The Green Dragon - XXVIII (Patreon)

Chapter XXVIII: Between four walls

In the room of the eldest, Jace and Luke sat cross-legged on a woven carpet, surrounded by wooden dragons and scattered parchment. The morning light streamed through the high windows, casting playful shadows as the two boys whispered, their young voices a mix of wonder and excitement.

“Mother’s going to have another baby,” Jace said, his brow furrowed with the weight of his thoughts. He clutched a carved dragon, its wings chipped from countless imagined battles. “She’s so happy, Luke. Happier than I’ve ever seen her.”

Lucerys nodded vigorously, his hair bouncing.

“She read me two stories last night!” he exclaimed, holding up two chubby fingers. “And she didn’t even get cross when I spilled my milk. She just laughed and hugged me.” His violet eyes sparkled, reflecting the joy of a child basking in his mother’s warmth.

“She plays with us more now." Jace said, his thoughts deep. "Yesterday, she let me climb up a tree in the garden. She has never allowed me to do that.” He paused, then added in a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe it’s because of the baby…”

Luke’s face scrunched in thought.

“Maybe the baby’s making her nice. Father says babies are magic like that.” He giggled, mimicking Laenor’s deep voice. “But Father’s always with his squires, so maybe Mother’s just happy ‘cause she’s got us.”

Jace grinned, but his expression sobered. “Maybe you’re right, I don’t remember when you were in her belly. Maybe all women glow like mother when they’ve got a babe in the belly…”

Luke’s eyes widened.

"What color do you think the egg will be?" He asked in excitement, clutching his toy dragon, a miniature of Seasmoke.

Jace frowned, his brown eyes confused.

"What do you mean?"

"Mother’s egg, the baby!" Luke blurted out in awe. "What color d’you think It’ll be?"

The more Lucerys spoke, the more Jacaerys was confused.

"I don’t understand what you’re saying…"

At this, Luke got so exasperated he threw his arms in the air.

"When Mother will lay down the baby’s egg," He said slowly, "what color do you think the egg will be?"

Jace’s eyes widened at his brother when he realized what he meant, he blinked twice before he bursted out laughing. He laughed so hard he rolled on the ground, holding his painful ribs.

Luke was so upset by his brother’s display that he started kicking him on the ground.

"Why are you laughing?" He demanded as Jace kept on laughing. "Stop it! Stop laughing at me!"

Unfortunately, all of his kicks remained inefficient, as Jacaerys only stopped laughing when he was out of breath. He took a few seconds to collect himself, kept on giggling for half a minute under his little brother’s annoyed gaze and finally said:

"Luke… Women don’t lay down eggs, only dragons and chickens do."

These words plunged the five-year-old boy into an abyss of perplexity, and Jace struggled not to laugh again at Lucerys’ confused and sad features.

"But… But Mother is a dragon, isn’t she?"

“Yes, Luke, she is a dragon,” Jace agreed, laughing. “Mother’s the best dragon of all.”

His laughter echoed through the corridor, a rare moment of unburdened joy in a court thick with whispers and schemes. Rhaenyra, passing by the open door, paused to listen, her hand resting on the gentle swell of her belly. A smile curved her lips, warm and unguarded.

She was happy—happier than she had been in years. The child within her, Jonothor’s child, was a secret flame kindling her spirit. Every moment with Jace and Luke—reading tales of Aegon the Conqueror, chasing them through the gardens, or simply holding them close—felt like a gift, a renewal of the love she had feared lost to duty and solitude.

But her joy was not without shadows. As she turned from her son’s room, her smile faded at the sight of Alicent approaching down the corridor, her emerald gown a stark contrast to the stone walls.

The Queen’s face was a mask of composure, but her eyes—sharp and searching—betrayed a storm beneath.

Rhaenyra’s heart quickened. She had seen that look before, in the days when their friendship had frayed, when Alicent’s gaze had turned from warmth to suspicion.

