20.From the Ashes

259 AC, The Riverlands

The Wandering Bastard

Daeron had fallen unconscious after they had fished him out of the deep well, the man too thin and sickly from his quite lengthy stay in the well. Tormund had proposed leaving him by the road and moving on, but Jon felt that since they had taken him out, they ought to at least make sure he wouldn’t die right away.

And the man was thin enough to count all of his ribs, and if he were left here, he’d probably be too weak to get up and die starving.

Daeron was of average height and only had the rags on his back, a thin, tattered pouch filled with a handful of pennies, and a gnarly walking staff that had been thrown near the well as his possession. His feet were bare, blackened and toughened by the road, with no boots to weather the elements. 

They had introduced each other as was proper in one of the man’s waking moments on the first day, but he was too weak and tired for a proper talk. His body was barely more than skin and bones, and it was a miracle he had survived the stay in the well for a whole moon.

It had taken nearly two days to see the man back to health, though it was mostly Tormund’s squirrel and fish soup that was surprisingly tasty. 

Daeron slurped on it without any manners, a smile wide on his wild face. But he was skilful at this, not a single drop spilling onto his messy beard. Once his wooden bowl was empty, he finally placed it down, dipping his head and clasping his hands together. “Many thanks, benefactors.”

“Words coming from your tongue are all strange, old man,” Tormund grumbled, glancing at their new companion. 

“This one is not from around here,” Daeron said, a faint but exotic accent Jon couldn’t quite pin seeping into his voice. “Though the man who sired this one was born here, in the Sunset Lands. And this one is not that old yet, only two and forty.”

The auburn-haired boy snorted. “That’s old, old man. Some have a band o’ grandchildren by that age—if they’re lucky to live that long.”

Daeron’s brows shot up. “What an odd squire. Death is common, yes, but not that common, young man.”

“Are you some… Essosi merchant?” Jon asked quietly.

The man’s unblinking purple eyes settled on him.

“No, benefactor. This one is a priest of the Starry Wisdom.”

Tormund snorted. “What’s that?” 

Daeron’s face grew solemn. “The Church of Starry Wisdom worships the divinity dwelling in the nightly sky and the endless stars in the firmament,” he said slowly.

“Never heard of it,” the squire muttered, scratching his head. “Must not be important, then.”

“Tormund.” Jon’s voice was edged with steel.

“The boy has given no insult, nor has this one felt slighted,” Daeron said, raising his bony hands. “It’s been aeons since the Church of Starry Wisdom has been of import, and this one is a rather poor monk.”

Starry Wisdom. Where had he heard this before? Brynden had only spoken of the Seven Who are One, their septons, and the Old Gods. Jon’s mind fluttered to an old, half-forgotten memory of his lessons with Winterfell’s old maester. 

“Wasn’t the Church of Starry Wisdom based in… Leng?”

Daeron let out a low, raspy laugh. “Yi-Ti and Qarth, benefactor. The Lengii have long since cast out the powers of the Golden Empire and do not welcome outsiders even to this day, and hold their faith in their grim, faceless gods lurking in the nethers of the earth. The Church of Starry Wisdom has some small branches in Qohor, Lys, Lorath, and Braavos, but the other Free Cities rarely welcome our kind.”

“Fascinating,” Jon said, still uncertain what to think. 

Tormund brashly asked, “What do your gods do anyway?”

Daeron spread out his arms. “What all gods do, young one. They offer you meaning, a direction, and… solace in the cold darkness of the night. Do you want to hear more about the gods dwelling in the stars?”

Jon’s mind drifted to a low, seductive voice he had tried very hard to forget.

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

“Perhaps another time,” he said with a shudder. “I’m far more curious how you ended up at the bottom of a well, at the other end of the world, if I might be so bold as to ask.”

Daeron’s face darkened. “These damn godless Freys,” he hissed like a viper. “They wanted to charge this poor old monk a burdensome toll to cross their rickety bridge and another toll to spread the divine word of the Starry Wisdom. When this one swam through the Green Fork downriver, their outriders caught me and tossed me into a well.” 

Jon shook his head in exasperation. “That certainly explains it.”  

Tormund’s mouth twisted. “Can’t even swim across the river? Do they think they own it?”   

