Aegon did not make things difficult for Viserys, letting him rush out of the council chamber in disarray.
The doors of the council chamber closed heavily behind Viserys, cutting off his stumbling figure from the cold, stagnant air within.
Aegon's gaze swept over the slowly closing doors, calm and untroubled, as though that absurd interlude had been no more than the tiny ripple an insect raised as it skimmed the water, not even worth the effort of smoothing away.
He truly did not care.
Viserys Targaryen. His uncle.
A man seared over and over by fifteen years of exile, humiliation, the contempt of others, and dreams of his own weaving, until everything inside him had long since charred and crumbled.
Aegon understood men like him.
Beneath that fragile shell lay an extreme sensitivity. The slightest real or imagined slight could easily pierce the self-respect he had barely patched together with the title of king, sending him straight into hysterical rage or collapse.
Yet that rage was as feeble as a mayfly's beating wings; that collapse could splash up only a few flecks of self-pity.
Neither could shake a true mountain, much less reach the cold foundations of power.
Aegon's reasons for bringing him and Daenerys back were not complicated.
Their shared blood was one. The hazy image of the Mother of Dragons in his memories of his previous life was another.
He had given them the treatment due to a Targaryen: the finest residence in Lys, guards to keep them safe, respectable clothing, and ample funds.
Daenerys was a princess, and Viserys a prince. At least in their living arrangements, he had not treated them poorly.
But that was all.
A comfortable life did not mean a share of power.
A safe residence did not mean access to secrets.
With