The sun rose red over the Blackwater and burned through the morning haze that cloaked the Red Keep. Servants hurried about their business, whispering among themselves about the prince who had finally gotten out of bed.
Aegon Targaryen limped through the corridors like a wounded lion. Every step was agony, and every greeting he received came with a poorly hidden smile.
"Brother, you can finally walk!" Aemond's voice rang out behind him, full of boyish excitement.
Aegon froze, straightened his back, and tugged his trousers into place as if that might restore his dignity. "Finally? It was just a little injury," he said with forced nonchalance.
Aemond's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Come on, Helena's in the Godswood. Let's go!"
Before Aegon could protest, Aemond seized his wrist and started pulling him along.
The moment Aegon's legs began to move faster than a shuffle, his calm expression shattered. Pain flared through him like fire.
Seven hells, he thought bitterly, when I recover, I'll make you regret being born.
By the time they reached the Godswood, Aegon's silver hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His face was pale as milk, his lips pressed tight to keep from groaning. He would not give Aemond the satisfaction.
Helena sat by the heart tree, her pale hands folded in her lap, her eyes distant as if she were staring at something only she could see. When she turned and saw Aegon limping toward her, a small, mysterious smile curved her lips.
"What are you smiling at?" Aemond asked as he bounded forward.
Helena shook her head and turned back to the carved face on the heart tree.
The Red Keep's Godswood was smaller than those of the North, a peaceful grove of elm, alder, and poplar overlooking the Blackwater Rush. The heart tree was no weirwood but an ancient oak, its thick branches tangled with smokeberry vines. Someone long ago had carved a face into its trunk, a poor imitation of the old gods of the North.
Aemond, restless as ever, began to climb the tree with childlike energy. "Come on, brother, race you to the top!"
"You climb," Aegon said with a pained grin. "You've always been better at that than me."
Aemond took that as encouragement and scurried higher like a squirrel.
Aegon ignored him and crouched beside Helena. He took her small hand and placed it gently on the carved face of the heart tree. "Can you feel it?" he asked.
Helena blinked and then gave a slow, uncertain nod.
"It's said that beyond the Wall there are green seers who can see through the eyes of trees like this," Aegon said. His voice dropped to a whisper, half teasing, half curious.
Helena tilted her head, tracing the grooves of the carved face with her fingertips. "I don't see anything," she murmured. "But sometimes I feel something. A presence. Like an old man trapped under the roots."
Aegon frowned slightly. "Try not to speak with him. He doesn't sound like a good person."
"You know him?" she asked in surprise.
"I don't, but if he's trapped, he probably deserves it. Maybe the roots are a prison. He could be a devil."
Helena giggled softly at that, a sound like silver bells. Aegon made a mock-serious face, pretending to look around for ghosts, which only made her smile more.
Aemond's voice drifted down from the branches above. "Stop talking about boring things! Tell the story again, the one about the Battle of Five Armies!"
Aegon sighed. His brother was obsessed with his stories of Middle-earth. Every time dragons appeared in them, Aemond's eyes lit up like wildfire.
"Was there really a dragon called Ancalagon?" Aemond asked eagerly. "The biggest one of all?"
Aegon rubbed his temple. "It's just a story, Aemond."
Aemond frowned, clearly disappointed.
Aegon stretched and forced a smile. "I'm going back to rest. Helena, remember what I said. If that old man whispers to you again, ignore him."
"I will," she said softly, looking up at him with eyes that seemed far older than her years.
Aegon looked between his two younger siblings and sighed.
Helena lost in dreams, Aemond climbing trees like a wild cat, what in the seven hells was he supposed to do with them?
"It'll be easier to train Daeron," he muttered under his breath. "These two are hopeless."
Aemond dropped from the tree with a thud. "What did you say?"
"Nothing. Keep climbing," Aegon said quickly and turned away before Aemond could question him further.
As he walked back through the Red Keep, his mind drifted to his youngest brother.
Daeron Targaryen. Otto Hightower's favorite, and with good reason. Handsome, courteous, everything a prince was meant to be. Polite to a fault, brave but obedient, humble but sharp. A perfect squire, a perfect right hand. A perfect pawn.
Unlike Aemond, Daeron had no hunger for glory. Unlike Aegon himself, he had no taste for wine or women. But he had discipline, something neither of his elder brothers could boast of.
In another life, Aegon thought, he might have envied him.
But in this life, Aegon had plans.
The Greens would one day have to fight the Blacks, and he needed every ally, every sword, every dragon. Helena's visions, Aemond's fire, Daeron's charm, all of it would have to be turned to his purpose.
He winced as he sat on the edge of a fountain, feeling the sting in his lower back. The last few days had been a blur of pain and embarrassment, and even now the servants whispered behind his back.
Damn it all, he thought. When will I finally be old enough that they stop treating me like a child?
He stared at his reflection in the rippling water. Pale hair, violet eyes, a handsome face with none of the gravity of a ruler. He looked like a boy playing at being king.
The truth was bitter. He was clever, but not yet powerful. Ambitious, but not yet dangerous.
Someday soon, though, he would change that.
He had already begun shaping his siblings in small ways... guiding Helena to use her strange sight more carefully, encouraging Aemond's hunger for strength, whispering to Daeron that obedience and patience would make him invaluable.
When the time came, the Greens would not be divided by weakness as they were in the books Aegon remembered.
Not if he could help it.
He rose slowly, brushing dust from his clothes. The pain was a dull throb now, manageable. Aemond's laughter echoed faintly behind him, mingling with Helena's soft humming.
Family, he thought. Fragile and foolish, but mine after all.
He made his way back toward his chambers, pausing at a window that overlooked the city sprawling below the Red Keep. King's Landing shimmered in the afternoon light, filthy and magnificent all at once. Smoke rose from its countless chimneys, and the distant sound of the harbor bells drifted on the wind.
This was his city. Or would be, one day.
He smiled faintly, the expression caught somewhere between pride and exhaustion.
Maybe he was still too young. Maybe his body still ached and his pride still smarted. But Aegon Targaryen knew one truth better than anyone.
Power was not given. It was taken.
And when his time came, he would take everything.
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