3.Voices in the Dark

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The Betrayed Lord Commander

He woke up enveloped in a cool, pleasant sensation. The terrifying chill threatening to consume his very being was gone.

Was this the afterlife? 

Jon cracked his eyes open, and the curtain of light greeted him again. 

‘I am still in the heart of winter.’

But why was the burning cold gone? 

It had even stopped snowing. His body no longer felt like it was about to turn into one giant icicle, and Jon felt… well. It was as if he had eaten hearty meals for a week and rested without worry. 

He tried to move his head, and water invaded his nostrils and mouth. Jon leapt to his feet, hacking out the cool liquid that had entered his throat. A few moments later, he was wheezing but fine. 

Had he been submerged in the crystalline pool at the centre?

If so, why weren’t his garments all wet?

Warily glancing around, he found no danger nearby, so Jon’s nerves eased. Everything felt oddly peaceful; even the cold no longer bothered him. The harsh white wind no longer felt as sharp, and his garments were no longer crusted with ice. 

He stepped away from the water and blinked as the ripples slowly halted.

Then, Jon laid eyes on the pool and jerked away, reaching for Longclaw. The sword sheath was empty, but the enemy he expected to come out of the water never crawled out.

Jon desperately looked around and once again found Longclaw on the icy floor nearby. Clenching his gloved fingers about the hilt gave him a sense of comfort and courage, and cautiously, he inched forward to the pool. Sword raised for a strike, he approached, glancing about warily. 

But no monster, no Other jumped out. The Cold Ones slumbering in the ice remained unmoving, too.

Only the pale wind caressed his skin like the touch of a long-forgotten lover. Swallowing heavily, he arrived by the pool and peered down.

Jon Snow froze. His face looked back at him from the pool, but it was wrong. It was all wrong. He blinked once, he blinked twice, and even lowered Longclaw and pinched his cheek, but the reflection did the same. 

His nose, his brow, his scar, and his ears remained unchanged, though his skin looked paler now. 

His hair had gone snowy white, much like Ghost’s fur, and his eyes were the same crimson red as the direwolf’s. No, like a weirwood’s leaves. He raised his hands, then touched his face, and so did his reflection.

Jon’s gloves seized a lock of hair and placed it before his eyes. It was real. White. Not the silver of House Targaryen, but pale as bone, as white as freshly fallen snow. Jon knelt by the pool, peering back inside. There was something wrong with his eyes. A hint of cold blue flakes dotted the crimson in his iris. If he squinted enough, he could almost imagine the blue and the red merging into violet.

It could be the snow or the blue ice around, so Jon paid it no heed. 

“Ghost,” the words slipped out of his mouth, hoarse. “Where are you?”

‘Why can’t I feel you anymore?’

The wind howled as if to answer him, sending gusts of snow in the air. The following silence was deafening. Even if Ghost were here, he would not answer him, for the snowy direwolf never let out a sound. 

He was gone; Jon could feel it. He could feel the void deep inside, where something he had never known was now gone. His companion, his last connection to House Stark and Winterfell, the direwolf he had raised as an unwanted pup, was no longer here. 

Had Bowen Marsh and the other traitors killed Ghost?

Red-hot anger rose in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him. 

Then, something whispered in the slight wind. Something so cold, so utterly lifeless that it curdled his fury and made Jon’s very soul shiver.

‘It… was… your… fault…’

“Who’s there?!” the bastard roared, brandishing Longclaw as he wildly looked around. 

Who’s there, who’s there, who’s there…

The words echoed across the clearing of snow and ice, only making him swallow. 

But there was nobody around, no matter where he looked. Just Jon, the ice, and the cold. And the slumbering Others.

“Show yourself,” he pressed more quietly this time, looking around warily. The world looked darker, as if the curtain of light in the sky had grown dim.

The silence felt dangerous now.

Then, the sinister voice came again, clearer this time.

‘Your… courage… will… falter.’

There was no echo… the voice had to be in his head.

He wanted to run, then. To flee far away, never to look back.

As if sensing his intent, the voice returned.

‘There is no escape… in this life… or the next.’

“Get out of my head,” Jon hissed, Longclaw tumbling down into the snow as he clutched his face.

Silence greeted him again. Jon felt like a fool then, but he felt relief too.

Gods be good!

His heart was racing like a frightened deer, pounding so swiftly his ears began to pulse. But today, he had felt true terror, and it was not the all-consuming cold from earlier. Jon thought he had been brave before; he thought he was firm and cunning. But no firmness, no bravery or cunning could help him deal with a voice in his head.

