The Weight Of Fire & Blood

"I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, who's names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing. I fight... because I must." -Ulfric Stormcloak" (Abbreviated) 

The morning brought a gentle calm to the camp as Aegon stirred awake, his muscles sore but his spirit lifted by the lingering joy of the night before. The sounds of life echoed outside the tent, soldiers talking, preparing, some still buzzing from the excitement of battle. Rhaenyra sat close by, a pitcher of wine and a small platter of food at the ready. Her face glowed in the soft light filtering through the canvas, as if the very rays of the morning sun were drawn to her, casting her in a near-divine image. Aegon watched her in awe, the love he felt for her neck-deep in worship. Last night, her announcement had overwhelmed him with in ways he could never explain, nor did he have to, but now that the initial shock had passed, he felt a steady, enduring warmth that grew with every moment spent in her presence.

Rhaenyra, playful as ever, grinned as she hand-fed him a bites of bread and fruit, pretending that he was helpless, though they both knew he was more than capable of feeding himself. Yet Aegon relished it, enjoying her attention and the comfort of the moment. As she gently raised the goblet of wine to his lips, he sipped slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You're too good to me," he murmured, his voice low but filled with affection.

"And you're too indulgent," she teased, brushing a stray lock of silver hair from his forehead, "but I don't mind."

Their tender exchange was interrupted by the soft shuffle of boots outside. Daemon entered the tent, moving to the side with a deliberate slowness, as if cautious not to break the tranquility of the scene before him. A brief tension filled the air; despite the mended ties between Aegon and his uncle, tensions were never far beneath the surface. But then Daemon spoke, his tone more measured than usual.

"Congratulations, nephew," he said, his voice rough but sincere. "It pleases me by no end to know our house grows strong." His eyes flickered to Rhaenyra, a hint of pride mixed with his usual guarded expression. "The realm is well on it's way in remembering why we are to be feared."

Rhaenyra, holding Aegon's hand, looked up at her uncle, her brow raised, unsure if his sincerity was meant to carry a deeper edge like it always had previously. Daemon's face, however, was uncharacteristically soft, a rare moment of vulnerability in the rogue prince.

He shifted slightly, his tone taking on a cautionary note. "But now, Rhaenyra," he added, his voice firm, "you carry more than your own life into battle. Our family has faced loss before. And a child..." He paused, eyes momentarily flicking to Aegon, "changes everything. Be wise in how you choose fight, for the realm needs every Targaryen it can get."

Rhaenyra looked down at Aegon, his eyes conveying a subtle reflection, agreement, with Daemon's weighted words. It was true, members of their family had fallen to the perils of battle before. The thought of her child, still growing within her, facing that same danger felt distant, but not impossible. She couldn't allow herself to dwell on it, she was still a dragonrider, after all, but the caution rang true.

"I'll be safe," she reassured him, her voice confident but not dismissive. "On the back of Syrax, no archer can hope to get close in the dead of night."

Daemon studied her for a moment, the tension momentarily rising, chose not to argue. Instead, he gave her a slow and assured nod, accepting her resolve. "Very well," he said, turning toward the entrance of the tent. "But don't soon forget my words." With that, he left them alone once more, his words lingering in the air like an unspoken warning.

As soon as the flap of the tent closed behind Daemon, Aegon tightened his grip on Rhaenyra's hands. He didn't need to speak for her to understand his thoughts, there was something deeper yet. They shared between them now, a bond strengthened not just by blood and battle, but by the future they would soon bring into the world.

"Family is always stronger together," Aegon whispered, his voice steady but filled with meaning.

Rhaenyra leaned into him, resting her forehead against his. "Together," she echoed, her own heart full, not just for the child they would raise but for the family they were building, one forged in fire and bound by love, a dynasty unlike any the realm had ever known.

Meanwhile in the Red Keep.

A gentle knock interrupted the quiet in the royal chambers. The weight of the previous day still hung heavily between them, but Viserys, determined to find some semblance of calm, tapped his wife's hand with a warm, albeit conflicted, smile. "Enter," he called, his voice steady but tinged with the undercurrents of worry.