“The Freys?” Jon let out a scoff. “A meagre Green Fork is nothing. If you ask Walder Frey, he’d probably claim he owns the very air we breathe in and the sky above his lands as his own all the same. And he would charge all a toll for it if he could.”

His squire muttered some curse under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘bloody kneelers.’  

“You seem quite familiar with the House of Frey, benefactor.” 

Jon’s jaw tightened. “I have yet to meet a Frey, but I know of them and their unsavoury deeds. The weasel lord and his ilk are not to be trusted with anything.”

The priest glanced at his neck, just where the weirwood beads hung beneath his tunic. His eyes kept flickering that way as they talked of idle matters for a while. Daeron promised to bless them and pray for their well-being, but he soon grew tired and fell back to sleep. The next day, the monk was well enough to walk with the help of his gnarly staff, and they finally parted. 

Tormund kept glancing over his shoulder until Daeron was out of sight. “Something’s not right with the old man. Feels like a gust of cold white wind when he woke up to whisper to the stars last night, though with none of the chill.”

Jon hadn’t thought much of Daeron’s murmured prayers last night, and they hadn’t felt like anything other than plain to his senses last evening. And his senses were sharper than most, Brynden had made sure of it. But he remembered how the priest kept stealing a glance at his weirwood beads.

“There are all sorts of odd gods and odder priests in the world,” Jon said absentmindedly. “This Daeron was no odder than others, though he recovered far swifter than I thought.”

“My ma told me only cannibals walk barefoot.”

Jon let out a snort. “Your ma told you wrong.” For a moment, his mind went to Nala… and her kinsmen, and their worship that still made him feel queasy. In truth, everything about that band of cannibals made him queasy.

“My ma never lies,” Tormund bit back.

“I’ve seen cannibals, and they all wore boots,” Jon said darkly. His squire saw something in his expression and averted his eyes, no longer arguing stubbornly. 

As the shadows lengthened, they found a nice hedge to sleep in and were doing the ‘evening torture’ as Tormund loved to call it, when four outriders wearing grey surcoats with the blue twin towers of Frey approached.

“Have you seen an odd vagrant with purple eyes?” their leader demanded, peering down on Jon as his destrier restlessly stomped on the ground.

“Seen a few vagrants last eve, but none with purple eyes,” Jon lied with a straight face. 

The knight studied him for a long moment, his eyes lingered on Jon’s white hair, before giving a curt nod and wheeling his steed away.

“They’re looking for Daeron?” Tormund wheezed, leaning onto his training sword.

“Probably. Purple eyes are rare, especially in the Riverlands.” 

Dinner was short, consisting of wild roots and cold meat. His mind was churning, coming up with a plan. A corner of his attention was fixed on the band of horsemen that had stopped to camp a league and a half to the east. Shadow was trailing after them from afar, though not too close as not to frighten the horses. Some of them still neighed, stamping down with their hooves with unease as the Frey knight attempted to tie them to a nearby tree. 

As his squire wrapped himself tight with his cloak, Jon made no motion to prepare for sleep. “Stay here,” he commanded. “I’ll be back before dawn.”

Tormund just groaned out an agreement.

In a moment, Jon hopped onto his garron and trailed closer. Jon knew the laws of the realm better than most, even Aegon’s laws that were repealed during Aerys’s rule. Under the Unlikely’s laws, holy men could preach freely, regardless of the gods they worshipped, and no man could bar their way or harm them. And as much as House Frey wished otherwise, swimming across rivers was allowed, and they could only levy tolls on ferries and bridges. 

Either Daeron was lying about his ‘imprisonment’ in the well, or the Freys were doing something unsavoury. A priest, even a foreign one, had little reason to lie, and Jon hadn’t caught any falsehoods in the man’s words, and the Freys…

If the Essosi priest had broken laws for true, they could have dealt with him harshly, with none daring to gainsay it. But no lawful punishment had been levied. To toss a man in an old well… it meant they wanted to get rid of someone, not merely chase them away. It was also an old way of killing someone with a borrowed knife. Or perhaps it was superstition. It was ill fortune to slay a holy man, but to use the cold and the hunger to do the deed? That was another matter entirely.

Any hesitation in Jon’s heart melted away.

This was a chance to make trouble for House Frey. Perhaps even draw out the old weasel. 

