Chapter 693

The moment Daenerys phrased her question, Aegor felt his heart sink.

She didn’t say “the false king.” She said, my nephew.

That small detail spoke volumes. Even if she didn’t fully believe it, she at least had doubts—enough to consider that the young silver-haired prince might truly be her kin.

Perhaps the war had ended too quickly and decisively—before this so-called king had the chance to truly threaten her rule or cause significant harm. The instinctive bond of shared blood hadn’t yet been completely eroded by enmity.

With that in mind, her hesitation, her uncertainty about how to deal with him, was understandable.

This was Westeros, after all. Rebellion wasn’t yet an unforgivable, immediate death sentence.

Seven hells, Aegor thought bitterly. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have fought so damn hard.

If the war had dragged on for three, four, maybe five years, if the kingdom had been left fractured and war-torn for months on end—if Daenerys’ own rule had started to shake—then she would have been the first to want Aegon dead. There would be no need for this quiet conversation, no hushed deliberation over how to handle her nephew.

Even as these thoughts churned in his mind, Aegor kept his expression mild, the look of a trusted confidant. He nodded solemnly, nudging the ball back into her court.

“And what does Your Majesty wish to do?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Daenerys chided, a note of impatience creeping into her voice. “I wouldn’t be asking you if I knew.”

Aegor’s expression remained neutral, though inwardly he was skeptical. Still, if the Queen was truly seeking his counsel, he wouldn’t mince words.

“Your Majesty, the very fact that you’re asking this question means you already understand the truth: if Aegon lives, he will forever be a threat to the stability of your reign. He will always be a tool for others to manipulate—whether by his own ambition or the schemes of those who would use him. He will make another foolish move.”

Aegor sighed, his tone heavy with regret.

“It is unfortunate that I failed to kill him on the battlefield. That would have spared you this dilemma. But now, I must ask—are you truly concerned about the stain of kinslaying on your name? Or is it genuine compassion and sentiment holding you back? If it’s the former, I will dirty my hands for you. But if it’s the latter…”

He let the sentence hang in the air, his expression twisting into one of reluctance.

Daenerys sighed as well, her steps slowing beside him.

Aegor had not given her a clear answer, yet he had still failed to grasp her true intent, which frustrated her even more.

“There are ways to resolve this,” she said. “He could take holy vows, join the Faith or the Red God. Or he could take the black, live out his days as a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch. So long as he renounces his claim, there’s no need for him to die.”

She did not answer directly, but Aegor understood all the same.

Daenerys was not afraid of the reputation of a kinslayer.

She was afraid of becoming one.

(The real Aegon Targaryen is safely watching over the Wall, thanks to my little trick. As for this imposter? Seven save me, who knows what the fuck he actually is.)

That, of course, was something he could never say aloud. He had no proof.

Aegor took a slow, measured breath.

Holding multiple identities came with its own unique challenges. And right now, he was dealing with one of them.

He had to play dumb and probe carefully to figure out which version of himself Daenerys was speaking to.

And now, the worst possibility had come to pass.

Tonight, the Queen had not summoned him as her staunchest supporter or as the Hand of the Queen to discuss the fate of a defeated rival.

She had come to petition the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch—to grant sanctuary to her traitorous nephew.

If he were merely the Lord Commander, he would have agreed without hesitation. Hell, he might have personally arranged the whole affair, just as he had with Jaime Lannister.

But he was not just the Night’s Watch’s leader. He was also the second-most powerful man in the realm. He represented the interests of the North and the newly granted lands of the Crown’s allies. He was Daenerys’ Hand, the voice of her government.

Daenerys’ proposed solutions—sending Aegon to the Faith, or the Watch—were, in theory, viable.

But she was either ignoring or deliberately overlooking one critical fact: oaths and religious vows were only as binding as the fear of breaking them.

And that fear rested on three things: personal honor, societal shame, and the enforcement of a higher power.

The first two were abstract, easily ignored. Only the third was a real deterrent.

In simple terms: if someone swore an oath and later broke it, even if they did not care about personal honor or public condemnation, the ruling power—the Crown—would normally step in to enforce the punishment.

But when the one swearing the oath was a potential heir to the Iron Throne?

Or, to put it another way—when the reward for breaking that oath was the throne itself?

Then the deterrent became meaningless.

Because the risk-to-reward ratio was completely skewed. If Aegon claimed the throne, he could rewrite history, justify his betrayal however he pleased.

The only reason Maester Aemon had remained at the Wall for life was because he genuinely had no desire to be king.

Did Aegon have that same selflessness? That same indifference to power?

Aegor wasn’t about to gamble on it.

His silence made Daenerys uneasy. She knew her suggestion was weak. Desperate. But still, she tried again.

“If that doesn’t work, we can always claim he died in battle. In secret, we exile him, strip him of his name and title, and banish him from Westeros—”

“Your Majesty.” Aegor cut her off, his voice calm but firm. “Your entire cause—our entire war—was waged under the banner of restoring the true Targaryen dynasty. If you let this pretender live, you are declaring to the world that this was merely a family dispute. Worse, you are granting legitimacy to his claim.”

His tone sharpened.

“Does that honor the men who died for you? Do you think they fought and bled and died so you could pardon the false king?”

He let the words sink in.

“Right now, many still doubt Aegon’s true identity. But the moment you hesitate, the moment you grant him your mercy, the moment you give him any recognition—whether he’s in white robes, red, black, or across the sea—it won’t matter. He will forever be seen as a legitimate heir.”

Aegor left the final implication unspoken.

From a moral standpoint, Daenerys saw Aegon’s blood as a reason for mercy.

But for everyone else, it was the reason he had to die.
----


Daenerys was disappointed.

She had expected him to oppose her. But knowing it and feeling it were two different things.

And now, standing here, faced with this man—her Hand, her closest confidant, the one she had always thought understood her—she realized that not one person truly supported her in this.

It was a bitter, lonely feeling.

A sharp defiance flickered within her.

He is my brother’s son—my last living kin!

You can talk of reason and logic all you like, but that blood is not yours to cast aside!

She swallowed hard, steeling herself.

“I want your support, Aegor,” she said, lifting her chin. Her voice was steady, but beneath it was something raw. “But if you insist on opposing me, then as your Queen, I command you: Aegon Targaryen is to be taken alive. His fate will be decided by me.”

Aegor stared at her.

For a long, long moment, he said nothing.

Then, at last, he let out a slow sigh.

“…As you command, Your Majesty.”
----


Daenerys hesitated. Then, as if grasping for something, she suddenly blurted out:

“Aegor—have you ever considered riding a dragon?”