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Her brother was a very quiet, stoic man, but when he set his mind to some task he would not rest until he completed it. But, however much he wanted to finish this war, this petty squabbling among these half-primitive Westerosi lords, war was wearing on him. He would never show it in public, for as high king he could not afford to look weak or distressed, but when he was with her, alone, the facade came down.
“You are weary, my love.” He had a desk in his chambers, where she came to him. She patted the bed next to her. “Come and rest.”
“I have missives to compose,” he said gruffly, not looking at her. Oh, these are the worst nights .
“It is nothing that cannot wait until morning.”
“It may wait, but I would sooner finish them.”
Rhaenys was already getting up. “Perhaps I should invite Visenya, hmm?”
Aegon laughed shortly, a low rumble in his throat. “You wouldn’t. These days I believe you tolerate her company less than I do.”
Rhaenys rolled her eyes. “She is worse than you are when it comes to this war. Both of you are dreadfully dreary, from the time you rise till the moon is high in the sky. I only want my husband back.”
“I am here,” he said, and took her into his lap.
She wrapped an arm around him, and pointed to the letter. “Actually, you are with . . . Orys Baratheon,” she read. She fixed an eye on him. “Tell me, my dear, who is it you are married to?” She didn’t give him time to respond. “Come now, you are weary. Kings need their rest just like any man.” She turned to stand, but Aegon clung to her.
“I am weary,” he confessed, “but I cannot rest.”
She raised an eyebrow. His voice had taken on a different tone, a solemn tone. Aegon was a solemn man, but this was deeper. This was true weariness.
“Even if I go to bed with you I cannot sleep. I lie awake thinking of battle plans and strategies and squabbling lords.”
“Those lords you trouble yourself over are asleep in their beds.” She pointed out. “With their wives,” she added.
He pulled her a little closer, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. “I have been neglecting you, my dear.”
Rhaenys put her hands on his cheeks and lifted his face to meet hers. “No, my love. You are neglecting yourself.”
The heavy bags under his eyes spoke volumes by themselves, but the slumped shoulders and permanent crease in his brow said just the same. He was wearing himself thin; she could see the beginnings of hollowness in his face, the slight shake in his hand as he held the quill. Her brother was not a weak man, but the cracks were beginning to show, even if she was the only one who could see them.
He looked at her for a moment, wordlessly. His brilliant purple eyes looked deep into hers, and she could see all of him. “You know me too well, Rhae,” he said.
She smiled softly, cupping his face in her hand, but then frowned. “You are certain of this? Once you are king there will be no rest for you.”
He nodded. “I know. But this is something I must do.”
Rhaenys did not enjoy war, like her sister did, and she did not feel it was her duty as her brother did. If she had her way there would be feasting and celebration every night on Dragonstone, and she would be utterly happy. However, she knew that could not be. Her brother had a strange paternal streak in him, and felt it his civic duty to unite Westeros under one king. If she could not make him stop, she would have him rest. That is all she could do; what she must do.
Rhaenys sighed and pressed her forehead to his. “Come to bed, my love.”
This time he complied, and laid in her arms, clinging to her. She did not allow herself to sleep until she heard the soft rises and falls of his chest relax into a slow steady rhythm.