He lay patiently half a mile from the small Frey camp, waiting until all three men fell asleep. One remained to stand watch, and just as Jon made to approach, the sentry dozed off within half an hour. 

Jon’s lips curled. 

With nary an effort, his mind bent the three destriers to his will, and they grew silent. Without hesitation, he walked into the camp. He ran his dagger through the throat of the sentry, killing him with nary a sound. The other two were sleeping soundly, completely unaware of the danger. They died even quicker. 

He had no good reason to end the lives of those poor wrenches. They had done him no ill, nor were they foes. And yet… they were sworn to the House of Frey. It would be swords sworn to Frey that would slit the throats of Stark men at the feast, and they were as guilty as Walder Frey himself. Jon couldn’t bring himself to feel any regret. It felt good. It felt right, too. Perhaps it was petty vengeance, or perhaps he had taken a liking to killing. 

But if they were to chase down and kill a harmless barefoot Essosi priest for the smallest of reasons, what other vile deeds had House Frey done?

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Young Prince

He woke up to pain. Agony lanced through his legs, jolting up his waist and spine. His body felt raw and heavy, the barest movement hurt, and when he cracked his eyes open, his vision swam. 

Worried voices spoke, but they sounded too distant, as if locked behind some door. His mouth was pried open, and cold, numbing liquid tickled into his throat. The pain grew distant, and the world blurred.

His mind drifted in and out of focus. Pain came in waves, one sharp, the next one dull and deep, all the way to the bones. His feet twinged, and when he woke up, he tried to scratch the itch, but his limbs refused to move. 

Something went into his throat again. But this time it was warmer, thicker with the taste of honey and milk. 

Aerys dreamt of entering the lists on a great red steed, his black breastplate with the crimson three-headed dragon of House Targaryen done in encrusted rubies. He rode gallantly, unhorsing all of his foes until the crowd erupted, hollering his name with fervour.

“Aerys!”

“Aerys!”

He dreamt of a great white shadow that would linger until it was set ablaze. He dreamt of dragons dancing on the ground in drunken revelry, and then they took to the skies and danced between the clouds, all the while his mother held him like a newborn babe. 

His dreams grew weirder still. He saw battles, he saw snow and ice, fire in the sky, treachery. Often, he dreamt of Rhaella. No matter the dream, she was always there at the start, watching with unease. In some, his sister tried to run, disappearing into a forest or desert; in others, she remained, picking up a dagger to fight—be it a beast, men, or a dragon. 

“Aerys!”

The tourney crowd kept calling to him every other dream. 

The next time he awoke, he saw the plastered ceiling of his room. The air was filled with the thick smell of poultice and herbs. His throat felt sore, and each breath sent a jolt of pain down his lungs. 

He remembered, then. 

A burst of green, roaring from beneath the royal box. The thick wooden boards held for a moment, and then the flames erupted everywhere as someone grabbed him.

Damn it. 

Aerys tried to wiggle his toes, but nothing happened. His heart sank as he glanced down. There were no covers in the bed, just his prone body. The lower part of his torso was wrapped in herb-soaked bandages, and his legs… ended at his knees.

This had to be a bad dream. He numbly stared at the stumps until his neck began to ache and his eyes grew heavy.

The world fell into darkness.

Next time he awoke to the pittering of the rain, his aches were duller than before. The smell of herbs was thicker than before, and his chest hurt—each breath brought in a dull pain. His throat felt as if it were rubbed raw by sandstone.

He pulled himself to sit up and grimaced as pain pierced through his thighs. Surely enough… his feet were still gone. It had not been a bad dream. 

Aerys rose, reaching out with a shaking hand towards his crippled legs, his fingers sinking into the stump’s bandages to scratch that itch that still lingered. A pained hiss tore from his mouth as his hand jerked away.

“Awake?” The prince jerked his head, seeing Tywin seated on the painted chair in the corner.

His friend’s face was weary, as if he hadn’t slept for days, and his green eyes were haunted. 

“This has to be a dream,” Aerys rasped, desperation creeping into his voice. 

Tywin’s frown grew deeper. “I wish. We all do.”

“W-What happened?” 

“Someone had caches of wildfire beneath the royal box,” his friend said simply. “You were amongst the lucky ones.”

“Lucky?” Aerys exploded. His hands stiffly motioned to the stumps of his legs. “You call this lucky?!”

