The nursery was too quiet.

Aegon stood in the doorway, one hand pressed to the stone. The corridor behind him lay silent—guards dismissed, servants gone. Inside, only the hush of breath and candlelight remained.

The twins were asleep.

Alyrie lay curled on her side, pale curls spilled over the pillow. Daeron on his back, face still even in slumber. They looked like Targaryens. They looked like his.

And yet.

Aegon’s gaze moved to the woman kneeling between their cradles.

Viserra.

His wife. His sister. Hair unbound, silver-gold falling over one shoulder. She was humming—soft, melodic. A lullaby their mother used to sing.

The sound scraped something raw in him.

And then—her hand drifted to her belly.

It wasn’t obvious yet. But he knew. A third child. Another heir.

Aegon’s heart beat once, heavy and slow.

He hadn’t touched her in months.

There were always reasons. Her headaches. The children. The court. And he had grown used to the distance—wine, empty chambers, warm bodies that didn’t demand anything.

But now… she glowed.

Not just with child, but with something else. A peace. A warmth that hadn’t come from him.

And then—he heard it.

Footsteps. Steady. Familiar.

Aemond.

He entered the nursery like he belonged there. No knock. No pause. Aegon melted into the shadows, unseen.

Aemond crossed to her side and crouched beside her. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look surprised.

“Aemond,” she breathed.

His name like a prayer.

He murmured something—too soft to hear. She smiled. Not the tight court-smile she wore for the realm. Something real. Private.

Aegon hadn’t seen it in years.

And Aemond reached for her wrist. Not possessive—gentle. A moment passed between them, quiet and close.

She didn’t pull away.

The candlelight kissed her face, casting her in gold. She looked untouched by grief. As if war and loss had never touched her.

Aegon’s gut twisted.

He looked at the twins again.

Daeron, solemn and quiet, already sharp like Aemond. And Alyrie, quick-eyed, clinging to her uncle’s every word. The way she watched him. The way they all watched him.

And the child in Viserra’s belly?

Aegon could barely bring himself to wonder.

No scandal. No proof. No bastardry, not officially. But the doubt was there now—growing like rot beneath fine silk.

What if they are not mine?

What if he took not only the battles, not only the burdens—but my wife?

Aegon turned away.

Later, Viserra joined him in their chambers. She undressed in silence and lay beside him like nothing had changed. Like no brother’s hand had lingered. Like her belly didn’t hold a question he was too afraid to ask.

He watched her in the dark.

And in that silence, Aegon II made no accusations. No scenes. Only a choice.

He could fall apart. Let rage consume him. Let it burn everything they’d built.

Or—

He could play the game.

Subtle. Quiet. Calculated.

If she would not be his in truth, she would be his in name. And when the child was born—his or not—it would wear the crown he secured.

He would not rage. He would rule.

The House of the Dragon was built on smoke and mirrors.

And now, perhaps, Aegon thought…

It was time he learned how to cast his own.