To their surprise, it was Alicent who stepped inside. She offered a subtle bow as the King and Queen welcomed her in, her presence bringing a strange sort of reassurance to both. For all that had transpired, Alicent's quiet composure had a soothing effect, one that neither Viserys nor Aemma could deny, even now. She made her way slowly to the chair opposite them, sitting with grace across the small table that separated the royals from their trusted friend.

Aemma was the first to break the silence, her voice steady but laced with the weight of the question they both knew had to be asked. "Alicent," she began, "had you anything to do with the twins' disappearance?"

Alicent's breath caught for a moment, but her eyes remained level. The bond she shared with the King and Queen was deep, and she knew she could not lie to them, at least not to a degree that would jeopardize the twins trust in her. She viewed the royals as an extension of her own family. "I did assist Aegon," she admitted, her words careful but truthful. "I helped him don his armor, but that was the extent of my involvement. I swear it on my mother my your grace."

Both Viserys and Aemma exchanged a glance, their concern tempered by the sincerity in Alicent's voice. They believed her, there was no deceit in her words, no hidden agenda, just a young woman caught in a situation much larger than herself. But Viserys had more to ask, his mind working through the implications.

"Why were you there, at that time, in their chambers?" Viserys asked, his tone more curious than accusatory. It was a valid question, her presence during such a critical moment could not be coincidental.

Alicent had expected this and answered with reluctant hesitation she hid, prepared for the King's inquiry. "We were simply... talking, Your Grace," she explained, her gaze steady. "Sharing stories, recommendations on books and food. Nothing more than conversation, enjoying each other's company as friends." She paused, resisting the familiar urge to pick at her fingers, knowing that any sign of nervousness might betray her. But she remained composed, determined to convey her innocence. She had no choice to withhold the entire truth for the sake of everyone, but she felt contented, not having betrayed the name of her mother, using it to swear on a truth that was nothing but. A twisting of words, but necessary. She had learned much from her lord father it seemed. 

Viserys watched her for a moment longer, weighing her words. The gentle tap of his fingers on the table ceased as he considered her explanation. Finally, he seemed satisfied, though the worry for his children still lingered behind his eyes. A small, tired smile touched his lips as he relaxed into his chair.

"Very well," Viserys said, his voice softening. He glanced at Aemma, who nodded in agreement, her own worry still palpable but eased by Alicent's honesty. "Would you care to join us for a meal Alicent?"

Alicent blinked, momentarily surprised by the offer. It was not what she had expected, normally only sharing meals with them when Rhaenyra and Aegon were present, but the warmth in the invitation, despite the circumstances, was a balm to her own frayed nerves. She smiled, grateful for the gesture, and inclined her head in acceptance. "It would be an honor, your grace," she said softly, feeling a small sense of relief as she joined them.

As the three sat together, the tension in the room began to ease, if only slightly. The looming concerns of war, rebellion, and the unknown fate of Aegon and Rhaenyra hung over them still, but for this brief moment, there was comfort in shared company. They would face the storm soon enough. For now, they found solace in one another's presence.

Grey Gallows later that night.

Under the flickering light of torches and the distant roar of the sea, Corlys Velaryon stood tall among his gathered troops. Eager to press forward and end the bloodshed, to secure victory and peace for his people. He called upon Aegon to give a speech to rally the men. Aegon, more than willing, stepped forward with an energy that matched the ferocity of the dragons they rode.

"Warriors, my brothers... and perhaps sisters in arms? If so, then good on you," he began as he jokingly looked around at the crowd. His voice carried across the gathered soldiers who erupted in laughter at his lighthearted jest, before quickly growing silent as he continued. "Long have the Free Cities scowled at our prosperity from across the Narrow Sea, long have they sought power and influence over the kingdoms, over us. But not this day. Nor any day!" His words rang with conviction, his presence magnetic as he commanded their full attention.

