly devised a plan as any. While the king was weak, they would have to show a united front while Alicent Hightower and her brood fumbled about as they usually did. Rhaenyra would rule next, not her younger brother, and it was important to show that they would be better in her hands than his. That meant, Viserys knew, ensuring his younger sisters were just as prepared for the scrutinising eyes set upon them. It would be easier with Aemma and Alyssa, but Daella would be the hardest to wrangle into formation, so often was she pacified with sweeties by their father.
Rhaenyra sighed lightly and glanced up at their father. “Daemon, jorrāelagon ñuha,” she uttered, reaching her free hand for him. No matter his agitation, he was incapable of resisting their mother. He paused his pacing, stared at her stretched fingers for a moment, and then clasped them into his own. They stared at each other, silent as the grave, yet seemingly reaching an understanding.
“Prūmia ñuha,” he whispered as she pulled him closer to her. She had a talent for dragging him out of his worst moods, even if she was the one he was upset with. The pair of them rarely apologised after their spats, instead letting touch speak for them, and their father so easily submitted to their mother’s caresses.
The siblings made quick glances at each other before almost immediately shuffling out of the room. Not because their parents were feeling particularly amourous, but perhaps this was a conversation best left between them. Viserys was the last one out, and he promptly shut the door behind them. “Why do they always do that?” he quipped.
“Better than to be at each other’s throats. I would hate to be Lady Rhea’s daughter instead,” Visenya huffed.
“Sister, we know better than to assume Kepa would ever sire a child upon that woman, much less three,” Aegon reminded her with a snort.
“Yes, well, I would hate to be a Royce. They all seem so woefully plain. I do not care how shiny their bronze armour is.”
“What, you wouldn’t wish to have brown hair?” Viserys teased.
The smack on his back echoed loudly down the hallway.