CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
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The day before the slaughter, Brutus took pause. He turned to Caesar and thought, "I'll love you twice as hard today to make up for tomorrow."

ANONYMOUS
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THE KING'S NAME DAY IS always a grand affair. And the seven days leading up to it are no less ostentatious than the actual name day feast.

      Rhaegar has lived three-and-forty years, almost half of those as Protector of the Realm. He is generally liked by the lords and ladies and praised by the smallfolk for having restored and kept the peace since ascending the Iron Throne. The abduction of Lyanna Stark is still a topic among his subjects, though less and less as the years pass, and the Faith has publicly critisised him for taking a second wife. But these are small matters, of no real importance in the face of prosperity and peace.

     On the first day of the celebrations a tourney is held. Clarysse rides with Margaery and Lady Sansa Stark in a litter with courtains of red silk so fine she can see right through them. They turn the whole world to fire.

     Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions have been raised beside the river, and the common folk comes out in the thousands to watch the games. Clarysse has watched countless tourneys all her life but she can see that all of it takes Sansa's breath away; the shining armour, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind and the knights, who have come from all over the realm. Lady Sansa has told them that this would be the first tourney that she would witness. The North rarely hosts such frivolous events, it seems. They are preoccupied with a prosperous harvest and the coming winter. Winter is always coming, after all.

     "It is better than the songs," the girl whispers when they find their places among the high lords and ladies.

     Clarysse looks at Sansa Stark and finds that while the girl is already flowered and approaching an age suitable for a betrothal or even marriage, she is much more naive than she herself had been at four-and-ten. Her eyes are wide with awe and innocence. It is endearing. Clarysse wishes to warn Sansa of the world but keeps quiet. She has known her for barely a fortnight. It is not her place. And eventually, she would learn. Girls always do.

     And Sansa is an especially pretty girl. Pale skin, strong in its unblemished perfection yet fragile in its delicate porcelain tone, is stretched over sharp cheek bones. Her red hair flows freely down her back, framing her face. Already there have been rumours of marriage offers. No doubt Lord Stark would only consider the most eligible contenders for his eldest daughter. Still, a father is a man. And men always believe they know best. What is best for House Stark may not be best for its lady. No matter, Clarysse scolds herself. It is not my concern. I cannot help her. I cannot even help myself.

WHEN AEGON LEAVES HIS FATHER'S CHAMBERS shortly after the end of the tourney, there is a kind of rage in him he has never felt before. Perhaps only once, when Clarysse told him what happened to her in her youth. His mind is reeling. It had been a beautiful day spent watching the tourney — and mocking Rhaenys when she had blushed prettily as Queen of Love and Beauty — up until Rhaegar had asked his heir to join him in his study

     His heart, a relentless drumbeat of fear, refuses to silence itself.

     The sound of his frantic footsteps thunder through the seemingly endless labyrinthine corridors, intertwining like tendrils of a malevolent serpent. The few unlucky servants who happen to be lingering within it are met by a rare display of raw anger. Prince Aegon is a calm and collected presence in the Red Keep. Except for some tantrums in his youth and a few boyish outbursts there has rarely been a reason for the servants to fear him.

     His mind teeters on the razor's edge of sanity, spiraling further into an abyss created by his father's words.

Aegon pauses as he recognises a familiar presence a few steps away.

He sees understanding flash across his brother's face. It seems everyone knew before him. Or suspected, at least. As he stands before Jon, fuming and his shoulders heaving, he nods his head towards the servants in the corridors and subtly shakes his head. Someone is always listening. Jon gently takes him by the arm, guiding him to his own chambers.

There they sit , silence engulfing them.

"You are thinking of leaving with her," Jon breaks the silence first.

     Aegon shrugs helplessly. "I would not go through with it," he mutters, frowning deeply.

"Egg —"

"I will not shirk my duty."

     "I'm your brother," Jon says. "Let me help you."

     Jon is like another part of him, really. His closest friend, his constant companion. But Aegon —

     He's never spoken of this to anyone. To say it, to speak of it, is a betrayal like no other. Like he's turning his insides out. Even to Jon, whom he loves. Who would take this burden from him even though the crown is the last thing he would ever wish for himself. Who would sacrifice his own dreams to satisfy Aegon's.

     "There is nothing you can do," he whispers, shutting his eyes tightly. "I will not abandon our family, no matter my desires."

     "But —"

     "It is unspeakable," he whispers, "so let us not speak of it."

     Jon is quiet for a long moment. He does not say anything. The stain of their father's folly has followed them all their lives, and now Aegon is contemplating something similar.

     When tears slip down his cheeks, Jon is kind enough not to comment.

     His brother merely sits with him until the sun sets.