The Dance of the Dragons devastated both Westeros and House Targaryen. Where there were once eighteen dragons, only four remain. Where there was once a score of Targaryen scions, only five are left. Near the end of this most tragic bloodletting, one of these five, Rhaena Targaryen, is reborn with memories of a strange world, just as a new dragon is born to her. She names the dragon Morning, to symbolise the new dawn she strives to bring to her house. Will her quest succeed, or is the Red Dragon destined to fall?
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After The Dragons Danced (A Rhaena Targaryen SI)
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1. The Aftermath
neyra
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7th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Dungeons of The Red Keep - King's Landing
CORLYS VELARYON
He woke up from his dream, nay, his nightmare, gasping, with beads of cold sweat trickling down his brow and staining his weathered tunic. He sat up gingerly, the pain in his hip reminding him that he was no longer a young man, reminding him that he was broken. Scant light of the crescent moon streaked into his cell through its single window. The sky was cloudless, the glittering of the stars in the night sky clear to him. Corlys stood, supporting himself with his cane and walked slowly towards the window. He took a deep breath, the scent of the night air and the perpetual stench of the shit that riddled this city reminding him that he was alive. At least this time he was not smelling his own shit; Cregan Stark had the basic decency of placing him in one of the lordly cells in the dungeons of the Keep. Such cells were attended to once a day, and their captive's chamberpot was emptied and the captive was fed.
The nightmares had become more vivid as time had gone on. These days, they would torment him every time he shut his eyes, trying to sleep. They were mocking him now. The nightmares were there to remind him of how much he had lost because of the bitch queen and her fucking war. It was the face of his wife, stern and strong and unyielding, that he saw most often. She appeared to him in the face she had when they had just married; young, lovely and full of life, the face of a woman just out of her girlhood with her entire life ahead of her. When he saw himself in those dreams, he was a younger man too, a dashing adventurer; just returned home from the voyages he had taken to the farthest reaches of the Known World. He remembered the words she had told him on the day she had declared in front of the entire court that they would be married.
'We may return to the ends of the world together, my love, but I'll get there first, as I'll be flying.' Like always, he smiled at the memory. That had been the day he knew he had found his queen, the day he knew he would make himself a king, as was his due. The folly.
The pleasant memory would only last a moment longer however, his wife's jet black hair quickly becoming streaked with white and her beautiful face becoming lined and streaked with age. He would then see her falling from the sky, Meleys' headless and lifeless body under her, smote upon the ground. The copper armour she loved to wear would then melt into her skin as the bronze and greenish-blue flames of his dead daughter's dragon engulfed her, turning the red of the copper armour and the crimson of Meleys' scales into the grey of ash. That was all that remained of his wife, Corlys knew, nothing but ash, as if she had never even existed.
That was all that remained of Corlys' life and legacy in truth. All of what he had pursued so relentlessly since he had been only a boy was ruined and burned. The strength of the Velaryon navy had been cut down by almost half; even if the remaining half could still hold its own against the rest of Westeros' fleets combined, it was a grave loss. Spicetown, the fishing village he had transformed into a thriving city more resplendent than even King's Landing could ever hope to be, was now a ruin. High Tide; the crown jewel of his life's work, the beautiful pale fortress he had built with his own bare hands with marble and silver, was a ruin as well.
And all of it was due to the bitch queen and her stupid war. He had been right in his assessment of her; she burned everything she lay her hands on.
Corlys usually did his best to avoid the uncomfortable thoughts of his ruin, but lately, he no longer had the strength to. He would be executed in two short days for treason. The young wolf's words came back to him, unencumbered, 'Aegon was an oathbreaker, a kinslayer, and a usurper besides, yet still a king. When he would not heed your craven's counsel, you removed him as a craven would, using poison…and now you shall answer for it'. Aye, the conviction with which Lord Stark had pronounced his judgement assured him of his fate. Reflection was all that was left for him to do. So, he walked back to the small bed, put on his heavy woollen cloak over his head, glad of the warmth that the cloak brought, and lay down slowly, his knees complaining as he did so. He let his mind wander unobstructed, reliving the memories of his life once more.
Surprisingly, his memories took him back to his youth, when he was a younger man, still full of hopes and dreams and ambition. The form of Daella Targaryen appeared in his mind's eye; the sweet, shy princess who was so unlike every other Targaryen he had ever met. None of the pride and senseless arrogance of her kin was present in her. Corlys cursed his ambition once more for rejecting her suit of marriage all those years ago. She would have made a splendid wife to him, Corlys knew, and a gentle, kind mother to any children they would have had.
But for a man like him, a woman who would have made a good wife and a gentle mother just wouldn't be enough; instead, he pursued one who would also give him a throne. His mind went back to the day he was betrothed to Rhaenys, and how glad he had felt. His quest for her had succeeded. He had made himself a king. His children would be dragonriders, and one of them would be king after him. His blood would rule these lands for centuries to come. The displeased faces of Prince Aemon and Prince Baelon came to the fore too; the two of them had wished to combine their lines by marrying Rhaenys to Viserys. When his wife had told him of that notion once they were wed, he had scoffed at the notion derisively.
He did not scoff now. Perhaps things would have been very different if he had married Daella, if his wife had to have been a Targaryen. Even the spoiled, vain and sly Viserra would have been enough. He remembered the letter she had written to him, soon after he had returned from his final voyage, offering herself to him clandestinely to rid herself of the egregious betrothal the good queen had made for her. She had even promised him that she would steal Dreamfyre from the dragonpit, making House Velaryon a house of dragonlords for all time. Corlys had guffawed at her delusions then, and promptly fed the letter to the flames of his hearth. Even if she had succeeded in her ploy, his house simply becoming dragonlords was not enough for him. No, House Velaryon would become a house of Kings.
Oh, how his delusions shattered. The gods had seen fit to send his ruin in the form of a spoiled princess, a pretender queen named Rhaenyra Targaryen. Oh, how he loathed even the taste of her name on his tongue. How had he, Corlys Velaryon, enshrined in legend for all time as the Sea Snake, let a little slip of a girl not even a quarter of her age destroy everything he had built?
He had been glad, so very glad when Viserys had come to High Tide and all but begged for Laenor's hand for his heir. Rhaenys had warned him that war would follow Viserys' death; that no male child would sit idly by and allow themselves to be usurped by their older sister. He had laughed then. Whatever war would follow would be short and devastating for any who sought to usurp them, he had reassured his wife. They had Meleys, Seasmoke, Syrax, Caraxes and Vhagar on their side. All his grandchildren would be dragonriders too, he was sure of it. He had made sure of it. Laenor's queer tastes had been accounted for; he had him lay with the beautiful Marilda and sire a child upon her, before the wedding between him and the princess was to take place. Sure, the methods used to coax pleasure out of his son were queer and ashaming for him, but what mattered was that it had worked. He would just have to do the same with his princess after they had wed, and all would be well.