But Jon was not one for indecision. A voice was not dangerous. 

He brandished Longclaw, stepping towards the nearest block of ice where an Other lay. 

CRACK!

The cold no longer bothered him. The chill in the air was no longer biting but instead felt like the pleasant kiss of the cold in summer.

Jon lost track of time. His hands had long grown numb, lunging and stabbing and cutting at the pieces of ice, and exhaustion slowly crept into his mind. His lungs burned with exertion, and his wrists felt like they would fall off if he struck once more. 

But Jon did not stop.

‘You are a pawn of forces unseen…’

Ignoring the voice, Jon thrust Longclaw into the last block of ice. 

CRACK!

The Other shattered along the ice, melting into icy-blue water that dripped down to the pool at the bottom of the clearing. The breathless Jon leaned onto an ice-bound protrusion. 

It was over. He had cleared the heart of winter from the others. Hundreds of the so-called Cold Gods had fallen by his hand. He had lost count at two hundred. 

Now, the last vestige of stubbornness that held him together left, and Jon tumbled down on the ice. Sweat was stinging down his face, and his tunic was soaked. His limbs were numb, his back was aching with exertion, and his neck never felt stiffer.

Gods, he was tired.

The Wall, the Night’s Watch, the queen’s men, Stannis, the Bolton bastard, the wildlings… so many things weighed on his shoulders. So many things burdened his thoughts and sleepless nights. Too many things. 

But Jon felt disconnected. All those troubles felt distant, far away. In a sense, they were. 

‘You will betray your friends…’

“It’s they who betrayed me,” Jon retorted, and he felt foolish for it. The voice offered no rebuke, as if it did not listen. As if it was not there… and perhaps it was not. 

The maddening whispers still gave him company, though he preferred they did not. 

He had to go back to the Wall. Then to Winterfell, to deal with the Leech lord and his bastard…

But could he go back? 

His own brothers, his sworn men, had betrayed him.

No matter his intent, no matter their reasons, that did not change. 

Perhaps, they had already elected another man to take his place. Perhaps now there was a 999th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Perhaps the mutiny had been put down. Would they elect Denys Mallister this time? Or perhaps Cotter Pyke?

Could the Watch have two Lord Commanders?

The thought of the Night’s Watch sent jolts of pain through his belly and back, exactly where they had stabbed him. 

The thought of the betrayal soured Jon’s mood further. He would be angry, furious even, if he weren’t tired. Did he even want to go back?

How did Jon even appear here? 

Heart of winter or not, this place ought to be nowhere near the Wall, he suspected. One moment, he was dying in Castle Black, and the next moment, he had been here. 

It had to be some sorcery at play, or perhaps the gods. Regardless of who it was, Jon knew it did not mean him well. 

‘Hope is an illusion,’ the eerie voice murmured in his ears again. 

“Did you bring me here?” Jon challenged, voice coming out in a breathless rasp.

Silence was all he got again. 

Letting out a long sigh, the bastard shakily pulled himself up in a seated position, leaning his back on a nearby shard of ice. 

Too many things did not make sense. Why did it stop being cold? What was this vile voice? How did he get here?

Did it even matter anymore?

Jon found himself too tired to care. His eyes glazed over as he watched the colourful curtain above. It was pretty, prettier than the rainbow, and it glowed in soft colours, seamlessly merging into each other. He could watch it forever. 

Sighing, he closed his eyes. Gods, he was too tired. Slowly, sleep took him, and he wondered if he would wake again and if he would be rid of this sinister nightmare.

By the time he opened his eyes, Jon found himself covered in snow. Bitterness welled in his throat—this was going on for too long to be a dream… or a nightmare. It felt too real to deny any further. He hastily stood up, finding the snow reaching his knees.

For how long had he slept?

He had not felt even the tiniest bit of discomfort or cold. This had been the best sleep of his life.

Most of the exhaustion was gone, and all of his aches had faded away, but now a fierce sense of hunger took hold of his belly.

The sky above was a dull grey, and the air was thick with gentle snowdrift. 

But the sun had yet to show. Had the Long Night come?

Jon shook himself and then looked around and froze. 

Bright blue veins were pulsing through the snow like eerie spiderwebs. No, it was not through the snow but beneath it. There were hundreds of them, all threading into the pool in the middle… that had yet to freeze.

Three new ice shards had begun to grow again, exactly on the location of the first three Jon had shattered before the cold had overwhelmed him. The ice had swollen to the size of a wolfhound, reaching just beneath his waist.