“Rhaenyra,” the Queen greeted, her voice smooth but laced with an edge that set the Princess on guard. “I trust you’re well?”

“Well enough,” Rhaenyra replied, her tone light but cautious. She smoothed her skirts, conscious of the slight curve of her pregnancy, barely visible beneath the flowing fabric. “The babe grows strong, and my boys keep me busy.”

Alicent’s lips twitched, not quite a smile.

“I’ve noticed. You seem… radiant, unlike your previous pregnancies.” Her words hung in the air, heavy with implication. “I remember when you carried Jace, and then Luke. You were weary, burdened. But now, you glow as if the Seven themselves have blessed you.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught, her mind racing.

Did Alicent suspect? The Queen had always been perceptive, especially when it came to her children. Rhaenyra forced a laugh, though it sounded brittle even to her own ears.

“The Seven are kind, perhaps, or I’ve simply grown accustomed to motherhood. Jace and Luke bring me joy, and this child…” She trailed off, her hand brushing her belly. “This child feels like a promise.”

Alicent stepped closer, her gaze piercing.

“A promise,” she echoed, her voice low. “And yet, I wonder what inspires such happiness. You’ve faced whispers and doubts before, Rhaenyra, yet this time, you seem untouched by them. Why is that?”

Rhaenyra’s pulse thrummed in her throat. She wanted to deflect, to weave a lie as deftly as she had in council chambers, but Alicent’s scrutiny pinned her like a lance.

For a fleeting moment, the truth surged within her—she was carrying Alicent’s grandchild, Otto Hightower’s great-grandchild. The realization struck her like a thunderbolt.

Jonothor, her beloved brother, was Alicent’s son, and this child, conceived in their nightly passion, tied their bloodlines in a way that could unravel everything. She imagined Alicent’s horror, Otto’s cold fury, if they ever learned the truth. The thought sent a chill through her, but she buried it deep.

It didn’t matter. Jonothor was a Targaryen, born of fire and blood, just as she was. This child was a Targaryen, a dragon to carry their legacy forward. That was all that mattered. Not the Hightower blood, not their schemes, only the fire that bound her to Jon, to their child, to their house.

“I find joy where I can,” Rhaenyra said at last, her voice steady now, her violet eyes meeting Alicent’s with defiance. “My children, my family—they are my strength. Surely you understand that  as a mother yourself.”

Alicent held her gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she inclined her head, a gesture as cold as it was courteous. “Of course,” she said. “But happiness is a fragile thing in this keep. Guard it well, Rhaenyra.”

As Alicent turned and glided away, her footsteps echoing in the stone corridor, Rhaenyra exhaled, her hand tightening on her belly. She felt the weight of Alicent’s suspicion. But beneath it, the spark of her joy burned brighter still, a flame no one could extinguish. Especially the Hightowers.

(-)(-)(-)

The halls of High Tide echoed with laughter and the clink of goblets, the sea air carrying the scent of salt and wine through the open windows.

Laenor Velaryon lounged on a cushioned bench in his own personal solar, his silver hair tousled, his cheeks flushed with drink.

Beside him, Qarl Correy, his squire and lover, leaned close, a sly grin on his lips as he refilled Laenor’s cup with Arbor gold. The firelight danced across their faces, casting shadows that seemed to mock the weight of duty.

“To the tides!” Laenor declared, raising his goblet, his voice slurring with mirth. “And to us, Qarl, may we ride them forever!”

His lover chuckled, his dark eyes glinting.

“To us, my lord. And to nights free of crowns and councils.” He clinked his cup against Laenor’s, their fingers brushing with familiar ease.

The door to the solar swung open with a creak the moment Qarl was about to steal a kiss from his lover, and Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, strode in, her presence like a storm cloud over the merry scene.

Her violet eyes narrowed, taking in her son’s disheveled state and Qarl’s too-close proximity.

“Qarl Correy,” she said, her voice still as sharp as Valyrian steel, “leave us.”

