That whispered "Prince Rhaegar" spilled from Jon Connington's trembling lips like words spoken in a dream, laden with all the guilt, loyalty, and despair that had settled over twenty years.
Yet the silver-haired young man in the sunlight merely watched him in silence, his violet eyes holding nothing but a fathomless, almost appraising calm.
"I am not my father, Ser Jon." Aegon's voice broke the frozen air and, like a spike of ice, pierced the last flicker of Jon's dazed delusion.
"Look closely."
Jon Connington swayed violently, as though waking from a brief but deadly dream.
He stared fixedly at the man before him, his gaze sweeping greedily and desperately over every contour, like a dying traveler clutching at one last illusion of survival.
Silver hair, violet eyes, those features... yes, the sternness of his brow and the sharp line of his jaw were not quite those of the gentle, handsome Prince Rhaegar in his memory.
But that nobility in his very bones, that seemingly inborn bearing, and above all... that hair and eye color, which could not possibly be faked!
"You... who are you?" Jon's voice was horribly hoarse, every word seeming to scrape across sandpaper.
His hand had already settled instinctively on his sword hilt, but his arm trembled slightly.
An utterly absurd thought, one that chilled him to the bone, slithered into his mind like a venomous snake.
"I already told you." Aegon took a step forward, leaving the pavilion's shade and standing fully in the sunlight.
His face became clearer, youthful yet carrying a stillness and sharpness beyond his years.
"Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell."
Jon Connington's breath stopped short.
Every word Aegon spoke struck like a sledgehammer against the foundation he had so carefully guarded for nearly twenty years.
He repeated