He stepped before one of them warily, and he felt his blood freeze.

Inside, something small was forming. A fetus-like creature with transparent skin and icy bones, growing in the ice. Or was it growing with the ice?

The other two had the same. 

Jon Snow reeled.

The implications… the implications were terrible. Just thinking about it made him feel insignificant, like an ant before a mammoth.

This was a growing Other, Jon knew deep inside. They were regrowing. What use was killing your foes when they could just… come into being again? The thought alone made him falter. Had his previous struggle been for nought?

‘Give in to despair.’

“I am the sword in the darkness,” he said. His voice was hoarse, jagged and raw, but the sound pushed away the lingering fear. “I am the shield that protects the realms of men.”

His fingers tightened across the hilt, and Longclaw stabbed, shattering the ice. 

Crack! 

It broke into a thousand pieces again and melted before his eyes. The cold water dribbled down to the centre again, melting snow where it passed. 

Jon didn’t hesitate and rushed to break the other two before pausing at the basin. 

There had to be a way to destroy them for good, he knew. As cruel as the gods were, they were fair in their ways, too.

Everything had a weakness, and the Others couldn’t be different. Just this ability to… regrow anew like some cursed fruit was terrifying. There had to be a way to stop it. Or some drawback. 

There had to be, or the realm was doomed, from the lowest of paupers to the many proud lords and kings. How? How could he put an end to such magic he could scarcely understand?

If he wanted to stop the growth of fruits, he had to cut down the tree—

Jon’s gaze settled on the pool’s centre, where the black, oily-looking stone lay, where all the glowing threads of power came together. Not quite the cursed tree trunk, but perhaps…

Steeling himself, he took a step forward, squeezing Longclaw’s hilt with both of his hands.

The tip of his boot tested the crystalline pool, but it did not feel cold. Jon stepped in firmly, sinking into the water all the way to his knee, but there was no feeling of dampness or the chill he expected.

It was no different from the eager embrace of the snow. 

Taking a deep breath, he settled his other foot into the pool in a wide stance and raised Longclaw towards the sky. 

With a guttural roar, he cleaved down at the oily stone with all of his strength.

There was a dull clink. Longclaw directly sank a whole inch into the ugly, misshapen stone.

Jon’s wrists groaned in protest as he felt the recoil travel up his elbow and shoulder.

Both of his arms were numb, but it worked. 

The blue spiderweb veins had all disappeared. Longclaw’s rippled edge had a dark reddish glow now, as if the magic woven by the Freehold was stirred by the ungainly black stone. With a huff, Jon tugged on Longclaw’s handle, but the sword refused to budge. 

He put one foot on the stone, grabbed the wrapped handle and pulled as his leg pushed. Puffing and groaning, Jon roared, but Longclaw did not budge.

But he looked around and halted. The glowing blue threads beneath the snow had died off.

Had he… succeeded?

It was a good deal, trading Longclaw for the suppression of the Others. Even if he somehow managed to pull the sword free, would the Others come back into being anyway?

Jon turned back to the middle of the clearing, eyes set on Longclaw’s handle sticking out of the oily black stone. Gods, he should turn around and leave, but his feet refused to move. 

Longclaw was as dear to him as Ghost. It was a gift from the Old Bear and had served him well at the Wall. Every Valyrian steel sword was priceless, sharper than a razor, never to dull or lose its edge. 

Without the sword, Jon felt naked, as if a part of him was gone. Perhaps he was, for any foe he met would be far harder to deal with. He had a dagger strapped in his boot, true, but a mere rondel was far from enough to serve as a main weapon. 

But after trying for hours to pull Longclaw out and failing, Jon had stopped trying. He had given up, but now, he could not tear his gaze away from the blade. Perhaps he would have stared at it forever, until the rumbling of his stomach jolted him awake. 

The hunger had forced Jon to venture out of this basin-like clearing. To his surprise, it was nestled high up on a glacier, of all things. On one side of the glacier was a sharp cliff so deep that the bottom could not be seen in the darkness. It was like one giant abyss, stretching as far as his eye could see, with no sign of land. It was as if he had reached the edge of the world, where the land and seas end.

To the other side was a great snowy plain, stretching across the horizon with no end in sight. 

In search of food, Jon descended the glacier.

Neither the snow nor the ice halted him. His black leather boots felt like phantoms, stepping over slippery frost as if it were solid ground. Snow did not crunch or depress under his feet either, no matter how soft it was.