It turned out that the princess had no sense of responsibility in even trying to sire trueborn heirs. She had her own desires, and she would fulfil them, regardless of the treason she committed. Corlys swallowed something foul and bitter when he remembered the first brown-haired, brown-eyed whelp was presented to him. He had not truly grasped the depth of the bitch's entitlement at that time. When the dragon's egg in the babe's cradle hatched within a few days after his birth, he had reasoned with himself that it must have been the latent Baratheon or Arryn genes lurking in both of his parents' blood that caused the boy to have such common features. So he gave him a storied Velaryon name, Jacaerys. A seed of doubt was cast in his mind however, when Addam was born soon afterwards, and his features clearly bespoke his Valyrian heritage; especially since nothing in Marilda's colouring identified her as a dragonseed. The birth of the second babe he named Lucerys, caused that seed of doubt to begin to sprout. Soon thereafter he had his son lay with Marilda again, hoping against all hope for the second babe sired between them would have common features to put to rest his suspicion. His hopes were dashed into the sea however, for Alyn was born soon after Lucerys, again with silver hair and purple eyes.
That was when his hatred towards the bitch was truly set in stone. He did not even bother bestowing her third whelp with a Velaryon name, instead letting his son give him the common name Joffrey, for his paramour supposedly. He did not understand. His son claimed the bastards as his. The couple paraded the boys as trueborn heirs of the two most powerful families in the Known World. Laena was nothing but a doting aunt to them and even arranged to betroth them to her daughters. He had wanted to speak out; to travel to King's Landing to disavow the boys as not being of his own seed in front of the king, but he could not. Those same dragons that he had counted on so staunchly as his support now had their jaws pointed firmly at his throat. Daemon would certainly not allow any shame be wrought upon his beloved niece. Laenor declared in no uncertain terms that he would turn against him, should he try to dispute his bastards' parentage. 'You can only watch as the entirety of your legacy is inherited by mongrels, father.' He had said, a vindictive smirk upon his face, 'I believe it to be sufficient payment for all the shame you have had me endure.'
He had tried to beget another son upon his wife then. Yes, she was in her forties, but Alysanne had given birth at forty-four and his grandsire's sister, Alyssa Velaryon, had given birth to his good-mother at forty-six. He had hoped it would work. It did not. It had been the only option left to him. Addam and Alyn were sired in secret; there was no way he could bring them forward, lest he put them and their mother in danger. Laenor had no care for them, he had never even seen them and there was nothing but hatred and contempt in his eyes when Corlys had informed him of their birth. The realm was more likely to believe that Addam and Alyn were his sons and not Laenor's, and Rhaenys would certainly not be happy to learn that her beloved husband had sired bastard children out of wedlock.
So he quietly despaired for about a decade, doing nothing as his son and daughter died, and then forced to have the bastard whelp he had named Lucerys as his ward afterwards. He was a good lad, Corlys had to admit, and would have made a splendid lord of Driftmark, were he trueborn. The boy displayed the same enthusiasm for sailing that reminded Corlys of his youth, fighting and eventually overcoming the seasickness that plagued him. He had begun to tacitly accept him as heir after a time, and even took him on a few voyages.
After one such voyage, he fell ill with a fever, and his nephew Vaemond, had the courage to do what he did not. He went to the king, declared the bitch princess' children as bastards, and put himself forward as the heir and future lord of his seat. He had gotten his head removed and his corpse fed to the bitch's dragon as a result of his foolishness. Vaemond's sons and Corlys' other nephews and cousins protested the decision, and some of them lost their tongues or their lives as a result. The rest of his kin looked in askance towards him, expecting him to answer the injustice done upon House Velaryon. He could not, and so most of them turned against him during the war he had bled and been beaten for. Many ships turned cloak and fought with the Triarchy when they attacked their blockade during the Battle of The Gullet. They were burned by dragonflame just as the Three Daughters' fleets were. The large Velaryon family tree had been trimmed so vastly that now the number of scions of the house remaining in the world could be counted in one hand. And all of it was because of a bastard and her bitch mother.
Before the war, he had thought that at least all his sacrifice would be worth it. Jacaerys and Lucerys would marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, who at least had Velaryon blood from their mother. At the onset of the war he thought they would win; they had more dragons to deploy on the battlefield and more lords sworn to the bitch queen than to the usurper. They had the most experienced battle commanders in him and Prince Daemon. He hoped this whole mess would be behind him in a few turns of the moon. He had been soundly mistaken.
Lucerys and the usurper's son had been slain each in turn, sparking the war in earnest. The Riverlands were conquered soon after by Daemon and his dragon. At that point things looked to be going well.
That was until his wife died, sent by the bitch queen against the forces besieging Rook's Rest, only to find two dragons; Sunfyre and Vhagar, lying in wait to spring the trap. From what he'd heard, she had not turned away from the onslaught of facing two dragons, instead choosing to go to her death whilst taking at least Sunfyre with her. She had almost succeeded, maiming the golden dragon badly, rendering him useless for most of the remaining war. Still, Rhaenys was dead.
That was his breaking point. He had decided to withdraw his forces and retreat to High Tide, leaving the queen and her bastards to fend for themselves in her foolish war for the throne. His wife and children were dead. His granddaughters were Targaryens, the daughters of Daemon, and the bastard boy who was to be his heir had been killed as well. He had nothing else to fight for.
Jacaerys had been the one who to change his mind. He offered him the handship, legitimised his grandsons as they deserved, and even let them claim dragons alongside three other dragonseeds. Addam succeeded in that regard, claiming his late father's dragon Seasmoke. Alyn unsuccessfully tried to tame the wild dragon Sheepstealer, in quite a reckless manner in his opinion, fortunately only coming away from that ordeal with only mild burns. Addam Velaryon was then named heir to Driftmark at the prince's urging, as was his due. Jacaerys had not been fool enough to even dare press Joffrey's claim to an inheritance he had no legitimacy to, not with the threat of losing the Velaryon navy for his mother's cause looming large. Finally, his actual grandsons had gotten their due, even amidst all the loss and turmoil. Prince Jacaerys' actions in that regard earned him Corlys' begrudging respect. He would have made a capable king, Corlys had to admit, a much better monarch than his bitch mother for sure.
Jacaerys did not live long however.
After his grandson had claimed Seasmoke, Ulf and Hugh, the two betrayers, had claimed Silverwing and Vermithor respectively, and the brown girl Nettles had tamed Sheepstealer, Jacaerys sent his brother Joffrey and his granddaughter Rhaena with Joffrey's dragon and three other dragon's eggs to The Vale. He then sent his two young half-brothers, Aegon with his young dragon and Viserys with his dragon's egg to Pentos. He did this to keep the four of them safe for the remainder of the war. On the way to Pentos, the ship they were on met the Triarchy ships sailing towards the Gullet to break the Velaryon blockade. Aegon, now the king, had barely escaped the Triarchy forces on his young dragon, flying back to Dragonstone in the midst of a storm of scorpions and catapults being fired at him. He came in haste, to seek help in freeing his brother Viserys from the enemy's clutches. That was the only flight the little Aegon took on his young dragon before the dragon died from half a hundred wounds. Jacaerys and his dragon riders responded immediately, flying to put the enemy fleet to rout and try to rescue the young prince.In the chaos of the battle, Jacaerys, looking for his half-brother Viserys, flew too low and was killed. The Triarchy and his rogue kin reached High Tide and Spicetown, sacking both and putting them to the torch. The enemy was put to rout yes, but it was a victory with too much loss for it to be considered one, and Viserys was lost and presumed dead.