"For you all fight for her! Bleed for her!" he bellowed, pointing toward the horizon, the collective representation of their homeland. The crowd exploded in cheers, a wild, passionate roar that echoed in the night, before slowly dying down, ready for more.

Aegon's voice lowered, becoming a solemn promise to his men. " The will seas boil and the stars will fall before we submit, and even if it takes the last drop of our blood, we shall see the land that is mother to us all free once more!" The men, eyes wide and hearts pounding, hung on his every word. "What we do in life, echoes in eternity, and do you know waits for you across that water? Across that beach and in that field of fire? IMMORTALITY! TAKE IT, IT IS YOURS!!" 

As the final words left his lips, the soldiers erupted into a frenzied cheer, their loyalty and fervor ignited by his powerful oration. Chanting his name, they raised their weapons high, as if reaching for the very immortality their Prince had promised them. The atmosphere was electric, thick with anticipation and the heady scent of war.

Mounting Vermithor, who let out a thunderous roar in response to the fevered energy surrounding him, Aegon looked the embodiment of a conqueror, a prince destined to lead men to glory. His dragon, sensing the tension and excitement, responded in kind, wings flaring in acknowledgment of the moment.

From a distance, Daemon and Rhaenyra watched the transformation in Aegon with something akin to awe. That morning, he had been vulnerable, consumed by the love and warmth of his newfound family, cradled by Rhaenyra's gentle care, but now, before their eyes, he was a leader of men, capable of stirring hearts and convincing soldiers to die for him, if that's what victory required. Daemon's face, usually shrouded in cynicism, was softened by admiration, while Rhaenyra's heart swelled with pride and love.

They both understood now, Aegon was more than just their husband or nephew, he was a force, a symbol of the golden era that would come under his reign. The men rallied to his call, ready to follow him into the fires of war once more, into the depths of the seven hells themselves, if necessary.

The golden age of Aegon Targaryen was upon them.

The riders soared into the dark sky once more, the heavy smoke from the previous night's carnage still drifting upwards, casting a haze over the battlefield. But tonight, there was a distinct change in the air. Aegon, leading the flight with newfound speed atop Vermithor, felt an instinctual shift, something primal gnawing at his senses. Vermithor too was keyed in, his massive wings cutting through the dense smoke as they hurtled forward. The prince's sharp eyes scanned the scene as much as they could, just before a deadly wave of arrows broke from the clouds above them.

With swift reflexes acting a hunch, Aegon unleashed a thunderous wave of flame from his hands, incinerating a hailstorm of countless arrows, though the Bronze Fury likely would have likely endured them with no harm, no more then twigs to steel. Just as they cleared the wall of smoke, Aegon's heart stopped for a brief moment as he realized what awaited them. The trap had been laid.

Last night, it had been the Targaryens and their dragons who caught the Triarchy forces off guard, scorching the field and sending men into chaos. But tonight, their enemies had returned the favor. From the shadows of the ridges below, three enormous ballistae were positioned, each launching bolts the size of a man at their intended targets. With both rushed accuracy on the enemies part and Vermithor's surprising swiftness, he dodged two of the deadly projectiles, but the third found its mark. A snagged graze, but one deep enough to leave a meter-long gash across the dragon's thick neck. Vermithor let out a roar that echoed through the mountains, part pain, part fury.

Without hesitation, Aegon launched himself from Vermithor's back, a rush of flames propelling him safely to the ground below. The air around him crackled with heat as he called upon the earth and fire in a seamless dance of destruction. His hands spewed waves of flame, and with devastating power, he ruptured the ballistae into splinters with stomps of his feet, sending shockwaves through the earth that exploded beneath them. The men ballsy enough to fire upon him and his dragon were engulfed with explosive fire as potent as any dragons, leaving nothing but ash in it's wake. 

