"Power resides where men believe it resides. It's a trick, a shadow on the wall, and a very small man can cast a very large shadow."

―Varys

…

The morning sun, though barely risen, cast an unwelcome brightness upon the chambers of Prince Aegon. Its light seeped through the heavy curtains as if conspiring with the voices outside, which murmured with increasing urgency. Aegon, still buried beneath a mound of blankets, groaned as the sound of hurried footsteps approached his door.

"Your Grace," came a tentative voice from beyond the threshold, followed by a polite knock. The title alone stirred an instinctive irritation within him, though he was still far from comprehending its full weight. The door creaked open, admitting a small procession of servants armed with steaming basins, linens, and garments finer than those Aegon usually deigned to wear.

"What is this?" Aegon muttered, his voice heavy with sleep and the irritation of being roused so unceremoniously. "What hour is it?"

"It is the hour of your rising, Your Grace," said one of the servants, her voice carefully deferential as she set a basin upon a nearby table. "The Queen has requested that you prepare at once."

"The Queen?" Aegon sat up, his dishevelled silver hair falling into his eyes. "What does my mother want at this ungodly hour?"

The servant said nothing more, merely stepping aside as Alicent Hightower entered the room. Her face, though calm, bore a shadow of grief that made Aegon pause. She dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand, their hurried retreat leaving mother and son alone in the chamber.

"Aegon," she began softly, approaching his bedside. "You must rise. There is much to do."

"I can see that," he said irritably, rubbing his eyes. "Why all this fuss? What could possibly require my attention so early?"

Her voice trembled slightly, but she stifled it before continuing. "Your father is dead."

The words, stark and heavy, hung in the air. For a moment, Aegon simply stared at her, his mind struggling to grasp the enormity of what she had said. "Dead?" he repeated, his voice hollow. "Viserys is… gone?"

"Yes," Alicent said, her hands clasped before her as though in prayer. "He passed in the night."

Aegon blinked, his initial shock giving way to confusion. "And why, exactly, does this concern me? Rhaenyra is his heir. She can play at being queen while the rest of us carry on as we always have."

Alicent hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Rhaenyra will not sit the throne, Aegon. The council has determined—your grandsire and your brother among them—that you shall be crowned king."

At this, Aegon let out a derisive snort, throwing off his blankets and rising to his feet. "Me? King? Have they gone mad?" He began to pace, his movements restless. "I am not fit to rule. Everyone knows that. Gods, even I know that."

"Aegon—"

"I don't want it," he said sharply, turning to face her. "Let Aemond have it, or Daeron, or anyone else who fancies wearing a crown. I want no part of it."

"You have no choice," Alicent said, her voice tinged with sadness. "The decision has been made. You will be crowned within the hour."

Aegon stared at her, incredulity giving way to anger. "So that's it? I'm to be dressed up and paraded about, made a pawn in everyone's schemes? Gods, I'd rather leave Westeros altogether."

Alicent's expression softened, though her voice remained firm. "You are no pawn, Aegon. You are a Targaryen. The blood of the dragon runs in your veins, and with it, the burden of duty. I know this is not what you wanted, but the realm needs you. We all do."

He said nothing, his jaw tight as he looked away. Alicent stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. "I will leave you to prepare. The servants will see to your attire."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Aegon stood there for a moment, his fists clenched at his sides, before the servants returned. They moved quickly, disrobing him and scrubbing away the remnants of sleep and the smell of wine that clung to his skin. He endured it all in silence, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of resentment and dread.

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The carriage ride to the Dragonpit was oppressively silent. Aegon sat across from Alicent, his gaze fixed on the floor. The crown that awaited him seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment, its weight pressing upon him even in its absence. At last, he broke the quiet.

"Was it true?" he asked, his voice low. "What you said about Father? That he wanted this?"

Alicent hesitated, then reached into the folds of her gown. She produced a letter, the edges of the parchment slightly crumpled, and handed it to him. "Aemond was given this before he passed," she said softly. "The letter addressed to you."

Aegon unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the uneven script. It spoke of regret, of a father's failure to see his son's worth, and of a newfound faith in his potential. The final lines, scrawled as though in haste, declared Viserys's love for his son and his belief that Aegon would make a good king.

He stared at the words for a long moment, his vision blurring as tears welled in his eyes. He turned his face toward the window, the towering silhouette of the Dragonpit looming ever closer. The next moment, he wiped at his face, hiding the evidence of his tears as the carriage rolled onward, carrying him toward a destiny he neither sought nor desired.