After that battle, the queen and her new Dragonriders took the capital, and that was when her foolishness was truly put on display for the entire world to see. Corlys laughed at the memory of her idiotic reign. Her downfall came from the common folk of the city, not Vhagar with the Kinslayer riding her, not even the dragonriders, Ulf and Hugh who betrayed her and fought for the usurper instead. No, it was from the common folk. A monarch had to be extremely foolish to rouse their anger. He had never thought a queen could engineer her own downfall in such a manner.
Her short and mediocre reign began to unravel when they took the Red Keep, only to find that the treasury had been looted. The usurper's Master of Coin, Tyland Lannister, was brutally tortured to find out where said gold had vanished to. He revealed nothing. Instead of sourcing coin by seizing the treasuries of the lords who had supported her half-brother, or borrowing from the Iron Bank to pay them back to once the war came to an end and trade was restored, the dragon queen, by the advice of his illustrious new Master of Coin, Bartimos Celtigar, imposed taxes on the common folk of the city, common folk who had suffered hunger since the Riverlands went aflame under the Kinslayer's and Vhagar's wrath, and the supply routes from the Reach had been seized by the usurper's youngest brother and the host he commanded.
As she deployed her dragonriders all over the realm to deal with The Greens; (her husband and Nettles west to hunt the Kinslayer on Vhagar, Ulf and Hugh south to destroy the usurper's youngest brother and his dragon), dissent in the city was sown. The illustrious dragon queen soon became known in the city as Maegor with Teats for furthering the hardship they had fallen on instead of trying to alleviate it. The usurper's sister-queen then killed herself, and word spread throughout the city that Rhaenyra was the one responsible. The usurper's toddler son was torn apart by innkeeps far south in the realm, and the denizens of the city were certain that the bitch was the one responsible for it.
The dissent came to a boiling point when the city folk stormed the Dragonpit by their tens of thousands and killed the five dragons that resided there, at the urging of a one-armed street urchin, who convinced the populace that dragons were the cause of their downfall, and only with the death of those 'demons', would they be liberated from the hardship they were going through. They were right, he supposed. Instead of flying on Syrax, who resided on the Red Keep's courtyard, and turning away all who tried to storm the dragonpit, the queen fled the city after her last bastard Joffrey tried to do the same and died for it while she just watched. Despite himself, Corlys chuckled. Her bastards were truly mongrels. Even he knew that one could never mount a dragon that was bonded to another. Joffrey assumed her mother's Syrax was familiar enough with him to accommodate him for a short flight; he was thoroughly disabused of that notion when Syrax shook violently, throwing the whelp from her back, sending him falling to his death. Syrax then went feral, destroying a part of the city with her flames before joining the carnage in the Dragonpit and getting killed by tens of thousands of smallfolk. Six dragons died that night, and more than a hundred thousand of the common folk who had killed them.
Maegor with Teats fled King's Landing soon afterwards and went to Dragonstone, straight into the jaws of her usurper brother. Her only remaining child watched as she was devoured by Sunfyre, who had healed enough from his ordeal in Rook's Rest and had promptly flown to seek out his master in Dragonstone, killing Baela's Moondancer and the wild dragon Grey Ghost in his wake. Sunfyre died soon after however, from the fresh wounds he took fighting the two dragons.
Corlys had been in the Black Cells when he heard the news. Despite being near death from starvation and the injuries he had suffered during his imprisonment, he had found the strength to be happy of the Black Queen's demise. Her dying in the most ignoble way possible served her right. She had had him chained and beaten for rescuing his trueborn grandson from her executioner's blade.
When Ulf White and Hugh Hammer proved themselves traitors and turned their cloaks, she had ordered that all the Dragonriders deployed by Jacaerys be attainted for treason and detained. Daemon, in the Riverlands hunting Vhagar, sought to protect Sheepstealer's rider instead of obeying his queen's word. He therefore sent Nettles away and went on to face the Kinslayer and Vhagar by himself, both dragons and their riders dying in the resulting duel.
The bitch queen had dared to order Addam be tortured to 'ascertain his loyalty'. He could not have that, of course, so he forewarned his grandson, urging him to flee to one of the Free Cities and await the end of the war. The two Targaryen factions would all kill each other and all their dragons, he had reasoned, leaving his house, House Velaryon, as the only remaining dragonlord house. Addam could easily claim the Iron Throne for himself if he so wished, being the only remaining descendant of Old King Jaehaerys. And with him having Seasmoke, none would gainsay his ascension.
Addam, Corlys came to find out, did not share his vision. He was instead plagued by delusions of loyalty. Instead of finding solace in the East, he flew to gather fresh levies from The Riverlands to attack Tumbleton, where the traitor dragonriders roosted, 'to prove myself to the dragon queen', he had declared foolishly. Addam and Seasmoke died in that battle. Once Corlys was discovered to have aided Addam in his escape, he was seized, beaten as if he was some slave or a common born miscreant and then thrown into the Black Cells. He had languished in darkness there for weeks until Larys Strong pulled him out, telling him that the usurping King would have his allegiance, or Baela, now a hostage after her dragon had died battling the usurper's, would be beheaded.
He agreed, thinking that matters would yet be set to rights since Rhaenyra had been fed to a dragon, and her foolishness had been vanquished with her. It turned out that it had not. A shorter, sadder reign of Aegon the Usurper followed the short, sad reign of her bitch sister. Instead of trying to unite the wartorn realm under his banner, as Corlys had advised him to do, he sought vengeance on all the Lords who had supported the pretender before him. His folly was even greater than his sister's, and Corlys did not think that possible. The charred husk that was the usurper did not even have a dragon to enforce his will, and the attacks he made on the petty lords of the crownlands only served to rouse the rest of his sister's remaining loyalists. The Vale had inexplicably finally found ships to sail their men down the Narrow Sea, Stark and his Northmen finally bestirred themselves from their frozen wasteland and marched south two years after Jacaerys had made the grandly named Pact of Ice and Fire, and somehow, the Riverlands respawned even more men to battle and slaughter the now waxing Baratheons, the usurpers greatest supporters whose forces were largely unbloodied. The usurper was left exposed, naked, with hosts marching from all directions.
War would come to King's Landing once more, and at that point, he was truly tired of it. His time in the Black Cells had done much to make him weary. The madness had to end. And so, he poisoned the usurper and declared his namesake nephew king two days before the Rivermen reached the gates of King's Landing. He had thought the war well and truly over, that is until Cregan Stark and his host of ten thousand reached the city soon afterwards and took it over.
That the young wolf harboured ambitions of conquering the entirety of the realm for himself Corlys could clearly see, veiled as his ambitions were by the pretext of preventing fresh rebellions down the line when the boy lords whose fathers were slain in the war grew into manhood. 'Small babes become large men in time, and babes suck their mother's hate with their mother's milk,' he had said. When Corlys had pointed out how Aegon thought the same and perished for it, Lord Stark accused him of regicide in view of the entire court, and had his men seize him and imprison him once more, to be executed soon enough. That was two days ago.