The frosted plains were deathly quiet; the only sound Jon could hear was the shrill whistling of the winds that only halted when it snowed. The white was everywhere, but it was not as blinding as some rangers had warned. Not to Jon. 

As he walked into the white expanse, Jon could no longer ignore the abnormalities. Dawn had yet to arrive… and he was reasonably sure dozens of hours had passed.

He should have died, too. Those stab wounds should have killed him. The cold should have killed him, too, and that crystalline water, but it didn’t. Somehow, Jon Snow lived when he shouldn’t have. He was no wight; he could feel his heartbeat and the warmth of his skin, no matter how fleeting. Wights did not feel hungry either.

Jon tried not to think about it.

Thinking about it did him no good. 

‘Hope is an illusion,’ a soft, ethereal voice whispered. It was a woman’s voice this time, and the words were as soft as a lover’s kiss, spreading through his mind like waves of lust. 

It was nothing like the grave voice from before, but it made Jon tremble. His hand flew to his belt, but his fingers grasped only air, hovering over Longclaw’s empty sheath. Fuck. There was no foe here, nothing. Only an endless white quilt of snow and ice, but he felt exposed. Worse than being buttnaked in his nameday suit. 

Was he going mad?

He had thought the voice would go away after Longclaw was stabbed in that oily black thing. Perhaps it was gone… and this was a new voice.

The thought alone frightened Jon more than words could describe. 

‘The stars are dead, and only horrors lurk amongst them.’

Jon shuddered—it felt as if a thousand beetles were crawling up his spine. The feminine voice was so close, so intimate, as if someone was whispering sweet words in his ears. It only made his hands shake.

Gods, he would go mad if those whispers continued. He walked and he walked through the snow, his belly twisted itself into knots as it groaned. His throat was bone-dry, but the flask of mulled wine on his hip was frozen solid, as was any other water. What was he to eat and drink here? Snow? Ice? 

The silence hung thick in the air. Silence and darkness and snow, as far as his eyes could see. Jon knew then that there would be nothing to eat. Nothing could live here. 

‘The flame that burns brightest dies fastest,’ the whisper returned. ‘Come, child. Come to—’

“I am the sword in the darkness!” Jon screamed, pressing his hands to his ears. “You will not tempt me, demon!”

That seemed to silence the whispers. For now. 

It also made Jon remember. It gave him a purpose beyond wandering in the snowy plain in vain search for food. His brothers had betrayed him, true. But not all of them. Edd still needed him. Did Grenn and Pypar mourn him, thinking him dead?

Stannis should have survived the battle. Perhaps he was in Winterfell now, sitting on the throne of the Lords of Winterfell and the Kings of Winter of old. The thought brought him no peace as it swirled around his skull. Perhaps Melisandre had already burned the heart tree and the whole godswood besides.

Perhaps the news of his death had reached Tommen and his royal council in King’s Landing. Jon could imagine them rejoicing at the demise of Eddard Stark’s last son. 

He gritted his teeth and swallowed the urge to roar in rage. Jon Snow would not give them the pleasure of an easy victory or a sound sleep. 

‘In the sunken city—”

“I am the watcher on the walls.” The words gave Jon strength. “I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn. I am the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men!”

Something stirred deep inside him then, and he felt weakness and hunger recede. The whispers didn’t seem like much now. A chuckle slipped from his throat, and it soon erupted in a bout of hysterical laughter as his whole chest shook.

As mad as it sounded… Jon would not be bested by some voices in his head.

His heart hardened as his laughter came to an abrupt stop. He knew not what brought him here, but he was thankful, for it gave him a way out of a betrayal. He was grateful for the way to halt the Cold Ones. 

Somehow, he knew there were no more Others wandering around. And as long as Longclaw remained in the misshapen oily stone, it would remain so.

He kneeled in the snow, scooping a handful with his gloved hand and shoved it into his mouth.

It was not cold or frosty as he expected, but pleasantly cool. It invigorated his whole body and quenched his thirst. Even the last vestiges of the hunger receded. Suddenly, he could tell the directions, despite the lack of sun, despite the dark grey sky and the endless plain surrounding him.

It was not normal. But then, nothing about this whole affair made even the faintest lick of sense.

Mouth twisted, Jon Snow trudged southward.

The Unlikely King

His councillors quickly looked away, their gazes nailed down at the varnished table or the wall… anywhere but him. The small council was uneasy. It was always uneasy, but in recent years, things turned for the worse.  

“The royal justiciars sent to enforce the king’s peace in the Westerlands were ambushed, Your Grace,”  his eldest son said. 