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The carriage jolted to a halt before the towering gates of the Dragonpit, its imposing structure rising against the pale morning sky. Aegon sat motionless within, his fingers fidgeting with the fabric of his tunic. The weight of what awaited him settled heavily upon his chest, yet he said nothing, his face a mask of reluctant resolve. Outside, the roar of a gathered multitude filled the air, their voices rising like a tide that threatened to engulf him.

The door opened, and Ser Criston Cole, resplendent in the white armour of the Kingsguard, extended a gloved hand. "Your Grace," he said with a bow, his tone measured and formal, "the realm awaits."

Aegon hesitated for but a moment before stepping out into the daylight. The crowd's reaction was immediate—a cacophony of cheers and chants that reverberated through the stone streets. The sight of them—thousands of smallfolk packed shoulder to shoulder, their faces alight with fervour—sent a shiver down his spine. Did they cheer for him, he wondered, or merely for the spectacle?

A procession of Kingsguard flanked him, their movements precise as they escorted him toward the steps of the Dragonpit. The great bronze doors swung open, revealing a vast, echoing hall illuminated by torches and the faint light of the sun streaming through narrow windows. The air within was thick with incense, a heady mix that made his head swim as he walked.

At the head of the chamber stood Septon Eustace, draped in robes of gold and white, his hands folded in solemn reverence. Behind him, a raised platform had been erected, upon which rested the Conqueror's crown—a circlet of black adorned with blood-red rubies. Beside it lay Blackfyre, the ancestral sword of House Targaryen, its blade gleaming even in the dim light.

The procession halted, and Aegon ascended the platform alone, his steps slow and deliberate. Each footfall echoed in the silence that had settled over the crowd within the chamber. Septon Eustace stepped forward, a small vial of oil in his hands.

"Do you, Aegon of House Targaryen, son of King Viserys, accept the sacred charge bestowed upon you this day?" the Septon intoned, his voice resonant and grave.

Aegon's mouth felt dry, his tongue heavy, but he managed a nod. "I do."

"Do you swear to uphold the laws of the realm, to protect the weak, and to honour the gods?"

"I do," Aegon said again, his voice firmer this time.

Septon Eustace anointed his forehead with the oil, its coolness a stark contrast to the heat of the room. "Then may the gods bless your reign and guide your hand in justice."

With that, the Septon stepped back, and Criston Cole advanced. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard held the Conqueror's crown in his hands. He raised it high for all to see before lowering it onto Aegon's head.

"Behold Aegon, Second of His Name," Cole declared, his voice carrying through the chamber. "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Aegon stood, his back straight, his gaze steady as he turned to face the crowd. The chamber erupted in cheers, their voices a deafening roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Dragonpit. For a moment, he felt paralyzed, the weight of their adulation pressing upon him as surely as the crown itself.

It was then that his eyes fell upon Blackfyre. The sword, so steeped in the history of his house, seemed to beckon him. He stepped forward and grasped its hilt, the leather-wrapped grip familiar even to his untrained hands. Drawing the blade, he raised it high above his head, its edge catching the light and casting reflections across the crowd.

The cheering redoubled, a tide of sound that drowned out the tumult of his thoughts. In that moment, something within Aegon shifted. The crown, which had felt so foreign mere hours ago, now seemed to sit more comfortably upon his brow. The sword in his hand, the cheers of the people, the power that surged through him—all of it combined to ignite a spark of something he had not felt before: triumph.

Aegon lowered Blackfyre, his gaze sweeping over the throng. The crowds outside the Dragonpit roared in unison with those within, their chants of "Aegon! Aegon!" reverberating across King's Landing. For the first time, he allowed himself to smile—not the forced, awkward smile of a reluctant boy, but the confident grin of a man who had tasted power and found it intoxicating.

As he descended from the platform, flanked once more by the Kingsguard, Aegon caught his mother's eye with the rest of his family—his grandsire, his sister-wife, his children. His gaze flickered over the scene to find Aemond's absence. Aegon quickly forgot about the bastard though. His gaze flickered back towards his mother. Alicent watched him with a mixture of pride and sorrow, her expression unreadable.

Outside, the city awaited its new king, and Aegon strode forth to meet it, the weight of Blackfyre in his hand and the crown of Aegon the Conqueror upon his head. Whatever doubts he might have harboured, they were buried now beneath the roars of the crowd and the fire that burned within him. He was a king, whether he had wanted it or not.