Seventy-eight years. Corlys had lived seventy-eight years and in all that time, he had never imagined himself becoming a Kingslayer and dying for it. Adventurer, sailor, builder, king, husband and father. He had imagined all those titles for himself. But never Kingslayer. The rest would never matter, he knew now. Only ash remained of the towns and castles he had built. He could scarcely walk up a flight of stairs let alone brave the seas aboard The Sea Snake. His wife was dead. His daughter was dead. His son was dead. Remembering them now brought nothing but pain and guilt. A parent should never send their children into the sea. And what had he given them for the entirety of their lives, apart from grief, pain and suffering due to his ambition. Laena, his pearl, the loveliest lady in the whole world, had suffered for almost a decade, betrothed to a Braavosi wastrel, before Daemon had rescued her and taken her to wife instead. Laenor, his son, his brave boy, the first dragonlord of House Velaryon's storied history, died with an empty soul, ashamed to the point of plotting against his own father.
He was only left with Alyn now. Any hope of restoring his house to what it had been before lay with him. And there were the twins too, Corlys supposed, Laena's lovely girls, but they were more their late father's daughters than his own grandchildren. They were Targaryens.
Despite himself, Corlys laughed. Long and hard and throaty until tears streaked his ruddy cheeks when the realisation came to him. No matter how much he despised and mocked Maegor with Teats and her dolt of a brother for their follies, Corlys had truly been the greatest fool of them all. He had risen high, driven by ambition of legacy and glory and he had achieved all that. He had married a princess who would have been queen. He had had children and grandchildren who rode dragons. He had built a city on his dreary island, making it the greatest port in the Known World and given his house power never before seen. And yet, all that was gone now. In two days he would die, and Corlys Velaryon would die with nothing, he would die being nothing.
8th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Red Keep - King's Landing
CREGAN STARK
Cregan Stark walked towards the godswood of the castle. Unlike the one at Winterfell, the one at the Red Keep had only a single weirwood tree among a sea of oaks and roses and other flowers. That had surprised him. He did not imagine that a castle built by dragon kings would even have a place of worship for the Old Gods. But he was glad of it. Still, he was itching to go back North. Winter was here, and his place was at Winterfell.
Every day he spent at this cesspit of a castle, he wondered why he had even come south in the first place. Oh, right, he harboured foolish ambitions of conquering the Seven Kingdoms. He had waited for the Targaryens to fully obliterate each other in their foolish war, before daring to bestir himself and marching his forces south. 'They were still collecting their harvest', he had told the dragon queen, 'The North was vast, and it would take time to gather their men'. All of it was a lie. They had been done collecting the harvest two moons before even Prince Jacaerys had landed his dragon in Winterfell's courtyard; and that was more than two years ago now.
It was shortly after the Princeling had left Winterfell once he had received news of his brother's death, that the notion of ruling the Seven Kingdoms occurred to him. Why shouldn't a King with Stark blood rule these kingdoms, he had asked his half-sister. They had been kings for eight thousand years; they were kings before even the Valyrians had tamed their dragons and forged their Empire. If there was any man with legitimacy once the Targaryens died, it was them.
So he let the war unfold, anticipation swelling within him every time he heard of a dragon and their rider having fallen in battle. Normally, when Winter came, the old, the helpless and those without hearth, home and family, would venture out into the snow to go 'hunting', without any intention of returning, until spring came forth at last. This time however, he had held back all the men. They would have enough land to resettle once his conquest of the continent was complete. Food and hearth and home would be there aplenty for the Northmen once his conquest was done and the entire continent bowed to the Starks. Rodrick Dustin and his Winter Wolves had disobeyed his directives and marched two thousand men south, but alas, they were dead, and they were but only a small part of the armies he could raise.
Soon enough, the dragons died, and Cregan marched, to bring the whole continent to heel has he thought he would do. The rest of the realm was devastated. It would have been easy to conquer their castles, each and every one. A king with Stark blood would sit the throne, he had promised himself.
Arriving at court, his ambitions had been shattered thoroughly. King's Landing was truly a shithole of cesspit and intrigue. Here, Cregan learnt that a king could be poisoned as easily as he could breathe. Men cared not a whit about the oaths they swore, be they knights or men-at-arms or even those meant to be the king's closest advisers. They were all snakes, he realised, whether they were of the sea or not. They would never be safe here, should they even succeed in their conquest. He had no place here, he realised; the Starks had no place here.
He instead decided to give justice to those who had used a coward's weapon in dispatching a king. Whether he was a usurper or not, whether he was a pretender or not, a king should never be killed by such treachery. The Sea Snake, The Clubfoot and their cronies would pay for their crimes two days from hence, Cregan swore to himself as the godswood came into view. He had come to say a prayer to the Old Gods, asking for absolution for the blood that would be on his hands after the executions.
Shock was plain on his face when he encountered Lady Rhaena sitting in a corner of the garden, feeding her hatchling large chunks of meat. The pink dragon was already the size of a hound, not counting her wings, and with a ravenous appetite from what little he had seen of her. The sight of the dragon always gave him pause, and he was not the only one. Even the boy king had ordered his sister to keep the dragon out of the castle grounds and away from his sight, but it seemed that Lady Rhaena had no compunction of following such a command. He stood, planted to the ground as he watched the hatchling breathe pink flames streaked with black on the goat's flesh in front of her, charring it, before savagely tearing large chunks with her black teeth.
The dragon was the first to notice him. She turned her small head towards him, her black horns glittering in the morning light, her eyes wholly focussed on him, as if staring into his soul. The Lady followed her dragon's gaze, seeing him.
"Lord Stark," she greeted, with a warm sultry voice and an inviting smile, "have you come to bask in the morning sun as I have? Winter has come, making it quite rare for the sun to come out, it would be remiss not to bask in whatever little sunshine we get."
Remembering his courtesies, Cregan responded, "I have actually come to pray, my lady." The dragon stopped gaping at him at long last, and returned to her food, the smell of the roasting of meat reaching his nose and whetting his appetite. He had not yet broken his fast, Cregan remembered.
The lady seemed to think on his words for a moment, "Oh, forgive me my lord," she replied, after finding her words, "I seem to have forgotten that not all of us worship in the Sept like I do."
"It is no trouble My Lady," Cregan told her, her minor slight quickly forgotten.
"The weirwood is that way my lord. It is secluded from the rest of the garden, so I believe Morning and I should not bother you as you say your prayers." she replied, pointing towards the direction he had already been told would lead him there. He began to walk towards it. Cregan did not desire to remain in the presence of a dragon. This one might only be a hatchling, half a year old, an infant in human terms, but on his march, he had passed through the Riverlands and had seen for himself the devastation the dragons had wrought.
"My Lord?" Lady Rhaena called out to him once more. He turned back to see her stood up from where she had been seated. Cregan turned to face her, "I would humbly request you to free my grandfather from captivity."
Cregan stopped himself before he scoffed, "And why would I do that?" The snake had committed the highest of treasons; execution was the only outcome for him.
Lady Rhaena's smile grew wider, but Cregan saw a flash of something fierce beneath her courtly facade, "You said it yourself," she paused, picking the goat's leg and holding it in her hand, the hatchling's pink form immediately jumping on her shoulders to follow her food, roaring at her, or attempting to; the roars came out as squeals, "small babes become large men in time, and a babe sucks down his mother's hate with his mother's milk." The lady held up the goat's leg before turning to the creature on her shoulder, saying something to her in a language Cregan did not understand. In a flash, the goat's leg was bathed in gleaming pink flames, this time without any streaks of black, then the dragon tore into the flesh with her black teeth.