Rhaenyra, flying above on Syrax, watched the scene unfold below her with growing concern. Her eyes darted between Aegon and the wounded Vermithor, who had landed on a higher ridge for a moment's reprieve from the gash on his neck. The Bronze Fury, however, was far from defeated. His pain only seemed to spur him into a bloody frenzy as he tore through the archers that dared remain on the ridge, ignoring the flames in favor of his teeth. The beast savagely ripped men apart, swallowing some whole, tail-slamming those behind him and sending others plummeting into the inferno below in a whirlwind of violent fury.

Caraxes, Daemon's agile beast, swooped low, creating a ring of fire to shield Aegon's flanks, incinerating the remaining enemies as they once scrambled to strike the Prince down, only now stumbling in vain to escape the inferno. Aegon stood in the midst of the destruction, his amethyst eyes glowing with the fire reflected in the flames around him. His very presence struck terror into the hearts of the burning soldiers, their last sight the image of a Prince, an omen of fire and blood. One soldier came close, so close as to almost touch him, only to collapse, the flames consuming him like the rest.

With the battlefield momentarily occupied, Aegon turned his attention to the cliff that separated him from Vermithor, it housing caves he intended to lay low. He signaled the Bronze Fury to take flight, commanding his companion to rise before the prince unleashed the full force of his power. As Vermithor, now more tempered then the moments before, ascended into the sky.

Aegon charged the cliff face, slamming the backs of his hands into it, fingers splayed to focus the energy in his body in specific ways. The tremors that followed shook the very island beneath the conflict, and with a violent crash, the cliff crumbled like dominos, only struck instead of pushed, just as it had the night before. Stones and rubble cascaded down like a landslide, burying another large portion of their forces beneath the earth. 

Aegon leapt back, avoiding the collapse as the dust and debris surged across the battlefield. The thick, swirling wall of dust cast a shroud over the battle, making it difficult to see the carnage that had taken place just moments before, continuing as the Velaryon troops refused to relent. The sounds of battle still rang in the air, Westerosi against pirate, but the tide had turned once more in the favor of House Velaryon and Targaryen.

By morning, the grand clash had concluded, though it had taken longer than the previous night. The currently few forces of the Triarchy had been routed, their ranks decimated, their strongholds shattered. Another Targaryen victory was clear, but as the dust settled, the true cost of the night's battle would be measured in blood and loss.

A second mountain in a day collapsed as Aegon heaved labored breaths, sweat pouring from him like a piece of melting ice as hundreds of more tons of dust and rubble collapsed around him. 

Aegon wandered through the aftermath of the battle, the thick fog mingling with the smoke of dying flames, yet none of it fazed him. The fires still burning inside him blazed far hotter than any impediment lingering on the field. As he stepped through the wreckage and the remains of men who had fallen to dragonfire and sword alike, a pitiable sight caught his eye. A Triarchy soldier, half of his body seared black from the flames, clung stubbornly to life. His armor was cheap, his weapon nothing more than a rusted blade, yet his spirit had not yet broken.

The soldier's remaining eye, wide with terror and disbelief, fixed on Aegon as he approached. His mouth trembled, repeating a single word over and over: "Zaldrīzes... zaldrīzes... zaldrīzes..." The Valyrian word for dragon, whispered as if it were a prayer or curse, his mind too shattered to form anything else. Aegon knelt beside him, regarding the man who had somehow survived through sheer will, despite the pain that no doubt wracked his every nerve.

In that moment, Aegon felt a pang of respect. This soldier had fought to his last breath, holding onto life where so many others would had given in to death's embrace. Kneeling closer, Aegon whispered softly in Valyrian, the ancient language rolling off his tongue like a sacred rite: "Ao fought sȳrī, sagon dāez sir." — You fought well, be free now.

With a solemn nod, Aegon grasped the soldier's own dagger and, in a merciful act, swiftly ended the man's suffering. The soldier's body slackened, his final breath escaping as peace washed over him. Aegon lingered for a moment, placing the dagger back in the soldier's hand, honoring him with a final gesture.