Qarl hesitated, glancing at Laenor, who waved a dismissive hand, spilling a splash of wine.

“Go on, Qarl. My Mother commands.” He laughed, but Qarl’s smile faded as he rose, bowing stiffly to Rhaenys before slipping out, the door closing behind him.

Rhaenys turned her gaze on her son, her lips a thin line.

“You disgrace yourself, Laenor,” she said, crossing her arms. “Drinking and carousing while your wife carries your third child. How did you manage it, I wonder? To do your duty so many times?”

Laenor sprawled back, his goblet dangling from his fingers, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Oh, Mother, it’s simpler than you think. Rhaenyra came to me, all business, asking for a vial of my seed. She took care of the rest herself. What a clever woman, my wife.”

He chuckled, swirling the wine in his cup. “For this third one, Qarl even offered to fill the vial for her, you know—so we could have a child together, in a way. Imagine that!”

Rhaenys’s face darkened, her voice dropping to a dangerous low.

“Tell me you didn’t allow such a thing, Laenor. Tell me Rhaenyra’s child is yours and yours alone.”

Laenor raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning, spilling more wine on his trousers.

“Calm yourself, Mother. Rhaenyra only got my seed, pure and untainted. Qarl’s jest was just that—a jest. I considered it, but decided against it when I realized Rhaenyra would kill me.”

Rhaenys exhaled, her shoulders easing slightly, though her eyes remained sharp.

“And was a single vial enough? Or did she require more every time?”

Laenor shrugged, taking a sip of wine.

“One vial did the trick for Luke, but for this one, she needed a few more. Took her a bit, but she got there. Persistent, that one.” He laughed again, oblivious to the weight of his words.

Rhaenys nodded slowly, her mind turning. She believed that Rhaenyra’s third child was Laenor’s, a true Velaryon heir like Lucerys.

Relief flickered within her, though she kept it hidden. Years ago, she had pressed Jonothor, that solemn boy with his mother’s green clothes and his father’s carelessness, to urge Rhaenyra to fulfill her duty.

She had feared her daughter-in-law would stray again, bedding a non-Valyrian like Ser Harwin Strong and birthing another bastard who bore no resemblance to Laenor.

Jacaerys, with his brown hair, brown eyes and sturdy frame, was proof of that mistake, a stain on their house’s honor.

Jonothor had done his part, it seemed, though Rhaenys misliked the boy. He had threatened her son, called Laenor a negligent husband who shirked his duties. Jonothor hadn’t been wrong—Rhaenys knew her son’s failings too well—but his audacity had stung.

She could still hear his cold retort when she had pressured him: “I’d have your good-for-nothing son impaled for his negligence if I ever end up on that fucking chair!” The memory rankled, but she couldn’t deny his influence had borne fruit. Rhaenyra’s third child, like Lucerys, would be a true Targaryen-Velaryon, free of scandal.

Yet Jacaerys remained a problem. The boy, seven years old and unmistakably Strong’s, could not be allowed to inherit the Iron Throne.

Rhaenys didn’t wish him dead—murder was too crude, too risky, and the boy was just that, a boy—but he needed to be removed from the line of succession.

If Jacaerys could be persuaded to renounce his claim, perhaps citing some unsuitability to rule, Lucerys could take his place as Rhaenyra’s heir, and her second truborn child could inherit Driftmark.

It would avert the whispers of bastardy that clung to Jace like smoke, preserving House Targaryen’s legitimacy.

But deep down, Rhaenys knew it would be no simple task. Jacaerys complicated everything—his existence, his resemblance to the late Harwin, his stubborn claim to a throne he could not rightfully hold.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Laenor’s voice, slurred but earnest.

“I hope it’s a boy,” he said, staring into his goblet as if it held the future. “I’ve always wanted to name a son of mine… Joffrey. After Joffrey Lonmouth, you know. My old friend.”

Rhaenys’s eyes narrowed.