He did not see the goat's meat burn. He saw pink flames consuming the Great Keep of Winterfell, and thick black smoke rising into the skies above the North. He heard the screams of the burnt and the burning, all of them begging for death. Cregan immediately understood.
Her charming and demure smile suddenly morphed into a deadly smirk as she walked closer to him, leaning forward and whispering in his ear in a voice as sweet as honey, "The Hour of the Wolf may be the darkest hour in the night, but the sun has never failed to rise, and with it, Morning comes." The squeal the hatchling produced at those words was a great roar of an eldritch monster of the tales he had been told since he was a babe.
As quickly as she had leaned in and whispered in his ear, she turned away, walking gracefully towards the castle, the train of her dress trailing behind her and the hatchling flying above her.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and the story as a whole so far. If you did and you would like to read more, you can do so here. Let me know your thoughts.
CORLYS VELARYON
He woke up from his dream, nay, his nightmare, gasping, with beads of cold sweat trickling down his brow and staining his weathered tunic. He sat up gingerly, the pain in his hip reminding him that he was no longer a young man, reminding him that he was broken. Scant light of the crescent moon streaked into his cell through its single window. The sky was cloudless, the glittering of the stars in the night sky clear to him. Corlys stood, supporting himself with his cane and walked slowly towards the window. He took a deep breath, the scent of the night air and the perpetual stench of the shit that riddled this city reminding him that he was alive. At least this time he was not smelling his own shit; Cregan Stark had the basic decency of placing him in one of the lordly cells in the dungeons of the Keep. Such cells were attended to once a day, and their captive's chamberpot was emptied and the captive was fed.
The nightmares had become more vivid as time had gone on. These days, they would torment him every time he shut his eyes, trying to sleep. They were mocking him now. The nightmares were there to remind him of how much he had lost because of the bitch queen and her fucking war. It was the face of his wife, stern and strong and unyielding, that he saw most often. She appeared to him in the face she had when they had just married; young, lovely and full of life, the face of a woman just out of her girlhood with her entire life ahead of her. When he saw himself in those dreams, he was a younger man too, a dashing adventurer; just returned home from the voyages he had taken to the farthest reaches of the Known World. He remembered the words she had told him on the day she had declared in front of the entire court that they would be married.
'We may return to the ends of the world together, my love, but I'll get there first, as I'll be flying.' Like always, he smiled at the memory. That had been the day he knew he had found his queen, the day he knew he would make himself a king, as was his due. The folly.
The pleasant memory would only last a moment longer however, his wife's jet black hair quickly becoming streaked with white and her beautiful face becoming lined and streaked with age. He would then see her falling from the sky, Meleys' headless and lifeless body under her, smote upon the ground. The copper armour she loved to wear would then melt into her skin as the bronze and greenish-blue flames of his dead daughter's dragon engulfed her, turning the red of the copper armour and the crimson of Meleys' scales into the grey of ash. That was all that remained of his wife, Corlys knew, nothing but ash, as if she had never even existed.
That was all that remained of Corlys' life and legacy in truth. All of what he had pursued so relentlessly since he had been only a boy was ruined and burned. The strength of the Velaryon navy had been cut down by almost half; even if the remaining half could still hold its own against the rest of Westeros' fleets combined, it was a grave loss. Spicetown, the fishing village he had transformed into a thriving city more resplendent than even King's Landing could ever hope to be, was now a ruin. High Tide; the crown jewel of his life's work, the beautiful pale fortress he had built with his own bare hands with marble and silver, was a ruin as well.
And all of it was due to the bitch queen and her stupid war. He had been right in his assessment of her; she burned everything she lay her hands on.
Corlys usually did his best to avoid the uncomfortable thoughts of his ruin, but lately, he no longer had the strength to. He would be executed in two short days for treason. The young wolf's words came back to him, unencumbered, 'Aegon was an oathbreaker, a kinslayer, and a usurper besides, yet still a king. When he would not heed your craven's counsel, you removed him as a craven would, using poison…and now you shall answer for it'. Aye, the conviction with which Lord Stark had pronounced his judgement assured him of his fate. Reflection was all that was left for him to do. So, he walked back to the small bed, put on his heavy woollen cloak over his head, glad of the warmth that the cloak brought, and lay down slowly, his knees complaining as he did so. He let his mind wander unobstructed, reliving the memories of his life once more.
Surprisingly, his memories took him back to his youth, when he was a younger man, still full of hopes and dreams and ambition. The form of Daella Targaryen appeared in his mind's eye; the sweet, shy princess who was so unlike every other Targaryen he had ever met. None of the pride and senseless arrogance of her kin was present in her. Corlys cursed his ambition once more for rejecting her suit of marriage all those years ago. She would have made a splendid wife to him, Corlys knew, and a gentle, kind mother to any children they would have had.
But for a man like him, a woman who would have made a good wife and a gentle mother just wouldn't be enough; instead, he pursued one who would also give him a throne. His mind went back to the day he was betrothed to Rhaenys, and how glad he had felt. His quest for her had succeeded. He had made himself a king. His children would be dragonriders, and one of them would be king after him. His blood would rule these lands for centuries to come. The displeased faces of Prince Aemon and Prince Baelon came to the fore too; the two of them had wished to combine their lines by marrying Rhaenys to Viserys. When his wife had told him of that notion once they were wed, he had scoffed at the notion derisively.
He did not scoff now. Perhaps things would have been very different if he had married Daella, if his wife had to have been a Targaryen. Even the spoiled, vain and sly Viserra would have been enough. He remembered the letter she had written to him, soon after he had returned from his final voyage, offering herself to him clandestinely to rid herself of the egregious betrothal the good queen had made for her. She had even promised him that she would steal Dreamfyre from the dragonpit, making House Velaryon a house of dragonlords for all time. Corlys had guffawed at her delusions then, and promptly fed the letter to the flames of his hearth. Even if she had succeeded in her ploy, his house simply becoming dragonlords was not enough for him. No, House Velaryon would become a house of Kings.
Oh, how his delusions shattered. The gods had seen fit to send his ruin in the form of a spoiled princess, a pretender queen named Rhaenyra Targaryen. Oh, how he loathed even the taste of her name on his tongue. How had he, Corlys Velaryon, enshrined in legend for all time as the Sea Snake, let a little slip of a girl not even a quarter of her age destroy everything he had built?
He had been glad, so very glad when Viserys had come to High Tide and all but begged for Laenor's hand for his heir. Rhaenys had warned him that war would follow Viserys' death; that no male child would sit idly by and allow themselves to be usurped by their older sister. He had laughed then. Whatever war would follow would be short and devastating for any who sought to usurp them, he had reassured his wife. They had Meleys, Seasmoke, Syrax, Caraxes and Vhagar on their side. All his grandchildren would be dragonriders too, he was sure of it. He had made sure of it. Laenor's queer tastes had been accounted for; he had him lay with the beautiful Marilda and sire a child upon her, before the wedding between him and the princess was to take place. Sure, the methods used to coax pleasure out of his son were queer and ashaming for him, but what mattered was that it had worked. He would just have to do the same with his princess after they had wed, and all would be well.