 The fog and ash swirled around him as Aegon rose to his feet once more. As much as he could command the fire and earth, as much as he wielded the might of dragons, war was not without its bitter moments. But he knew it was the price for what was to come, for the kingdom he and his family would rule.

Ten minutes later.

The battlefield lay in shambles, a grim tapestry woven from the horrors of war. Ashen clouds twisted above, blotting out the sun and casting a pall over the land. Aegon knelt in the center of the carnage, his breath coming in shallow but steady breathes, the weight of what he had just done settling heavily on his shoulders. The cries of the wounded echoed in the distance, mingling with the last whispers of the dying. In this hellish tableau, he had granted a mercy to a man many from the Kingdoms would never consider, for the march towards death gave no man exception, some suffering more they maybe deserved. 

He barely registered the sound of wings slicing through the air, too consumed by the aftermath. It wasn't until Syrax landed with a thunderous roar, scattering the thick smog and smoke in swirling vortices, that he was stirred from his thoughts. The ground trembled beneath the weight of her presence, her golden scales glinting in what little light pierced the oppressive gloom. Rhaenyra dismounted, her face a mask of concern and grief as she rushed toward him.

As she approached, Aegon remained fixated on the body sprawled before him. The man lay lifeless, eyes forever closed in an eternal sleep that Aegon had gifted. This was no victor's triumph, no grand celebration of might; it was a somber recognition of the cost of their choices. She knelt beside him, her gentle hand resting on his shoulder a touch that anchored him amidst the storm of confliction raging within.

"This is why we fight," he said, his voice low and heavy with sorrow. The truth of his words hung in the air, palpable and raw. "So people like him can return to their families, regardless of loyalties...if he had any. They fight so loved ones don't have to experience a piece of them torn clean, the exposed nerves of time furthering the despair."

Rhaenyra felt the heat of tears prickling at the corners of her eyes as she looked upon the aftermath of battle, the remnants of shattered lives, dreams snuffed out in an instant. She brushed his dirty, tousled hair to the side with a tenderness that spoke of a deep-seated bond, an unspoken understanding forged in the crucible of shared grief. The grime of battle could not dim his beauty, yet it echoed the darker truth they now faced.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of their shared burden heavy upon them. The smell of smoke mingled with the scent of blood, a bitter reminder of the choices that had led them to this place. As the sun struggled to break through the gloom, it cast a soft glow over the battlefield, illuminating the devastation wrought by their hands.

"How many more must suffer for our people be free..." Rhaenyra whispered, her voice trembling. It was a question that hung in the air like a shroud, wrapping around them both. Aegon's gaze drifted over the scene, a mixture of anger and sorrow flickering in his stormy blue eyes.

It was easily from dragonback to bathe in the glow of victory, but just beneath painted the real story that quickly tempered the thrill of battle and the ambition of glory. 

"Too many," he admitted, his heart heavy with the realization. "Too many have lost everything, families torn apart, lives extinguished. And for what? A fleeting sense of power? A seat upon a throne stained with blood?" His fists clenched in frustration, the knuckles white against beneath his gloves. 

He turned to face her fully, his expression softening as he met her gaze. "But if we do not fight, they also lose everything. Their stories end here, swallowed by the darkness. I… I will carry this burden if it means they can return home, however fragmented that home might be."

Rhaenyra nodded slowly, tears now cascading down her cheeks. The weight of his conviction struck her to the core, the duality of their existence as heirs to a crown weighed against the heavy price of their actions. "We are not gods, Aegon," she murmured. "We cannot save everyone."

"I know," he replied, a heaviness in his voice. "But we must try. We cannot let this be in vain. We have to give them a chance, even if it feels hopeless."

Syrax shifted restlessly beside them, her great wings folding back as she regarded the pair with a knowing gaze with hushed woots and purring. In her own way, she was a silent witness to their pain that reverberated through her and Rhaenyra's bond, a reminder of the family they shared, forged in fire and blood.