“You’d name a Targaryen prince after a knight who meant nothing to the realm? Laenor, think carefully. That name would raise questions, especially since every person of importance knows of your… past relationship.”

Laenor waved her off, his grin defiant. “It’s my son, Mother. I’ll name him what I like.”

“Your Father wouldn’t approve,” Rhaenys countered, her tone sharp. “And your lover is possessive enough without you honoring another man’s memory.”

“Qarl’s opinion doesn’t matter,” Laenor snapped, his voice rising. “And this is my child, not Father’s. Joffrey’s a fine name, and I’ll have it.”

Rhaenys sighed, recognizing the haze of wine in her son’s eyes. “You’re drunk, Laenor,” she said, her voice heavy with disappointment. “Think on this when you’re sober. A name carries weight, and you’d do well to choose one that strengthens your house, not one that invites gossip.”

She turned to leave, her crimson cloak swirling, but paused at the door. “Heed my words, Laenor,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “For once, see reason.” Inwardly, she sent a silent prayer to the Seven, begging for her son to find the clarity he so often lacked. As the door closed behind her, she sighed in dismay and tiredness and went to find her husband, the Lord of the Tides.

Knowing him, he was either in his solar working, or watching the waves from afar, pondering his thoughts.

She had come from her confrontation with Laenor, her heart heavy with worry for her son, but now her thoughts turned to her daughter, Laena, and the grandchildren she had not seen in far too long.

She found Corlys in his solar, lost in his maps once again.

“Rhaenys,” he greeted, his voice warm but tinged with the weariness of a man who had sailed too many seas. The Lord of the Tides leaned back against his chair, his sea-green doublet adorned with the seahorse sigil of their house. “You look troubled. Is it Laenor again?”

“Always Laenor,” she admitted, a faint sigh escaping her lips. “But my heart wanders elsewhere tonight—to Laena and her girls. I miss them, Husband. When will they visit?”

Corlys looked at the map as she came to stand beside him.

“Laena writes often, but Daemon keeps them tethered to Essos. He’s too enamored of his adventures there to return anytime soon.”

His tone carried a mix of pride and exasperation, as if he admired Daemon’s boldness but resented its pull on their daughter.

Rhaenys frowned, her fingers stilling on the map. “Baela and Rhaena should be here, growing up with their cousins, learning the ways of our house. And Rhaena’s egg—has it hatched yet? Laena mentioned it in her last letter, but she said little.”

Corlys shook his head, his expression darkening.

“Not yet. The egg remains dormant, cold as stone. I worry for the girl—she’s named for you, Rhaenys, but what’s a Targaryen without a dragon? Baela’s bonded with Moondancer, bold as her mother, but Rhaena… she carries that egg everywhere, waiting for a spark that may never come.”

Rhaenys’s lips curved into a faint, reassuring smile.

“My own egg never hatched, Corlys, nor did Laena’s. Did that stop us from claiming our dragons? Meleys chose me, and Vhagar bowed to Laena’s will. Rhaena will find her path, egg or no. She’s a dragonrider in her blood, as I was, as Laena is.”

Corlys grunted, his gaze drifting to the map, where the Free Cities glittered like distant stars. “You’re right, as ever. But I’d rest easier if they were here, not across the sea with that rogue of a husband. Laena deserves better than to chase Daemon’s whims.”

Rhaenys’s eyes sharpened.

“What are they doing in Essos? Laena’s letters are full of love for her girls, but she speaks little of Daemon’s pursuits. What keeps him so enthralled?”

Corlys sighed in dismay, folding his arms, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Daemon’s playing at being a conqueror, as always. He’s in Pentos, styling himself a prince among the magisters, brokering deals for sellswords and ships. He’s got some scheme to carve out a fiefdom in the Disputed Lands—raiding Triarch strongholds with Caraxes, burning their fields to force tribute. Laena writes that he’s training Baela to bond with Moondancer, teaching her to wield a blade like a Braavosi water dancer. Rhaena, he keeps close, reading her histories of Old Valyria, but it’s clear he’s grooming them both for his ambitions. The man’s half-mad with dreams of glory.”