Tywin let out a long, weary sigh. “Ser Michael Mertyns grabbed you and leapt through the fire and out of the royal box before the flames spread everywhere. Perhaps it was luck, but you were seated just above ironwood planks.”

“What about father and mother?” Aerys demanded. “What of Uncle and my sister?”

His friend stubbornly stared at the wall. 

“Perhaps… you ought to rest first,” Tywin said after a long moment of silence. “Grand Maester Pycelle said you ought not get too excited.”

“Just tell me,” Aerys rasped out. 

“Prince Jaehaerys and Prince Duncan perished in an instant. The queen died in pain within an hour, and Princess Shaera lived… for a day—”

A stern voice came from the door.

“Enough. Lord Tywin, the prince needs to rest.” Pycelle swept into the chamber, carrying a tray heavy with bottles, bowls, flasks, and rolls of linen bandage. “Leave us.”

“I want him to stay.”

“It’s an ugly matter, my prince,” the Grand Maester said. “Changing those bandages is not without pain, and I must give you sweetsleep or milk of the poppy lest you wish to suffer.”

Aerys could not muster any fury, nor the grief that ought to have come. All he could feel was numbness, and there was a hollowness inside his chest, as if someone had ripped something away from him. And gods, he was tired. So very tired.

“…So be it.”

Aerys collapsed on the bed, feeling all too tired. This had to be a bad dream. It had to be.

The Unlikely King

He was nine and fifty now, one year short of sixty and yet just one day had seen his joy turn to sorrow. One single day had turned his family into a ruin.

Aegon paced across the redstone rampart, his gaze occasionally straying down the city underneath. The streets were restless. Sometimes, his eyes slid further, beyond the walls of the city itself. The colourful pavilions and endless tents were removed, stripping the ground bare save for the charred wreck that could be seen even from here. The tourney grounds looked like a blackened stain on the world, a skeletal remnant left after the wildfire had burned for three days and three nights. 

The Green Tourney, some servants whispered; others called it the Stranger’s Tourney.

Melisandre had sought him out on the eve after. 

“A dragon may yet rise from the ashes, Your Grace.” Her words were sweet, her face was earnest, with no sign of deception.

“And what cost… must I pay?”

“A life for a life, Your Grace. Perhaps the sinners awaiting death in the Black Cells… and the bodies of your fallen kinsmen.”

“Sacrilege!” Aegon erupted. “You’re speaking of profanity of the worst sort, priestess. Neither the Conqueror nor the Conciliator hatched dragons like this.” 

Melisandre bowed her head deeply. “Yet their eggs had not petrified with the onslaught of time. All of the dragon eggs of the royal family are cold, lifeless to the touch, no matter what you do. Dragons need to be awakened from stone, and the blood of the dragon calls to its own.”

“Get out of my sight,” the king spat.

The red priestess had gathered her thin silken skirts for a curtsy and gave him one last confident smile. “I shall await your decision, Your Grace.”

Anger surged hot and bubbling in his chest just by the memory of that talk. Dragons. He would rather have no dragons. A part of him wondered if Dragonbane, the Blessed, and the Unworthy had been so confident in their attempts to hatch dragons. Words were wind, after all.

And yet… he could not dismiss it, not easily. He had sent men to seek out dragonlore as far as Yi Ti and Asshai throughout the last half a decade. There was little to show for after years of effort, mere fragments of old Valyrian texts, they all wrote of sorcery and blood that even his Grand Maesters struggled to make heads and tails of. Unlike them, Melisandre had walked in the lands of the Shadow itself and had sunk her whole being into sorcery and flames and shadows, and perhaps she knew more. But even now, he struggled to find it in him to trust that woman fully.

His footsteps grew swifter as he paced across the rampart. 

Betha, oh, Betha. 

Why did you leave me behind?

Some would say he was lucky to be alive, that the gods had taken mercy upon him. He had avoided tragedy by a simple ache that had kept him glued to the chamberpot. But Aegon did not want this luck.

Which man would be called lucky to see the end of all of his children and his wife?

Only his youngest, sweet, dutiful Rhaelle, remained alive, but she would not forgive him. Even now, six days after he had sent the raven, Storm’s End remained silent. His grandson Steffon had bled out with a wooden splinter lodged in his throat, just like dozens of others. Wildfire spread slowly beyond the royal box, but hundreds were wounded from the blast that launched splinters like deadly arrows and needles in every direction.