"Then let us remember them," Rhaenyra said, her voice resolute despite the sorrow that lingered in the depths of her heart. "Let us honor their sacrifices and strive for something greater than ourselves. We cannot undo the past, but we can forge a future where their stories are not lost."

Aegon's heart swelled at her words, a flicker of hope igniting within him. "Together," he vowed, taking her hand in his, the warmth of her palm grounding him amidst the chaos. "We will bear this burden together."

In that moment, as they sat amidst the ruins of their choices, Aegon and Rhaenyra understood the depths of their responsibility—not just to their names, but to the lives they were entwined with. Together, they would navigate the storm that lay ahead, determined to carve a path toward a brighter dawn, one that would honor the souls forever lost in the shadows of war.

As they rose from the desolate ground, Aegon cast one last glance at the fallen man, a silent promise echoing in his heart. They would fight, not just for power, but for redemption—for the lives intertwined in their fate, and for the hope that one day, peace would reign where once there was only despair.

With renewed resolve, Aegon mounted Syrax, Rhaenyra following closely behind to pilot. As the dragon took to the skies, they soared above the battlefield, leaving the echoes of their past behind. In the vastness of the horizon, they glimpsed the faintest glimmer of hope, a promise that the future might still be worth fighting for.

The return to Grey Gallows was marked by an eerie silence, a stark contrast to the chaos and violence of the day's events. Aegon and Rhaenyra dismounted her, their bodies weary but their minds even more so. Aegon cast a quick glance at Vermithor, who had obeyed his command to retreat earlier. The dragon lay sprawled out in a makeshift corner of the camp, head shaded beneath a small tree as he rested. His chest rose and fell slowly, his age showing more than usual in the way his body trembled. Despite the pain that etched his every movement, Vermithor was resilient, proud too proud to show it even now. 

Aegon made his way over, his heart heavy as he ran his hand gently along the dragon's weathered scales. Vermithor's great head shifted slightly, his eyes, deep, orange-gold pools of old wisdom, fixed on Aegon with a solemn expression. Blood wept from a deep gash in his neck, a meter-long wound that seemed to ache as much in Aegon's chest as it did in the dragon's. The bond between rider and dragon ran deep, so much so that Aegon could feel the echoes of pain. 

"I'm here," Aegon whispered softly, his voice low and affectionate. He cut a strip from his own cloak, soaking the fabric in the basin of water near the dragon. With careful hands, he wiped away the blood that still oozed from the injury, hoping to provide some relief.

It was then that a passing soldier, his weathered face marked by years spent at sea, stopped at the sight. He paused, a look of quiet concern crossing his features before he spoke up.

"My Prince," he said, bowing his head respectfully. "If it pleases you, seawood can be used to bind such a wound. It's an old remedy from the sea for very many injuries from burns to gashes. It will help to stop the bleeding and promote healing."

Aegon, great yet unsurprised by the man's knowledge that likely many who frequented the sea knew, nodded appreciatively. "Thank you," he replied, his voice carrying a note of hope. The soldier returned shortly with a bucket of seaweed strips, retrieved from one of the many day's catches that happened to fail. Aegon set to work. He wrapped the strips carefully around Vermithor's wound, securing them tightly enough to stop the bleeding but gentle enough not to cause further pain.

Such wounds were dangerous, even for dragons, with Balerion having sustained one far greater during his return to old Valyria, something that rumored, along with confinement, to have shortened his life. 

As he worked, Vermithor opened his massive eye and gazed down at his rider with an unexpected softness. A low, deep cooing sound escaped the dragon's throat, a sound of trust, of vulnerability. Aegon smiled, his heart swelling with affection for the creature that had flown with him for so long. This was the dragon he had bonded with after nearly two decades of abandonment, the only thing keeping him company being Silverwing, and in that moment, Aegon understood that the bond between them was more than just rider and beast, it was friendship, a connection that transcended words.

When the task was complete, Aegon rested his forehead briefly against Vermithor's warm scales. "Rest now, old friend," he whispered. "You've done enough for a long while."