Rhaenys’s jaw tightened, her thoughts darkening.

“And Laena indulges him,” she said, her voice low. “She always has. Her fire matches his, but I fear she burns too brightly for his schemes. I want them here, Corlys—our daughter, our granddaughters. High Tide is their home, not some Essosi battlefield.”

Corlys reached for her hand, his calloused fingers enveloping hers.

“I long for them too, Rhaenys. But Daemon’s a storm, and Laena’s caught in his winds. We’ll send for them again, press them to come for the next feast. Perhaps the promise of dragons and family will lure them back.”

Rhaenys nodded, though her heart remained heavy. She thought of Baela, fierce and fearless, and Rhaena, quiet and hopeful, clutching an egg that might never hatch. She thought of Laena, her daughter who rode Vhagar and loved a man who chased shadows. And she thought of the Iron Throne, a distant prize that had cost her so much, now tied to her grandchildren’s future. “Let them come soon,” she murmured, her voice soft as a prayer. “Before the tides of this world pull them too far from us.”

(-)(-)(-)

The training yard of the Red Keep rang with the clash of steel, the morning sun glinting off the blades of Jonothor Targaryen and his younger brother Aemond. Sweat beaded on their brows as they sparred, their movements a dance of precision and power under the watchful eye of Ser Criston Cole.

Aemond’s violet eyes burned with determination to match his elder brother’s skill. Jonothor smiled at his brother’s fire, parrying Aemond’s strikes with ease, his movements fluid yet controlled.

Aemond’s admiration for Jonothor was plain in the way he mirrored his brother’s stance, his every thrust an attempt to earn Jon’s nod of approval.

But beneath his focus, a shadow lingered—anger that simmered since the “Pink Dread” incident, when Aegon and Rhaenyra’s sons had mocked Aemond’s lack of a dragon with a painted pig. Jon had urged Aemond to make peace with their nephew, but the boy’s scowl betrayed his reluctance.

Ser Criston, standing at the yard’s edge, observed with a mix of pride and reverence.

“Well struck, Prince Aemond!” Criston called, his voice firm but encouraging. “But mind your guard—your brother nearly had you there.”

The sparring ended with Jon disarming Aemond in a swift motion, his blade stopping short of his brother’s chest. Aemond panted, frustration flickering across his face, but he bowed his head in respect.

Jon offered a small smile, clapping his shoulder.

“You’re improving, Aemond. Keep your footing lighter next time.”

Criston approached, his Kingsguard armor gleaming. “Prince Aemond, your passion is your strength, but temper it with patience,” he advised. “A true knight strikes when the moment is right, not when anger drives him.” He glanced at Jon, his eyes warm with approval. “And you, Prince Jonothor—your skill is matched only by your restraint, as always. A rare gift.”

Jon nodded, his expression humble, but his attention remained on Aemond, who stared at the ground, his jaw tight. Sensing his brother’s unrest, Jon turned to Criston.

“Ser, may I have a moment alone with Aemond?”

Criston inclined his head.

“Of course, my prince.” He stepped back, leaving the brothers in the quiet corner of the yard, the distant clatter of other trainees fading into the background.

Jon knelt to meet Aemond’s eyes. “Have you made peace with Jace, as I asked?” he said gently, his voice free of judgment.

Aemond’s gaze flicked away, his lips pressing into a thin line. Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths.

Jon pressed further, his tone soft but probing.

“Has Jace tried to apologize to you?”

Deep down, Aemond knew the answer. Jace had approached him more than once, his young face earnest with regret, but Aemond had turned away each time, fleeing before words could be spoken.

The sting of the “Pink Dread” still burned, a reminder of his dragonless shame. “I’m… not sure,” Aemond muttered, his voice barely audible, a lie that hung clumsily in the air.