Duncan, the master of laws, had his mother’s looks, with black hair and dark eyes glinting with cunning, but his face was much like his own. His son had inherited his own stubbornness, too, and the perfect prince had cast aside a crown and a kingdom for a pretty smile. 

“This is the fourth time in the last two years,” Gyles Thorne said, a heavy frown settling over his face. “We’ve lost four knights and twenty men-at-arms.”

The master of coin was a harsh, unbending man with a leathery face who was unafraid to speak his mind. He was not well regarded despite being Lord Thorne’s uncle. Perhaps the dislike in court for the man was because he was unwed at such an old age, perhaps because he dealt with ‘copper-counting’ as the prouder knights called it, but unfounded rumours had spread that he had an undue love for boys. 

Aegon’s brow creased.

“Who did it?” he demanded. “We cleared that petty revolt three years ago.”

It was the third time he had sent forces to restore order in the Westerlands, and as soon as the royal men had left, chaos had resumed.

“Bandits, according to Lord Sarsfield,” Lord Hubart Hayford murmured, his eyes restlessly darting around. “It could be some minor knight or daring lord, too, but it’s hard to tell. Lord Lannister’s power scarcely reaches beyond Lannisport, and he can barely keep his own smallfolk and knights in check, let alone his bannermen. I suggest mustering a small host and scouring the Westerlands from bandits and brigands again.”

Hubart was a portly man with a reddened nose and Aegon’s master of whispers. Not a terrible spymaster with his inns and alehouses spreading across the Seven Kingdoms, but calling him a good one would be a lie.

No spymaster could ever rival Bloodraven and his thousand and one eyes. Aegon had given his great-uncle a choice between the black and the block for the dishonourable murder of Aenys Blackfyre, and Bloodraven had chosen the black. 

It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. To clear the smear from House Targaryen’s name and finally put the feud with his Blackfyre cousins to rest. Oh, how naive Aegon had been back then. They had come for him regardless, and even now, they were mustering strength again.

Now, the greatest spymaster the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen was gone. He could use a loyal man like Brynden Rivers now, willing to do everything and succeed. Yet Bloodraven had ventured beyond the Wall too, in a final act of petty defiance, and had disappeared together with Dark Sister. The House of the Dragon had two dragonsteel blades once upon a time, but now, it had none. 

Thorne cleared his throat loudly. “Sending more men and giving remuneration for the death of the king’s men to their closest of kin will already strain the dwindling treasury. The upkeep of the royal fleet is costly, and the dues and taxes that flow into the royal coffers grow smaller by the year.”

All of his councillors remained silent. Vaeron Velaryon, the master of ships, did not meet his gaze and settled for fiddling with the sleeves of his sea-green doublet. Dunk, his closest friend and greatest supporter, as usual, simply scratched his cheek. The years had not been kind to his knightly master; his hair had turned dull grey, but his body was still firm and broad-shouldered underneath the white armour, if not as vigorous as before.

“I can lead the men,” Dunk said hoarsely. His words were not as spirited and bold as they had been last year… or a decade ago. “Give me half a year, and I’ll sweep the Westerlands clean of bandits from the Pendric Hills to Crakehall.”

‘Most of these bandits oft hide in the castles, Dunk,’ Aegon wanted to say. But he remained silent. He had no proof. Without proof, any accusations would be met with resistance, perhaps even revolts once he moved, and the innocent would bleed for it.

“And the treasury will be beggared for it.” Thorne glanced through the sprawled parchments before him. “You will take two hundred knights and seven times as many men-at-arms. They will all demand pay for each day, and an additional reward for each brigand slain. Assuming you do find any brigands and outlaws, that is. The Westerlands is a land of hills, ravines, and mountains, and those who want to stay hidden will not be so easily found.” 

The king pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing down his frustration. Gods, he hated hearing this. It was a no, wrapped in polite words, yet Gyles Thorne was speaking true. 

Nobody spoke of raising taxes or levying new tolls. The last time Aegon dared to raise them, fewer dues were paid from his own lords, and many of his bannermen had accused him of being a greedy spendthrift, throwing gold in the wind. He had tried to raise the customs and duties in King’s Landing, but the merchants simply moved to Duskendale. The customs had been raised there, too, and Velaryon still struggled with the waves of smugglers that had beset Blackwater Bay. Or perhaps he himself was smuggling on his own when Aegon was not watching.