It turned out that the princess had no sense of responsibility in even trying to sire trueborn heirs. She had her own desires, and she would fulfil them, regardless of the treason she committed. Corlys swallowed something foul and bitter when he remembered the first brown-haired, brown-eyed whelp was presented to him. He had not truly grasped the depth of the bitch's entitlement at that time. When the dragon's egg in the babe's cradle hatched within a few days after his birth, he had reasoned with himself that it must have been the latent Baratheon or Arryn genes lurking in both of his parents' blood that caused the boy to have such common features. So he gave him a storied Velaryon name, Jacaerys. A seed of doubt was cast in his mind however, when Addam was born soon afterwards, and his features clearly bespoke his Valyrian heritage; especially since nothing in Marilda's colouring identified her as a dragonseed. The birth of the second babe he named Lucerys, caused that seed of doubt to begin to sprout. Soon thereafter he had his son lay with Marilda again, hoping against all hope for the second babe sired between them would have common features to put to rest his suspicion. His hopes were dashed into the sea however, for Alyn was born soon after Lucerys, again with silver hair and purple eyes.
That was when his hatred towards the bitch was truly set in stone. He did not even bother bestowing her third whelp with a Velaryon name, instead letting his son give him the common name Joffrey, for his paramour supposedly. He did not understand. His son claimed the bastards as his. The couple paraded the boys as trueborn heirs of the two most powerful families in the Known World. Laena was nothing but a doting aunt to them and even arranged to betroth them to her daughters. He had wanted to speak out; to travel to King's Landing to disavow the boys as not being of his own seed in front of the king, but he could not. Those same dragons that he had counted on so staunchly as his support now had their jaws pointed firmly at his throat. Daemon would certainly not allow any shame be wrought upon his beloved niece. Laenor declared in no uncertain terms that he would turn against him, should he try to dispute his bastards' parentage. 'You can only watch as the entirety of your legacy is inherited by mongrels, father.' He had said, a vindictive smirk upon his face, 'I believe it to be sufficient payment for all the shame you have had me endure.'
He had tried to beget another son upon his wife then. Yes, she was in her forties, but Alysanne had given birth at forty-four and his grandsire's sister, Alyssa Velaryon, had given birth to his good-mother at forty-six. He had hoped it would work. It did not. It had been the only option left to him. Addam and Alyn were sired in secret; there was no way he could bring them forward, lest he put them and their mother in danger. Laenor had no care for them, he had never even seen them and there was nothing but hatred and contempt in his eyes when Corlys had informed him of their birth. The realm was more likely to believe that Addam and Alyn were his sons and not Laenor's, and Rhaenys would certainly not be happy to learn that her beloved husband had sired bastard children out of wedlock.
So he quietly despaired for about a decade, doing nothing as his son and daughter died, and then forced to have the bastard whelp he had named Lucerys as his ward afterwards. He was a good lad, Corlys had to admit, and would have made a splendid lord of Driftmark, were he trueborn. The boy displayed the same enthusiasm for sailing that reminded Corlys of his youth, fighting and eventually overcoming the seasickness that plagued him. He had begun to tacitly accept him as heir after a time, and even took him on a few voyages.
After one such voyage, he fell ill with a fever, and his nephew Vaemond, had the courage to do what he did not. He went to the king, declared the bitch princess' children as bastards, and put himself forward as the heir and future lord of his seat. He had gotten his head removed and his corpse fed to the bitch's dragon as a result of his foolishness. Vaemond's sons and Corlys' other nephews and cousins protested the decision, and some of them lost their tongues or their lives as a result. The rest of his kin looked in askance towards him, expecting him to answer the injustice done upon House Velaryon. He could not, and so most of them turned against him during the war he had bled and been beaten for. Many ships turned cloak and fought with the Triarchy when they attacked their blockade during the Battle of The Gullet. They were burned by dragonflame just as the Three Daughters' fleets were. The large Velaryon family tree had been trimmed so vastly that now the number of scions of the house remaining in the world could be counted in one hand. And all of it was because of a bastard and her bitch mother.
Before the war, he had thought that at least all his sacrifice would be worth it. Jacaerys and Lucerys would marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, who at least had Velaryon blood from their mother. At the onset of the war he thought they would win; they had more dragons to deploy on the battlefield and more lords sworn to the bitch queen than to the usurper. They had the most experienced battle commanders in him and Prince Daemon. He hoped this whole mess would be behind him in a few turns of the moon. He had been soundly mistaken.
Lucerys and the usurper's son had been slain each in turn, sparking the war in earnest. The Riverlands were conquered soon after by Daemon and his dragon. At that point things looked to be going well.
That was until his wife died, sent by the bitch queen against the forces besieging Rook's Rest, only to find two dragons; Sunfyre and Vhagar, lying in wait to spring the trap. From what he'd heard, she had not turned away from the onslaught of facing two dragons, instead choosing to go to her death whilst taking at least Sunfyre with her. She had almost succeeded, maiming the golden dragon badly, rendering him useless for most of the remaining war. Still, Rhaenys was dead.
That was his breaking point. He had decided to withdraw his forces and retreat to High Tide, leaving the queen and her bastards to fend for themselves in her foolish war for the throne. His wife and children were dead. His granddaughters were Targaryens, the daughters of Daemon, and the bastard boy who was to be his heir had been killed as well. He had nothing else to fight for.
Jacaerys had been the one who to change his mind. He offered him the handship, legitimised his grandsons as they deserved, and even let them claim dragons alongside three other dragonseeds. Addam succeeded in that regard, claiming his late father's dragon Seasmoke. Alyn unsuccessfully tried to tame the wild dragon Sheepstealer, in quite a reckless manner in his opinion, fortunately only coming away from that ordeal with only mild burns. Addam Velaryon was then named heir to Driftmark at the prince's urging, as was his due. Jacaerys had not been fool enough to even dare press Joffrey's claim to an inheritance he had no legitimacy to, not with the threat of losing the Velaryon navy for his mother's cause looming large. Finally, his actual grandsons had gotten their due, even amidst all the loss and turmoil. Prince Jacaerys' actions in that regard earned him Corlys' begrudging respect. He would have made a capable king, Corlys had to admit, a much better monarch than his bitch mother for sure.
Jacaerys did not live long however.
After his grandson had claimed Seasmoke, Ulf and Hugh, the two betrayers, had claimed Silverwing and Vermithor respectively, and the brown girl Nettles had tamed Sheepstealer, Jacaerys sent his brother Joffrey and his granddaughter Rhaena with Joffrey's dragon and three other dragon's eggs to The Vale. He then sent his two young half-brothers, Aegon with his young dragon and Viserys with his dragon's egg to Pentos. He did this to keep the four of them safe for the remainder of the war. On the way to Pentos, the ship they were on met the Triarchy ships sailing towards the Gullet to break the Velaryon blockade. Aegon, now the king, had barely escaped the Triarchy forces on his young dragon, flying back to Dragonstone in the midst of a storm of scorpions and catapults being fired at him. He came in haste, to seek help in freeing his brother Viserys from the enemy's clutches. That was the only flight the little Aegon took on his young dragon before the dragon died from half a hundred wounds. Jacaerys and his dragon riders responded immediately, flying to put the enemy fleet to rout and try to rescue the young prince.In the chaos of the battle, Jacaerys, looking for his half-brother Viserys, flew too low and was killed. The Triarchy and his rogue kin reached High Tide and Spicetown, sacking both and putting them to the torch. The enemy was put to rout yes, but it was a victory with too much loss for it to be considered one, and Viserys was lost and presumed dead.