A familiar set of footsteps clinked behind him, but Aegon made no motion to turn.

“The gathering riot has been pacified, Your Grace,” Ser Duncan said dutifully. 

“I saw,” Aegon muttered, glancing at the sky. The gods were mocking him today. Not a single speck of white or grey graced the endless expanse of blue.

“The city is uneasy still after the tragedy. Many seek an explanation.”

“And they look to the king for answers,” the king murmured. “But who am I supposed to ask? Alas, it matters not. Do you think Shaera will ever forgive me?”

“You did the right thing, Your Grace. Harsh but necessary. Letting her linger would only prolong her suffering for nought.”

Perhaps Shaera would understand. Perhaps she would even forgive him from the afterlife. 

But could Aegon forgive himself? What sort of father gave the order to murder his daughter? Yes, she had wailed and cried in pain, even through the milk of the poppy. For hours, Pycelle and all the acolytes had said that the wildfire fumes had fried her lungs beyond all repair, and she had a week to live at most. The wet, wheezing sound of his daughter’s breathing would haunt his nights, just like his decision to cut poor Shaera’s life short. “Three doses of sweetsleep,” Pycelle had said, “and the princess shall fall asleep one last time, with no pain.”

Pain. Aegon felt plenty of pain these last few days. Each night he went to sleep, cursing the gods, and awoke with another, harsher curse on his tongue. But even the gods were not so cruel as to leave a man with no way out. His grandson survived, though he would never walk again.

Rhaella lived, too, having left the royal box early. And yet she was faring as poorly as her brother. According to Ser Gerold, the moment the wildfire had exploded, his granddaughter had let out a pained wail, collapsing on the ground with blood dribbling from her seven orifices. Near a week had passed since, and unlike Aerys, she showed no signs of awakening. Even Pycelle was stumped, saying nothing was wrong with her beyond a fever that broke on the second day.

The Grand Maester had held his tongue, but the king had seen the worry written all over his face. Aegon was no fool and knew some sort of sorcery was involved. And wherever sorcery was involved, nothing good ever happened.

“The small council awaits, Your Grace,” Duncan’s calm voice broke him from his dark thoughts. Even now, Dunk could keep his cool, though the grief in his eyes could not be concealed. 

“Small council?” Aegon let out a scoff. “Smaller council, now. Half of them are gone.”

My sons. Ah, my dear boys. The world lost its colour without you.

Duncan merely nodded. “The Iron Throne needs to show strength now. Such a vile attack cannot go unpunished. The kingsguard cannot remain half-empty, either.” 

“Very well,” Aegon murmured, giving the charred tourney grounds one final glance before turning his steps towards the small council chamber. “You deal with Ser Gwayne, Ser Michael, and Ser Harlan’s replacements. Make sure you pick someone loyal. If nothing else, the city is full of eager knights of no small skill.”

Courtiers and servants scattered like frightened deer the moment he approached, none daring to risk the king’s ire. All had sensed his gloom, no matter how well he had tried to hide it. Knights and men-at-arms all wore cloaks and surcoats with black stripes for mourning, and the ladies in court had chosen darker gowns with black veils that hid their faces—and their expressions.

Ser Rolland stood guard outside the small council chamber. He gave a curt nod as he pushed the door open.

Inside waited only Pycelle, Lord Hubart Hayford, and Ser Ellan Celtigar, the master of ships. The rest… had been in the royal box. 

Aegon seated himself at the head of the table and turned to his spymaster. As tempting as it was to dismiss the man, the small council had thinned too much as it was. Hayford squirmed under his gaze, averting his eyes, and the king finally spoke. “Have the pyromancers said anything of worth yet?”

“It’s all the same song,” Hayford said weakly, dabbing at his sweaty brow with a damp piece of cotton cloth. His face had thinned in the last week, and the bags underneath his eyes were a deep, dark colour. “Three cloaked men ordered wildfire one after the other for the last half a year. Just enough in each batch to not rouse suspicion, and it totalled four hundred and fifty pots. No matter how I questioned them, they knew nothing.”

“What about the man who did the sale?” Celtigar asked darkly.