The crown chafed against his skull, and on days like this, he wanted to toss it aside. Or perhaps putting it behind lock and key, never to see the light of day again. But he couldn’t, no matter how much he wished to do it. His shaky power would thin further the day he grew foolish enough to eschew his own royal regalia.

None would say it, but this was the result of his stubbornness. And the stubbornness of his children, too. 

“We will discuss this again at the next meeting,” he decided at the end. “Any other matters?”

“The Tailors’ guild asks for lower dye customs,” Gyles Thorne said. “They say that without Essosi dye, they will have to close. Then, there’s the issue of Prince Aerys’s upcoming nameday and the planned tourney…”

Then followed petty disputes between landed knights, an issue of a new robber knight arising in the kingswood to terrorise travellers, the problem with the depleting salt mine at Stokeworth, and a complaint by Lord Jon Arryn about the mountain wildlings. Worse still, there was the servant’s corpse found in the Red Keep, with no trace of struggle. No killer had been found, and the master-of-arms had concluded that the old sweeper had taken his own life, though none could say why.

“Arryn claims that the crown takes a cut of the road tolls, so they must also take part in the defence and upkeep of the road,” Ellendor rasped. “Either that, or he would turn away the royal reeves when they come to collect road tolls in his lands.”

The new Grand Maester looked wary and spoke even less than the rest, as if afraid he would die. 

He might as well, as he was ninety now, and his eyes grew hazy as he stared at one place for too long. Not even six months in King’s Landing, the man looked ready to fall asleep and never wake up again.

‘The Conclave should have sent me someone younger,’ the king lamented. ‘Now, they would have to pick twice. Thrice, if we count old Kaeth. Poor man was wise but too old, and didn’t last a whole year.’

“Half the great lords are disobedient,” his eldest said darkly. “One step away from rebellion.”

‘And whose fault is that?’ Aegon wanted to say. He wanted to say many things. ‘If you had done your duty to wed Elena Baratheon, poor Rhaelle could have been the Lady of the Vale, and Lord Arryn would be my most loyal supporter. Jaehaerys and Shaera wouldn’t have dared to elope either, and four great lords would be tied to the royal family instead of one.’

He had said that before. Gods know, he had. But such words, such baser quarrels were never made in public, where eyes could see and ears could hear. Never where the realm could see the cracks and weaknesses in the House of the Dragon.

‘It’s better that I didn’t,’ Duncan had responded at one such argument. ‘But I’m not fit for a king. You wed for love, and so did I.’

Of all the woes plaguing the realm, the king was angered by his children the most. 

“Meeting adjourned,” Aegon said quietly, eyes narrowing at his son. 

The feeling of frustration only swelled up again as he watched his councillors stream through the door with thinly veiled eagerness, as if they couldn’t stay even a second longer here. But old courtiers like them had long grown skilled in sensing the royal mood… and had doubtlessly caught a trace of his anger. 

Duncan dutifully remained behind, bowing his head and ready to take his reprimand. The king opened his mouth to chastise his son, but he found no words. 

“You are so dutiful, Dunk,” Aegon said at last, his voice laced with disappointment. “So dutiful in things that matter not. Leave.”

“Father—”

“Leave,” the king said, voice firm. “You refused to bear the weight of the crown against all advice. Now it’s two decades too late to change your mind. Go back, hug your Jenny, and return to your hunts and horse races.”

His firstborn swallowed, face pale, then bowed deeply and left.

Only Aegon and his friend, his old mentor, remained in the council chamber.

His second son and crown prince, Jaehaerys, had not been in attendance again. ‘I have fallen ill with fever, Father.’

Ever sickly and just as stubborn as his eldest brother. Aegon feared he would live to bury another son. Daeron… Daeron had been the best of his brothers. He could have been the crown prince, too, if he hadn’t had this stubborn and undue fondness for his own knights.

“Where did I go wrong, Dunk?” he lamented, slumping on his chair. “This boy was so bright. Quick and eager to learn. A master of the lance and dangerous with a sword more than most knights. And then, he fell in love with a common woman.” 

“He took your ideas to heart,” Dunk said simply. “That the smallfolk are no lesser than those of noble blood.”

“Common men are not meant to rule.” Aegon rubbed his face, but no matter how much he rubbed, the weariness and age would not go away. “The Moon of the Three Kings showed us that much. Three kings ruled, each on his own hill, yet for their poor subjects, there was no law, no justice, and no protection. No man’s home was ever safe, nor any maiden’s virtue. It takes nobility of character to rule. It takes strength, skills to deal with issues big and small, charisma, and foresight to sit on the throne.” 

