Aegon looked out the window of the carriage as it rattled down the streets.
His mother sat across from him.
Ormund and Tyland were busy managing the capital, while Helaena remained content staying in her chambers, though Aegon always made time to take her out for quiet walks and picnics in the gardens when the noise of the court became too much.
“This reminds me of when I used to have to drag you to the sept,” Alicent said, looking at her son with a gentle smile.
“I was surprised when you came to me today asking to visit.”
“I think some peace and quiet will do me good,” Aegon said, turning back to her.
“Besides… I missed you, and I wanted to spend some time with you.”
Alicent’s expression softened.
“That makes me happy.”
She shifted from her seat across from him to sit by his side, gently pulling his head toward her.
She embraced him tightly for a quiet moment before leaning back, content simply to hold his hand in her lap.
“Aegon, you cannot keep your lords imprisoned in the dungeons any longer,” she whispered, her thumb running over his unburnt knuckles.
“You have caged every Gold Cloak left in the city, you have locked away your own household guards… you are letting paranoia eat you alive.”
“The Gold Cloaks were Daemon’s dogs. Even with him dead, that blood doesn’t fade, some will look for vengeance the moment my back is turned. And the household guards? They sway like spring grass. They handed my half- sister to me the second they saw my dragons. They’d hand me to the next army for a copper groat.”
“And your lords?” Alicent pressed softly.
“You have every lord and lady from the Crownlands locked in iron, save for House Hayford. Lord Hayford is driving me to madness, pruning his feathers in the Red Keep, dropping hints that he can barely wait for the celebration where you attaint the traitors and redistribute their lands to ‘loyal subjects.'”
“Not lords,” Aegon corrected.
“Traitors. Turncoats. Villains. And, most importantly, lords no longer. They stripped themselves of their titles and forfeited their lives the moment they bent the knee to my late half-sister.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, her thumb pressing hard against his scarred palm until her own knuckles turned white.
“Look at me, Aegon,” Alicent urged softly, placing a hand against his unburnt cheek to hold him still.
“I feel your wrath, I feel it, and the seven knows you have earned it. But you cannot rule by total ruin. Strip the Crownlands of their ancient bloodlines, and you every lord them that your mercy is dead. You leave them with nothing to lose, and men with nothing to lose will drag this war out until the sea run red. They will fight you to the last babe in arms.”
“Then I will fight them to the last babe in arms,” Aegon said, a dark look gleaming in his eyes as he looked down at her.
“Let them line up their children and their spears. I will match them blood for blood, bone for bone, until they crawl in the mud, or I will die with my teeth in their throats. All must suffer as I suffered.”
“Your Grace,” a guard called out, knocking twice against the oak door.
“We have reached the Sept.”
Aegon looked away from Alicent’s shocked face and stepped down from the carriage.
His burnt legs throbbed as his boots hit the ground, but he forced himself to stand straight and looked up the long flight of stone stairs.
Alicent followed a pace behind, her dress rustling against the stone.
The High Septon stood at the center of the terrace, his crystal crown catching the noon light.
“The Seven smile upon your return, Your Grace,” the High Septon said as he inclined his head slightly.
His voice was loud enough to carry to the guards and smallfolk below.
“The Father has guided your steps back to the capital, and the Faith rejoices to see the rightful king restored.”
“Your words give comfort, High Septon,” Aegon said “King’s Landing has known too much misery and chaos. I am pleased to see the Sept remained a beacon of order while the pretender and her bastards ran rampant through these streets.”
The High Septon’s expression softened, a subtle look of appreciation crossing his aged face.
“The gods protect the realm, Your Grace. We have kept the altars burning for your safe return.”
“Then let us join you in thanks,” Aegon said.
“The altars are prepared, Your Grace,” the High Septon replied, gesturing into the shadow of the entrance.
Aegon reached the old man’s side and paused.
“Also,” Aegon said softly, looking at the old man without any pretense.
“Once I am done praying, I wish to hear confession. I have… much on my mind.”
The High Septon bowed his head slightly.
“The sanctuary is yours, your grace. The Mother offers grace to all who seek it.”