“He sang like a bird under the knife, but none of it was of import.” The spymaster hesitated for a long moment. “Only, Princess Rhaella went to visit their halls a few days before…” 

“Are you perhaps saying my granddaughter orchestrated all of this?”  

Lord Hayford hastily raised his hands. “Nobody believes that, Your Grace. She doesn’t have the coin and only sought out a flask of the green piss… and yet we have no other clue.” 

“Then look harder,” Aegon commanded, voice glacial.  

As much as Rhaella had grown detached and guarded in the last year, she had worried her little head about the royal family as much as he had. But it was not her burden to bear. Alas, as queer and unnatural as her situation was, he did not think his granddaughter was involved. As precocious as Rhaella was, she was only three and ten, just a girl.

Deep in his chest still swelled a raging flame that even sorrow failed to douse. It burned bright and angry, and just the memory of the Green Tourney stoked its flames. 

Yet his fury could find no outlet, just like Hayford could find no culprit.

Gods, Aegon was tempted to order all the alchemists to the noose. The Grand Maester would agree swiftly, and he would support that idea, as would Celtigar and Hayford—one had lost his nephew, and the other had lost his younger brother.

But it would not be justice. When a man died by a sword or axe, no law punished the hand that crafted them. 

“Send the alchemists to the New Gift,” the king said at last.

“To take the Black?”

“No, as tempted as I am, they have broken no laws. But they’re to aid the Night’s Watch in all things, and their order is never to leave the Gift without royal permission. Anything clues the culprit, Hubart?” 

“They must have buried the jars of wildfire at night to avoid notice,” the man said fretfully.  

Aegon rubbed his pulsing temples. “And nobody noticed a thing?”

Hayford shrank in his seat. “It must have been done after the hour of the ghost, under the cover of the night, when everyone was deep asleep. An hour of toil here and there, and in a moon turn’s time, even two men could have accomplished the sordid deed. The gold cloaks have orders to arrest all suspicious figures in the city and inspect all warehouses, but aside from a Blackfyre agent from Fleabottom, they have nothing but your average crooks and petty thieves.”  

“It’s easy to avoid the gold cloaks,” said Dunk. “Perhaps whoever did it is long gone.”

“Your Grace.” It was Pycelle’s cautious voice this time. It was an odd thing to have the Grand Maester be a man younger than him, with an unwrinkled face and a head full of dirty blonde hair. “The realm is still reeling from the tragic loss. Worse still, the Iron Throne has yet to release a statement. The more we remain quiet, the weaker the House of the Dragon seems.”

Because the House of the Dragon was weak. Aegon knew very well that many lords considered him nothing more than a half-peasant with more compassion than sense. 

“Send out ravens followed by riders and criers,” Aegon said instead. “Spread word to my city and across the realm that Maelys Blackfyre conspired to kill the royal family.” 

His words were met with silence so deep you could hear a pin drop. Each councillor was looking at him with their eyes wide open.

“Your Grace, but we have no proof—”

“Then make some proof,” the king scoffed. “I can either pin this tragedy on Blackfyre’s designs, an enemy, or look like a clueless fool who knows not who is plotting in his own backyard.”

“Most prudent choice, Your Grace,” Pycelle beamed. “It would lay the blame at the Monstrous’s feet, and the ire of those who lost kith and kin would fall to him.”

He could see the disappointment in Dunk’s weary eyes, but his old friend said nothing. There was nothing to say; it was an honourless move, a bald-faced lie. Yet the truth served the House of the Dragon little, and honour even less, and Dunk knew this.

Honour and truth felt hollow, fleeting, like dust in the wind. What little was left of it would be buried with the ashes of his wife and children. Gods, Aegon never felt as weary as he did now.

“What should I do, Your Grace?” the spymaster asked eagerly, doubtlessly hoping to lift his hands from this mess. 

“You will continue to pursue the true culprit with all your might,” Aegon commanded. “Spare no coin, leave no stone unturned. We can’t afford a dagger lurking in the shadows, eager to stab me while I’m dealing with Blackfyre.”

“Your Grace, the matter of heir…”

“Aerys is alive.”