‘Things I still cannot muster.’ 

He should never have taken that throne, but the Small Council had placed him there. There was no other, other than the Blackfyres, his mad brother’s child, that many feared would become Maegor come again as he bore the name, or Aemon… Aemon, who preferred his ravens and dusty scrolls. But not one of them was deemed suitable by the lords of the realm, and the crown had fallen on his head; the fate of the realm rested on his shoulders. 

They had thought him the better option, someone weak and unable to make waves. Perhaps they were right.

And now, half the realm was trying to slip away from his grasp. His decrees were ignored, or reluctantly fulfilled, and the lords… oh, the lords never hated the crown as much as they did now. But they knew better than to rebel. 

For all his faults, Aegon knew how to fight. He had no fear of war with Ser Duncan by his side. With Lyonel Baratheon’s bloody rebellion and Daemon III Blackfyre crushed at his feet, and dozens of smaller revolts squashed, only fools dared to oppose the crown openly. 

But the rest of the lords opposed him in the shadows. 

“Do you think I should give up?” Aegon asked, voice coming out as a hoarse rasp. “Just the right of pit and gallows is so impossible to enforce even after nearly two decades. The lords are unhappy that it has been taken from them, and none even lifts a finger to help the royal justiciars.”

Ser Duncan inclined his head. “You’re doing the right thing, Your Grace,” he said lightly. “The power of the lords must be checked. Many of them do what they want, taxing their smallfolk to death and acting no better than bandits, and consider themselves untouchable.”

“I am aware,” said Aegon, the words bitter on his tongue. “I lost Daeron to one such revolt. The Rat, the Hawk, and the Pig. I remember those three scoundrels. I would never think a petty lord and two landed knights could take down a princess and a prince of the realm.”

“You had them hanged, and their kin stripped of all titles and lands.”

A long, weary sigh tore from his throat. “That I did. But it cost me my son. Now, they no longer resist me openly. They all bow when I come, avoid me when they come, and remain outwardly compliant but inwardly defiant the moment I look away. The Dornish outright ignore me, just like Riverrun and Highgarden do.” 

“Storm’s End is loyal to the crown,” Duncan said lightly. “And so is Casterly Rock.”

Aegon scoffed. “Lord Lannister’s loyalty might be strong, but his will is weak and power weaker still. He struggles to rule his own lands and bannermen.”

“The wolves of Winterfell are loyal, too,” the old Lord Commander continued. “The Starks have never broken their oaths.”

“But the Starks are far away.” The king shook his head. “Loyal as they might be, they must deal with pirates and wildling raids. The Night’s Watch’s appetite for men only grows, those willing to swear to the Black dwindle, and even the weather itself is their enemy.”

Even then, the Starks had outright ignored some of his decrees but still rode out to mete out justice and uphold the king’s peace. ‘Your men are too soft,’ Lord Edwyle Stark had written all those years ago. ‘Twice now, they got lost in the cold and once in the marshes of the Neck. They disrespect the Old Ways and speak poorly of the gods of my ancestors in their cups, and I must suffer their presence? Send no more of these fools, for you are wasting your time. The clansmen up the hills beat them black and blue, and I had to ride out to save them myself, but there won’t be a second time.’

It was the last time the Lord of Winterfell had sent him a raven. Edwyle was the son of Betha’s younger sister, making him Aegon’s good nephew. Ten years had passed since, and the previously amiable North had grown distant yet again. 

Duncan grimaced. “Aye, I never thought I’d see snow in the summer.” 

His mentor did not mention the Vale. There was no need to. The clever falcon stood in the Vale, steering away from the realm’s affairs, trying to appear as unassuming as possible. But for every move the king made in the Vale, Jon Arryn always resisted and never hesitated to push back within his rights, much like the matter with the road tolls and mountain clansmen.  

“If I had dragons…” Aegon blinked at the empty cup before him. It gave him no answers, nothing did. He had once dreamed of soaring through the skies, but that dream had long died. He kept his dragon egg warm by a fire for a whole decade, but it was no warmer to the touch than the day he had received it as a child. Gods, he needed the dragons, and words failed to describe his frustration and desire. He wanted them.

But how… how to hatch them?

“With dragons by my side, even the most stubborn lords will bow, and the royal prestige will be restored. One misstep… one misstep and the unhappy lords will rise in revolt. The second, the third, and the fourth Blackfyre pretenders never found much purchase in these lands, but this Maelys Blackfyre just might.”

