Half a month had gone by, as if in the blink of an eye, since Laena's funeral.
Since Princess Rhaenyra had been shut away on Dragonstone, Queen Alicent had seized every opening to erode the Blacks' hold on court.
With Vhagar, Dreamfyre, and Tessarion circling King's Landing not long before, many of the wavering lords had been forced to choose; more than a few had turned, openly, to the Greens.
Aegon knelt atop Rhaenys's Hill, beneath the shadow of the Dragonpit and the domes of the Great Sept.
He bowed his head to the weeping gods as the faithful did, but there was no pleading in him.
Do kinslayers meet a bad end? he asked the idol with the practiced gestures of piety. He did not expect an answer, he did not want one from the Seven.
If Aegon sought any true reply from the gods, it would not be from the silent, ornamental idols of the sept; the world's real engines, the fiery faiths men whispered of in dark corners, were another matter entirely.
"You seem troubled, Prince," a voice said beside him.
Aegon had been aware of a presence, a light shift at his shoulder, and had for a time ignored it. Now he turned and let a smile settle on his face. "Larys. I did not expect to see you at the Great Sept. One would think you had more pressing lessons, climbing the ladder of power, perhaps, back in your chambers."
Larys' surprise showed for a beat, then his features smoothed. "Power is a good thing," he replied. "If I were heir to Harrenhal, perhaps my limp would be the subject of pity and not of ridicule." He forced a laugh that did not reach his eyes.
Aegon rose and strolled from the shadowed colonnade into the sun, speaking as he went. "And if you were heir to Harrenhal, what then? If I called you a useless cripple, what could you do? Send your rat-catchers to stab me in the dark?"
The color left Larys' face.
He had expected flattery or a coquettish remark, perhaps the slight, faint mockery a prince might tolerate from a courtier. He had not expected menace so plain, so quick.
"Your Highness-" Larys began, panic threading his voice. "I would never-"
"Prince," Aegon interrupted, amused, and his expression turned cool. "I remember the tourney in 111 AC. I gave my father a black gem he treasured. It pleased him so that he has kept it still."
Larys inclined his head, eyes bright with the opportunity.
"His Grace did indeed like it. But there was something else at that feast that shone all the same." He lowered his voice and leaned in. "Something far more dazzling than any stone."
Aegon studied him. "Oh?" he said, and the half-smile at his lips sharpened. Larys took that as encouragement and hurried on, eager now.
But the smile fell from Aegon's face in a single movement. "You mean the gift I gave was poor?" he said, mocking the notion with a sudden, theatrical outrage. "Hugh- snap his neck, then chop him up and feed him to the dogs!"
Hugh, the hulking guard at Aegon's elbow, had already half raised an arm. Larys' hand went to his throat as if to catch the imagined blow.
"Wait-wait," Larys stammered, terribly white. "Your Highness, no-misunderstanding. I meant your wit. Your intelligence."
Aegon let the word hang between them and then, with a simple motion, Hugh withdrew. The big man's fingers fell away from where they had aimed to seize Larys' head like a bird.
"You mean… my intelligence?" Aegon asked, and there was a new, casual interest in his gaze.
Larys took a breath and bowed his head.
"Yes, Your Highness. Princess Rhaenyra is older, of course…but it was clear even then-your mind is keen." He spoke fast now; the tangled web he was spinning depended on words spoken before doubt could creep in. "There is talk through the Seven Kingdoms that His Grace means to change the line. Many believe His Majesty has seen-sees-your perfection. Yet there remain voices at court who favour Rhaenyra, even with her on Dragonstone."
Aegon laughed softly. "You would spy upon them for me?" he asked.
"You are merely a cripple," Aegon said aloud, testing. "How will you follow Lord Lyman Beesbury with a cane? Will you lean on it and eavesdrop? That old man will-" He let his sentence trail into a chuckle.
Larys lowered his eyes, the posture of servility practised and true. "I cannot follow them myself, Your Highness. I am nothing more than a cripple. But I have many eyes. My mind is quick. Knowledge is a weapon I can wield."
Aegon noticed the book in Larys' hand and reached for it. "The Edge of the World, Maester Barth. Five hundred years old. You read much."
"Yes, Your Highness. My body is weak; I can only arm myself with learning." Larys' voice was steady now, full of the small, bitter pride of those who have nothing else.
For a heartbeat Aegon was still, the corner of his mouth curled. Then, as if on some private whim, he barked, "Hugh-slit his throat!"
Larys' face crumpled. Hugh moved with an easy, practiced menace, the dagger already half drawn, his hand on the back of Larys' head as if about to pin him for a blow.
"Stop. I have changed my mind," Aegon said. Hugh let go as though released from a leash.
Larys stood there on trembling legs, mouth working. He swallowed and tried to find breath. "Power is power," Aegon said, stepping close enough that his voice could be a caress or a blade. Larys took it as compliment; he drew the wrong inference and smiled through white lips.
Then Aegon laughed altogether, high and bright. "I jest, Larys. You would not be so dull as to think me cruel without cause."
"It is my honour, Your Highness," Larys forced out. "It is…a privilege that you joke with me."
Aegon patted the other man's shoulder with a casual, patronizing touch. "Since you mean to choose a side, then-waste less time flattering me and more time finding useful things. You are a cripple now, yes, but who can say-one day you might tap that cane and make the Seven Kingdoms tremble three times." His tone was playful, but it carried the promise of menace as surely as the earlier command had.
Larys bowed lower, gratitude and fear braided together in his expression.
Aegon turned toward the sunlit parade grounds, leaving the sept's cool shadows behind, and in his chest the thought that had brought him there at prayer remained, unspoken: power was a thing to be held tightly, and to hold it was to be feared.
---------------------
A/N: The plot is just starting to heat up, and trust me… the next chapters go crazy. So if you're curious about what's coming next, go take a sneak peek:
patreon.com/Captain_Lag
There are 18 advance chapters already waiting on my Patreon! and the first two are completely free! ⚓
Also - gimme those Power Stones! Let's push this story up the rankings together. If we climb high enough, I'll drop a bonus chapter as a thank-you!