“We are all gladdened for it,” Ser Ellan Celtigar said quickly. “And yet greater men than the prince lose heart after they lost their feet. Once the body is broken, the spirit struggles to recover, and Prince Aerys can never walk straight, let alone lead armies to battle. There’s even a rumour that he can no longer perform his husbandly duties—”

Pycelle coughed loudly. “Prince Aerys is fit to sire children, I assure you. The act itself can be done abed without trouble.”

The vultures were already circling the royal family, looking for the slightest sign of weakness. All of the councillors glanced his way with no small measure of caution, trying to gauge his mood. 

The Celtigar knight dipped his head. “If I might speak boldly, Your Grace.”

“You may.”

“With Aerys’s legs crippled, only Princess Rhaella and Prince Maegor remain in the House of the Dragon. Though his Tanner wife perished, Aerion’s son is still ill-suited for a crown, and the other is just a maiden. Perhaps it is prudent for Your Grace to remarry and try and secure a spare or two—”

“Enough.” Aegon slammed his hand on the table. “Have you no shame? My wife and sons are not yet buried, and yet you speak of this?! I shall hear no more of this drivel.”

The master of ships had the decency to blush. Aegon needed to think no further than to know that the Celtigar knight hoped to make his younger sister a queen. Or perhaps one of his daughters?

It was all the same. 

The uneasy council continued for a while, forcing Aegon to put his mind into the tedium of ruling—a thing he couldn’t care less about now. He had a war to plan, and the Stepstones had already fallen into the hands of Maelys and the scum he had allied himself with.

‘Betha, my dear Betha,’ Aegon thought forlornly. ‘The world lost its shine without you. How can some other woman ever replace you?’ 

But he still had to stay strong and soldier on. His grandchildren needed him.  

The day passed in a blur, much like the previous ones. He had scarcely done a thing, but he felt hollowed out, like an old tree that had started to rot from the inside out. While Aerys was awake and saw signs of some healing, Rhaella had yet to stir from her bed. His heart could bear no more grief.

The evening saw Duncan come to him with a grim face.

“The red priestess requests an audience.”

“Again?” Aegon rubbed his face.

“She’s rather insistent,” his friend whispered. 

“I shall not see her,” he said stiffly. “I have heard her counsel already.”

A night of fretful sleep saw the king dawn in a poorer mood. He had yet to hold court since that day, yet to find a Hand to replace his son. No man could ever replace his sons, no matter how clever or skilful.

And yet the realm waited for no one, and the sun rose and set as the days turned over, regardless of his wishes. With a heavy heart, Aegon slipped out of bed as his page clothed him for the day. 

An urgent rap on the door saw him frown. Ser Rolland announced Pycelle.

“Let him in.”

The Grand Maester cautiously slipped into the chamber, eyes darting around like one big rat draped in grey.

“A letter from Sunspear, Your Grace,” he said, bringing out a scroll from his belt.

“Read it.”

Clearing his throat, Pycelle’s shaky fingers broke the orange seal and furled the scroll open.

“To His Grace, Aegon of House Targaryen, the Fifth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men,

The House of Nymeros Martell, in these tragic times, dispatches Prince Consort Daren Ladybright to retrieve the mortal remains of Princess Loreza, whose life ended tragically while under the shelter of Your Grace’s royal protection. He is likewise empowered to escort Princess Rhaella to Dorne for fostering, as was solemnly agreed between our houses, and to receive such recompense as befits the sorrow and breach incurred by this calamity.

Prince Doran Martell and his regent, Prince Lewyn Martell”

Any trace of drowsiness evaporated. Hot, searing anger coiled in his chest. They dared?!

“Give me the letter,” Aegon demanded sharply.

The quivering Pycelle handed over the parchment to the young page, who rushed to his side, handing over the scroll. 

Aegon’s eyes darted across the ink, and surely enough, Pycelle had read it all right.

No threats were written, but the king could read between the lines well enough. 

House Martell wanted to kick him while he was down. They were in the right, too, and Princess Loreza was supposed to be under House Targaryen’s protection, and her safety lay in his hands. Her death was his burden to bear. It seemed his granddaughter was not enough, and she would be set to be a hostage in all but name or a Martell bride. They wanted more than words of consolation, just like they squeezed out Baelor the Blessed and Daeron the Good for more.

Perhaps if their terms were not met, they would rebel. Or even support Maelys the Monstrous secretly. Maybe even openly, if Loreza’s boy felt bold enough. 