“As much as the lords mislike you, they will mislike him more,” Duncan offered. “He makes common cause with slavers, pirates, and merchants, and even the most stubborn lord will not tolerate such a lot.” 

“Some men have more ambition and pride than sense, Dunk.” And ambition wedded to pride could be as cruel as it was dangerous, as his eldest brother Aerion had shown. The king remembered that scandal three months ago, and his mood soured further. “Do we have any word on the dwarf woman?” 

“None,” Ser Duncan said, frowning. “I’m unsure if the Riverlanders are giving her succour, or if she’s just that good at hiding.”

Another failure, then. Many would say the king was the most powerful man in the realm, but Aegon had never felt more powerless than he had when the crown had landed on his head.

The rest of the day passed in the Great Hall, where his ears grew numb as he listened to petitioners and courtiers. Few had anything of substance to speak; most of it was complaints or attempts to leverage royal power to their own use.

Sitting on the cold, uncomfortable Iron Throne made Aegon’s waist ache—he was no longer a young man. 

At the end of the day, the herald met him at the small hall where he preferred to rest, listening to Jenny’s singing. Duncan’s wife always loved to sing and to dance and to laugh, even the ‘crime’ of her woodswitch friend had not dampened her mood for long. Just watching the chestnut-haired maiden made Aegon’s heart feel lighter. It made him feel younger, and the warm chair padded with linen and velvet gave his back the respite the Iron Throne had denied. 

“A priestess of R’hllor begs for an audience, Your Grace,” the man murmured in his ears. “A pretty woman with copper hair, red eyes, and a crimson dress more fitting for a pleasure house than a woman of the gods.”

“Why did she not sign up for the petitions?”

“Her message is for royal ears only, she claims, Your Grace.”

It was not an odd demand. Many wished to speak to the king in private, though their numbers had dwindled in recent years. Perhaps this was another attempt to convert him to their ‘Lord of the Light’ or a request for permission to preach in the city.

“Very well, bring her to my audience chamber.”

Aegon found his curiosity roused. Most of the realm avoided him at all costs—even the High Septon—yet this priestess came to his doorstep voluntarily.

Sighing, the king stirred from his chair. His knees protested at the sudden motion, and he had to walk slower until the pain abated. 

Ser Duncan, Ser Rolland Darklyn, and old Ser Tom Costayne shadowed him today. The last was half a decade older than Dunk, but moved with the agility of a shadowcat still.

A beauty that rivalled his daughters awaited in the audience chamber. But hers was a fiery beauty, crimson to the point of sin. The red hair and eyes were bright and striking, but so was the chest full of pale flesh that threatened to spill from her gown, and the heart-shaped face that looked like it could belong to a maiden of eight and ten or a mother twice as old. 

The herald was right—Aegon would have taken her for a whore if he didn’t know better. Or perhaps an elite courtesan. 

“Greetings, Your Grace.” Her voice was soft, melodious, and pleasant to the ear. The woman gave him a flawless curtsy while giving him a full view of her ample cleavage at the same time. “I am Melisandre of Asshai, priestess of the Lord of the Light.” 

“Asshai?” Aegon echoed, stroking his beard. “You must have travelled quite far to come here.”

Apprehension rose in his chest. Asshai of the Shadow was an old, ancient place on the far end of the world where magic still burned bright and strong, and all sorts of unexplainable things could happen. Those who left those dark lands sane were not simple, and it was dangerous to underestimate them.

“The road was long and fraught with peril, but R’llor lighted my path.”

Duncan snorted, trying to cover his laugh.

“You must have quite the urgent reason to request a private audience, then.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The woman’s face grew solemn. “The gods have stirred, I have seen it in the flames. Destiny has shifted. The ones in the deep still slumber, but the rest of the Old Horrors have smelled the change in the air. Even the Great Other wakes, and the Ice Dragon in the sky glows brighter than ever.”

“Do you have anything besides riddles and vague omens of change?” Aegon asked flatly.

Melisandre of Asshai smiled. “Yes. I have seen it in the flames, Your Grace. You are fated to wake the dragons from stone, and I am here to aid you.”

Author’s Endnote: That took longer than I expected. A humble, normal-sized chapter. 

We peer into Aegon the Unlikely and his troubles. There’s nothing given in detail for his reforms in the canon. Nada. Zero. Except that the lords hated them. Liberal ideas that coincide with centralising royal power make the most sense to me, though Aegon lacks the strength to impose all the reforms.

Jon snatches a small win from the jaws of defeat and is saddled with new, far more mysterious problems.