After that battle, the queen and her new Dragonriders took the capital, and that was when her foolishness was truly put on display for the entire world to see. Corlys laughed at the memory of her idiotic reign. Her downfall came from the common folk of the city, not Vhagar with the Kinslayer riding her, not even the dragonriders, Ulf and Hugh who betrayed her and fought for the usurper instead. No, it was from the common folk. A monarch had to be extremely foolish to rouse their anger. He had never thought a queen could engineer her own downfall in such a manner.
Her short and mediocre reign began to unravel when they took the Red Keep, only to find that the treasury had been looted. The usurper's Master of Coin, Tyland Lannister, was brutally tortured to find out where said gold had vanished to. He revealed nothing. Instead of sourcing coin by seizing the treasuries of the lords who had supported her half-brother, or borrowing from the Iron Bank to pay them back to once the war came to an end and trade was restored, the dragon queen, by the advice of his illustrious new Master of Coin, Bartimos Celtigar, imposed taxes on the common folk of the city, common folk who had suffered hunger since the Riverlands went aflame under the Kinslayer's and Vhagar's wrath, and the supply routes from the Reach had been seized by the usurper's youngest brother and the host he commanded.
As she deployed her dragonriders all over the realm to deal with The Greens; (her husband and Nettles west to hunt the Kinslayer on Vhagar, Ulf and Hugh south to destroy the usurper's youngest brother and his dragon), dissent in the city was sown. The illustrious dragon queen soon became known in the city as Maegor with Teats for furthering the hardship they had fallen on instead of trying to alleviate it. The usurper's sister-queen then killed herself, and word spread throughout the city that Rhaenyra was the one responsible. The usurper's toddler son was torn apart by innkeeps far south in the realm, and the denizens of the city were certain that the bitch was the one responsible for it.
The dissent came to a boiling point when the city folk stormed the Dragonpit by their tens of thousands and killed the five dragons that resided there, at the urging of a one-armed street urchin, who convinced the populace that dragons were the cause of their downfall, and only with the death of those 'demons', would they be liberated from the hardship they were going through. They were right, he supposed. Instead of flying on Syrax, who resided on the Red Keep's courtyard, and turning away all who tried to storm the dragonpit, the queen fled the city after her last bastard Joffrey tried to do the same and died for it while she just watched. Despite himself, Corlys chuckled. Her bastards were truly mongrels. Even he knew that one could never mount a dragon that was bonded to another. Joffrey assumed her mother's Syrax was familiar enough with him to accommodate him for a short flight; he was thoroughly disabused of that notion when Syrax shook violently, throwing the whelp from her back, sending him falling to his death. Syrax then went feral, destroying a part of the city with her flames before joining the carnage in the Dragonpit and getting killed by tens of thousands of smallfolk. Six dragons died that night, and more than a hundred thousand of the common folk who had killed them.
Maegor with Teats fled King's Landing soon afterwards and went to Dragonstone, straight into the jaws of her usurper brother. Her only remaining child watched as she was devoured by Sunfyre, who had healed enough from his ordeal in Rook's Rest and had promptly flown to seek out his master in Dragonstone, killing Baela's Moondancer and the wild dragon Grey Ghost in his wake. Sunfyre died soon after however, from the fresh wounds he took fighting the two dragons.
Corlys had been in the Black Cells when he heard the news. Despite being near death from starvation and the injuries he had suffered during his imprisonment, he had found the strength to be happy of the Black Queen's demise. Her dying in the most ignoble way possible served her right. She had had him chained and beaten for rescuing his trueborn grandson from her executioner's blade.
When Ulf White and Hugh Hammer proved themselves traitors and turned their cloaks, she had ordered that all the Dragonriders deployed by Jacaerys be attainted for treason and detained. Daemon, in the Riverlands hunting Vhagar, sought to protect Sheepstealer's rider instead of obeying his queen's word. He therefore sent Nettles away and went on to face the Kinslayer and Vhagar by himself, both dragons and their riders dying in the resulting duel.
The bitch queen had dared to order Addam be tortured to 'ascertain his loyalty'. He could not have that, of course, so he forewarned his grandson, urging him to flee to one of the Free Cities and await the end of the war. The two Targaryen factions would all kill each other and all their dragons, he had reasoned, leaving his house, House Velaryon, as the only remaining dragonlord house. Addam could easily claim the Iron Throne for himself if he so wished, being the only remaining descendant of Old King Jaehaerys. And with him having Seasmoke, none would gainsay his ascension.
Addam, Corlys came to find out, did not share his vision. He was instead plagued by delusions of loyalty. Instead of finding solace in the East, he flew to gather fresh levies from The Riverlands to attack Tumbleton, where the traitor dragonriders roosted, 'to prove myself to the dragon queen', he had declared foolishly. Addam and Seasmoke died in that battle. Once Corlys was discovered to have aided Addam in his escape, he was seized, beaten as if he was some slave or a common born miscreant and then thrown into the Black Cells. He had languished in darkness there for weeks until Larys Strong pulled him out, telling him that the usurping King would have his allegiance, or Baela, now a hostage after her dragon had died battling the usurper's, would be beheaded.
He agreed, thinking that matters would yet be set to rights since Rhaenyra had been fed to a dragon, and her foolishness had been vanquished with her. It turned out that it had not. A shorter, sadder reign of Aegon the Usurper followed the short, sad reign of her bitch sister. Instead of trying to unite the wartorn realm under his banner, as Corlys had advised him to do, he sought vengeance on all the Lords who had supported the pretender before him. His folly was even greater than his sister's, and Corlys did not think that possible. The charred husk that was the usurper did not even have a dragon to enforce his will, and the attacks he made on the petty lords of the crownlands only served to rouse the rest of his sister's remaining loyalists. The Vale had inexplicably finally found ships to sail their men down the Narrow Sea, Stark and his Northmen finally bestirred themselves from their frozen wasteland and marched south two years after Jacaerys had made the grandly named Pact of Ice and Fire, and somehow, the Riverlands respawned even more men to battle and slaughter the now waxing Baratheons, the usurpers greatest supporters whose forces were largely unbloodied. The usurper was left exposed, naked, with hosts marching from all directions.
War would come to King's Landing once more, and at that point, he was truly tired of it. His time in the Black Cells had done much to make him weary. The madness had to end. And so, he poisoned the usurper and declared his namesake nephew king two days before the Rivermen reached the gates of King's Landing. He had thought the war well and truly over, that is until Cregan Stark and his host of ten thousand reached the city soon afterwards and took it over.
That the young wolf harboured ambitions of conquering the entirety of the realm for himself Corlys could clearly see, veiled as his ambitions were by the pretext of preventing fresh rebellions down the line when the boy lords whose fathers were slain in the war grew into manhood. 'Small babes become large men in time, and babes suck their mother's hate with their mother's milk,' he had said. When Corlys had pointed out how Aegon thought the same and perished for it, Lord Stark accused him of regicide in view of the entire court, and had his men seize him and imprison him once more, to be executed soon enough. That was two days ago.