With a final pat, Aegon and Rhaenyra took their leave, making their way to the privacy of their tent that guards too around, sentinel in their duty. The tension of the day clung to them like a heavy cloak, and the thought of a bath to wash away the grime and blood felt like a blessing. As they stepped inside, Rhaenyra moved with the grace she had always possessed, slipping off her coat effortlessly with a deep, quite sigh of relief. Aegon, however, struggled with his armor. She knew he was in physical pain, stiff and aching, but he, ever in his attempts at stoicism, refused to show it. 

Rhaenyra noticed his trouble and stepped behind him, deftly unbuckling the clasps as he held his silver hair to the side. Her fingers worked quickly, removing the plates of steel until his torso was bare, revealing the bruises, scrapes and grime of battle. She didn't speak, there was no need. They understood each other in ways words could never express.

Once free of his armor, Aegon walked over to the bath, his brow furrowing in mild yet blameless irritation as he dipped a hand in. "It's cold," he muttered. Without hesitation, he placed a hand just beneath the water's surface and summoned a small crackling flame, the fire dancing between his fingers, heating the water rapidly. He glanced over at Rhaenyra, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I will let you be the judge."

Rhaenyra smirked. "If I let you decide, we'd be boiled alive like hams."

It took only a few moments for the water to reach the perfect temperature, and at her nod, Aegon extinguished the flame. Both of them slipped into the bath, the warmth enveloping them like a cocoon, coaxing the tension from their muscles. The simultaneous sighs of relief that escaped them were almost comical, but neither laughed. This was their sanctuary, a rare moment of peace amidst the storm.

After some time, Rhaenyra turned her back to Aegon, her voice soft. "Could you get my back?"

Without hesitation, he took a cloth and gently scrubbed the dirt and sweat from her skin. His touch was firm but tender, his fingers tracing the familiar curves of her body. When he finished, she turned and insisted on returning the favor. Aegon smiled, turning obligation, though he remained mostly silent. They had been together literally as long as they could remember, and in these quiet moments, they needed no words.

Time seemed to slip away unnoticed as they soaked, their bodies relaxing into the water. Aegon occasionally reheated the bath with a dip of his finger, something that made he chuckle as he ensured the warmth stayed just right. His thoughts drifted from the day's horrors to something more tender, something that brought light to the darkness in his heart, his child. The thought of becoming a father filled him with joy beyond words, a sense of purpose that washed away the lingering despair.

As if sensing the shift in his mood, Rhaenyra reached for his hand and placed it gently on her stomach. Her fingers rested softly over his, their touch light but full of meaning. For a moment, they simply breathed together, their hearts attuned to the life growing within her.

Aegon closed his eyes, at first simply content in being close, until it then it came, like a soft hum at the edge of his consciousness. The same feeling he held with Vermithor, a recognition that went beyond the physical. But there was something more. It wasn't just one pulse of a single life, it was two...

His eyes flew open, looking up to Rhaenyra, a look of awe and disbelief on his face. "By the gods," he whispered, his voice trembling with wonder. "Rhaenyra…there is two...we're having twins!"

Her eyes widened in surprise, her lips parting in a soft gasp as she instantly shot up in attention. For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, the magnitude of the revelation settling over them like a warm blanket. Joy flooded Aegon's heart, mingling with the love he felt for her, for their growing family. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there as he whispered, "We're going to be parents. Twice over."

Rhaenyra's eyes filled with tears, but they were tears of happiness, of overwhelming love. She rested her head against his chest, her hand still on her stomach, and together, they let the joy of their future wash away the sorrows of the past. In that quiet moment, they weren't Targaryens fighting for power or glory, they were just two people, bound by love, standing on the precipice of something beautiful.

"As if baring one wasn't difficult enough, and all those Clouts (Diapers)" She softly quipped, making both chuckle. 

The war outside might rage on, but here, in the warmth of their bath, with the knowledge of the lives growing within them, they found peace. For the first time in a short while, they allowed themselves to hope.