Jon’s eyes softened, seeing through the deception but choosing kindness over reproach. “Aemond, why can’t you forgive him? What holds you back?”

Aemond’s fists clenched, his voice trembling as he spoke. “It hurts, Jon. Every time I see that pig in my mind, I hear their laughter. Jace has a dragon. I have nothing. Nothing but their mockery.”

Jon’s heart ached, understanding dawning. Aemond’s refusal to forgive wasn’t just pride—it was a shield, a fleeting sense of superiority over Jace, who chased him for forgiveness. Accepting the apology would strip Aemond of that fragile power, leaving him once more as the dragonless prince, inferior in his own eyes. Jon opened his mouth to speak, to offer comfort, but a mocking voice cut through the moment.

“Well, well, what’s this? The perfect prince and his pet, plotting in the dirt?” Aegon, sauntered into the yard, his silver hair disheveled, his smirk dripping with malice. “What’ve you done with Lara, Jon?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “That Valyrian girl from the Street of Silk—my girl, carrying my child. Where is she?”

Jon rose, his expression calm but his eyes hard. “I’ve done nothing with her, Aegon.”

Aegon laughed, a cruel sound. “Nothing? Don’t lie to me, brother. You told Mother, didn’t you? Sent her sniffing after my business.” He stepped closer, his breath sour. “Admit it—you couldn’t stand me having something you don’t.”

Jon’s silence was answer enough, his refusal to deny the truth a quiet admission. Aegon’s laughter grew louder, venomous. “Oh, Jon, so righteous, so pure. I’m virile enough to sire an army of bastards, and you? You send my girls away so I can find fresh meat. Keep it up—I’ll have the Street of Silk singing my name.”

Jon stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Aegon’s, a storm of fury brewing beneath his calm exterior. Usually, Jonothor’s presence commanded despite his youth. But Aegon met his stare with a mocking grin, undaunted.

“What, no retort? I’ve got a few more girls to see tonight, brother. Try not to tattle to Mother too soon.” With a wink and a final laugh, he turned and strode away, his cloak billowing.

Ser Criston stepped forward, his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Let him go, my prince,” he said, his voice low. “He’s not worth your anger. You’re better than him—better than all of us.”

Jon barely heard him, his mind ablaze with rage. Inwardly, his thoughts turned to the child growing in Rhaenyra’s womb—his child, a secret treasure more precious than anything in the Seven Kingdoms. To him, it was a miracle, a bond forged in love, however forbidden. And yet here was Aegon, his twin, boasting of siring bastards as if it were a game, scattering his seed without care.

Aegon was no dragon—he was a pig in dragon scales, wallowing in vice while Jon bore the weight of duty and secrecy.

The contrast burned, fueling a fury he struggled to contain.

He turned back to Aemond, who watched with wide, uncertain eyes. Jon knelt again, his voice steady despite the storm within. “Aemond,” he said softly, “make peace with Jace. The ‘Pink Dread’ was cruel, but it was our brother’s trick, not Jace. Family is all we have in this keep. Don’t let pride tear it apart, better yet, don’t let Aegon tear it apart.”

Aemond’s gaze faltered, his anger warring with the truth in Jon’s words. He nodded, a small, reluctant gesture, but it was enough for now. Jon rose, his heart heavy with love for his unborn child and disgust for his twin, vowing to protect his family from the shadows within and without.

(-)(-)(-)

The Street of Silk pulsed with life under the flickering torchlight of King’s Landing, its air thick with the scent of perfume, wine, and sin. Within the dimly lit chambers of a lavish brothel, Aegon Targaryen sprawled naked across a velvet-draped bed, his silver hair tangled, his violet eyes glazed with drink and desire.

Around him, a gaggle of whores pressed close, their silks clinging to curves and bellies—some swollen with the bastards he had carelessly sired. Their laughter was a practiced melody, their hands deft as they poured more wine and whispered flattery to the boy who was both their patron and their prince.