For a moment, he regretted not pinning the Green Tourney on Blackfyre right away. But the Martells were not so easily fooled, and if he failed to provide any proof…

His heart ached just at the thought of it. Gods, he was tired.

“Leave,” the king said, voice weary. Pycelle bowed deep and fled as if his robes were on fire. A wave of the king’s hand dismissed his page, too. “Fetch me Ser Duncan, and send someone with a jar of fine wine,” he commanded before the Rambton boy could bolt away.

His friend arrived in a handful of minutes, wrinkled face heavy with worry.

“Your Grace?”

“Sit down and drink with me,” Aegon motioned to the table, where a jar of his favourite bitter wine from Goldengrove lay uncorked, ready to fill their goblets.

Ser Duncan hesitated for a long moment but sat across the lacquered mahogany table regardless. “It’s a bit early for wine.” 

“House Martell is trying to extort me now that I’ve grown old and weak.” The king pushed the letter across. “Even my granddaughter is not enough for those vipers.”

“We shall need them to fight against Maelys and the Nine,” his friend said quietly, only giving the thrice-cursed letter a swift glance. “The Martells were always clever and quick to take a chance.”

“Damn it all.” Aegon drained a cup of bitter wine, but it did nothing to soothe the frustration and anger battling in his chest. “If I give recompense to Martell, Baratheon will want the same, if not more.”

“But if you don’t, any warring against Blackfyre will be far harder. Dorne and the Stormlands border on the Stepstones, and any hosts moving would go through their lands.”

“I know,” the king murmured, shoulders sagging in defeat. “Others take me, I know it all too well. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he fished out his royal token from his pouch and tossed it to Duncan.

“Give it to Melisandre,” Aegon said, voice tight. “She has one day, and she’s not to break any laws of men.”

A frown settled over Duncan’s weathered face.

“Is it wise, Your Grace? That woman makes my skin crawl.”

“Wise?” The king let out a hoarse bark of laughter. “Perhaps not. But it no longer matters. Wisdom has served me poorly.”

The next morning, just before the crack of dawn as faint purple bled into the darkness to the east, he watched the embalmed bodies of his dear wife and his children being placed on an oil-soaked pyre on the shore of Blackwater Bay. Between them lay the six dragon eggs remaining in the royal vaults.

All of it arranged by Melisandre’s meticulous arrangement, down to the placement of the bodies and eggs, to the special oils she had used—that had cost a small fortune.

The city was still asleep, and the city walls looming behind him were guarded by his most trusted men from the royal household guard, all sworn to silence.

They shuffled uneasily, as did Ser Duncan.

“This isn’t right,” he said, eyes fixed on the pile. “We’re defiling the dead… and the living.”

“House Targaryen has always burned our dead.” Aegon’s voice grew cold. “And it’s the king’s right to decide the manner of death for those who have broken the law.”

In the very middle of the pyre, five tattered souls were tied to a stake as thick as a tree hammered into the sand below, their limbs broken and mouths stuffed with rags. Three rapers and two murderers from Fleabottom.

Melisandre muttered some queer chant under her breath and carried forth a torch. She turned to look his way, and when he gave a faint nod, a smile bloomed across her face. With a wave of her hand, the fire from the torch leapt like a viper into the oil-soaked wood and spread in an instant, engulfing the whole pyre with unnatural speed.

Within a heartbeat, his wife, his sons, and his daughter disappeared behind a curtain of flame.

The fire blazed white hot, rising into a tall pillar in mere moments, and Aegon could feel the heat of it lick at his face even from afar as the pained grunts of the rapers were replaced with the crackling of wood, the rhythmic beating of the waves, and the heavy breathing of his men. For a fleeting moment, the stench of burned meat reached his nose, but it was quickly replaced with brimstone and something heavy.

Soon, the flames began to dwindle just as the first rays of the sun pierced through the horizon, dyeing Blackwater Bay in molten gold. 

The smoke dwindled, revealing a blackened patch of glowing red embers amidst the sand. A failure.

Aegon let out a long, weary sigh as disappointment settled into his mind like an old friend. He shouldn’t have hoped otherwise.

Just as he turned to leave, something cracked, and a cacophony of shrieks and hisses rose over the beating of the waves. 

Author’s Endnote: Whew, that was hard as hell to write.