“Look at our dragon lord,” cooed a raven-haired woman, her fingers trailing along Aegon’s chest as she leaned over him, her pregnant belly brushing his side. “No man in the Seven Kingdoms could match your fire, my prince.”

Another, with golden hair and a coy smile, pressed a goblet to his lips.

“To Prince Aegon Targaryen, the second of his name” she purred, “virile as Aegon the Conqueror, with a heart to rival the Old King himself.”

Aegon smirked, draining the goblet, his thoughts swimming in a haze of indulgence.

“You girls know how to stroke a man’s ego,” he slurred, his gaze drifting to the ceiling, where shadows danced like specters of his desires. "And to sharpen a man’s sword." He grinned. “Tell me, as the great mistresses of sin that you are, how do you sully a saint like my twin?” His voice turned bitter, the name Jonothor a barb in his throat.

“Jon, all pure and perfect, Mother’s golden boy. He’s my twin, my mirror—surely he’s more like me than he’d admit, deep down where the blood runs hot.”

The women exchanged glances, sensing the edge in his tone. The raven-haired one, emboldened by his favor, leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear.

“Your brother’s no saint, my lord. He’s a man, same as you—blood and fire, Targaryen through and through. Perhaps he hides his vices better.”

Aegon laughed, a sharp, hollow sound.

“Hides them? Jon’s so bloody honorable, he’d rather die than set foot in a place like this.”

His fingers tightened around the goblet, jealousy curling in his gut like a serpent. Jonothor, his older twin by mere moments, was everything Aegon was not—dutiful, wise, beloved by their mother, Alicent.

She looked at Jon with pride, her eyes soft with a love Aegon had never earned. But when she looked at Aegon, it was with disappointment, a weariness that cut deeper than any blade. He wanted her to see Jon the way she saw him—flawed, tarnished, human.

If he could drag Jon down to his level, perhaps then his mother’s gaze would even out, her love divided fairly between her sons.

The golden-haired whore produced a small vial, its contents shimmering in the candlelight.

“A gift, my prince,” she said, her voice honeyed. “A drop of this in your wine, and you’ll burn brighter than any dragon.” She tipped the vial, letting a single bead of the aphrodisiac mingle with his drink, its scent sharp and intoxicating.

Aegon’s eyes gleamed as he took the goblet, a nasty idea sparking in his clouded mind. He swirled the liquid, his thoughts turning darker, more venomous.

“How much maiden’s blood would it take, I wonder,” he mused aloud, his voice low and dangerous, “to stain Jon’s bed? How many virgin girls would I need to send to his chambers to break that perfect shell and show the world he’s no better than me?”

The women tittered, mistaking his words for jest, but the raven-haired one never failed to please her patron.

“Perhaps three or four, my lord,” she said, her tone filled with lust. “Your brother’s… different. He’d not fall so easily.”

Aegon’s smirk widened, but it held no warmth.

“Different? He’s my twin. The same blood flows in us—fire and madness, just waiting to spill out.”

He drained the goblet, the aphrodisiac burning his throat, fueling his twisted fantasy. He imagined Jon, righteous and unyielding, crumbling under the weight of temptation, his honor shattered by the same vices that defined Aegon. If Jon fell, Alicent would have no choice but to see her sons as equals—two dragons with qualities and flaws.

The whores resumed their flattery, their hands roaming, but Aegon’s mind was elsewhere, plotting a fall that would never come to pass. Deep down, he knew Jon’s heart was forged of sterner stuff, but the jealousy gnawed at him, a hunger no wine or woman could sate. He wanted Jon to falter, to prove that even the best of them could indulge in sin like the rest. And if he managed to do it, if his plan worked even better than he had expected, he’d have another bastard to play with in a few years.

AN: Hope you guys have enjoyed this chapter, because I'm pretty sure you won't enjoy the next chapters... Jonothor Targaryen's life is about to become very complicated... And for once, it won't be his own fault.