Seventy-eight years. Corlys had lived seventy-eight years and in all that time, he had never imagined himself becoming a Kingslayer and dying for it. Adventurer, sailor, builder, king, husband and father. He had imagined all those titles for himself. But never Kingslayer. The rest would never matter, he knew now. Only ash remained of the towns and castles he had built. He could scarcely walk up a flight of stairs let alone brave the seas aboard The Sea Snake. His wife was dead. His daughter was dead. His son was dead. Remembering them now brought nothing but pain and guilt. A parent should never send their children into the sea. And what had he given them for the entirety of their lives, apart from grief, pain and suffering due to his ambition. Laena, his pearl, the loveliest lady in the whole world, had suffered for almost a decade, betrothed to a Braavosi wastrel, before Daemon had rescued her and taken her to wife instead. Laenor, his son, his brave boy, the first dragonlord of House Velaryon's storied history, died with an empty soul, ashamed to the point of plotting against his own father.
He was only left with Alyn now. Any hope of restoring his house to what it had been before lay with him. And there were the twins too, Corlys supposed, Laena's lovely girls, but they were more their late father's daughters than his own grandchildren. They were Targaryens.
Despite himself, Corlys laughed. Long and hard and throaty until tears streaked his ruddy cheeks when the realisation came to him. No matter how much he despised and mocked Maegor with Teats and her dolt of a brother for their follies, Corlys had truly been the greatest fool of them all. He had risen high, driven by ambition of legacy and glory and he had achieved all that. He had married a princess who would have been queen. He had had children and grandchildren who rode dragons. He had built a city on his dreary island, making it the greatest port in the Known World and given his house power never before seen. And yet, all that was gone now. In two days he would die, and Corlys Velaryon would die with nothing, he would die being nothing.
8th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Red Keep - King's Landing
CREGAN STARK
Cregan Stark walked towards the godswood of the castle. Unlike the one at Winterfell, the one at the Red Keep had only a single weirwood tree among a sea of oaks and roses and other flowers. That had surprised him. He did not imagine that a castle built by dragon kings would even have a place of worship for the Old Gods. But he was glad of it. Still, he was itching to go back North. Winter was here, and his place was at Winterfell.
Every day he spent at this cesspit of a castle, he wondered why he had even come south in the first place. Oh, right, he harboured foolish ambitions of conquering the Seven Kingdoms. He had waited for the Targaryens to fully obliterate each other in their foolish war, before daring to bestir himself and marching his forces south. 'They were still collecting their harvest', he had told the dragon queen, 'The North was vast, and it would take time to gather their men'. All of it was a lie. They had been done collecting the harvest two moons before even Prince Jacaerys had landed his dragon in Winterfell's courtyard; and that was more than two years ago now.
It was shortly after the Princeling had left Winterfell once he had received news of his brother's death, that the notion of ruling the Seven Kingdoms occurred to him. Why shouldn't a King with Stark blood rule these kingdoms, he had asked his half-sister. They had been kings for eight thousand years; they were kings before even the Valyrians had tamed their dragons and forged their Empire. If there was any man with legitimacy once the Targaryens died, it was them.
So he let the war unfold, anticipation swelling within him every time he heard of a dragon and their rider having fallen in battle. Normally, when Winter came, the old, the helpless and those without hearth, home and family, would venture out into the snow to go 'hunting', without any intention of returning, until spring came forth at last. This time however, he had held back all the men. They would have enough land to resettle once his conquest of the continent was complete. Food and hearth and home would be there aplenty for the Northmen once his conquest was done and the entire continent bowed to the Starks. Rodrick Dustin and his Winter Wolves had disobeyed his directives and marched two thousand men south, but alas, they were dead, and they were but only a small part of the armies he could raise.
Soon enough, the dragons died, and Cregan marched, to bring the whole continent to heel has he thought he would do. The rest of the realm was devastated. It would have been easy to conquer their castles, each and every one. A king with Stark blood would sit the throne, he had promised himself.
Arriving at court, his ambitions had been shattered thoroughly. King's Landing was truly a shithole of cesspit and intrigue. Here, Cregan learnt that a king could be poisoned as easily as he could breathe. Men cared not a whit about the oaths they swore, be they knights or men-at-arms or even those meant to be the king's closest advisers. They were all snakes, he realised, whether they were of the sea or not. They would never be safe here, should they even succeed in their conquest. He had no place here, he realised; the Starks had no place here.
He instead decided to give justice to those who had used a coward's weapon in dispatching a king. Whether he was a usurper or not, whether he was a pretender or not, a king should never be killed by such treachery. The Sea Snake, The Clubfoot and their cronies would pay for their crimes two days from hence, Cregan swore to himself as the godswood came into view. He had come to say a prayer to the Old Gods, asking for absolution for the blood that would be on his hands after the executions.
Shock was plain on his face when he encountered Lady Rhaena sitting in a corner of the garden, feeding her hatchling large chunks of meat. The pink dragon was already the size of a hound, not counting her wings, and with a ravenous appetite from what little he had seen of her. The sight of the dragon always gave him pause, and he was not the only one. Even the boy king had ordered his sister to keep the dragon out of the castle grounds and away from his sight, but it seemed that Lady Rhaena had no compunction of following such a command. He stood, planted to the ground as he watched the hatchling breathe pink flames streaked with black on the goat's flesh in front of her, charring it, before savagely tearing large chunks with her black teeth.
The dragon was the first to notice him. She turned her small head towards him, her black horns glittering in the morning light, her eyes wholly focussed on him, as if staring into his soul. The Lady followed her dragon's gaze, seeing him.
"Lord Stark," she greeted, with a warm sultry voice and an inviting smile, "have you come to bask in the morning sun as I have? Winter has come, making it quite rare for the sun to come out, it would be remiss not to bask in whatever little sunshine we get."
Remembering his courtesies, Cregan responded, "I have actually come to pray, my lady." The dragon stopped gaping at him at long last, and returned to her food, the smell of the roasting of meat reaching his nose and whetting his appetite. He had not yet broken his fast, Cregan remembered.
The lady seemed to think on his words for a moment, "Oh, forgive me my lord," she replied, after finding her words, "I seem to have forgotten that not all of us worship in the Sept like I do."
"It is no trouble My Lady," Cregan told her, her minor slight quickly forgotten.
"The weirwood is that way my lord. It is secluded from the rest of the garden, so I believe Morning and I should not bother you as you say your prayers." she replied, pointing towards the direction he had already been told would lead him there. He began to walk towards it. Cregan did not desire to remain in the presence of a dragon. This one might only be a hatchling, half a year old, an infant in human terms, but on his march, he had passed through the Riverlands and had seen for himself the devastation the dragons had wrought.
"My Lord?" Lady Rhaena called out to him once more. He turned back to see her stood up from where she had been seated. Cregan turned to face her, "I would humbly request you to free my grandfather from captivity."
Cregan stopped himself before he scoffed, "And why would I do that?" The snake had committed the highest of treasons; execution was the only outcome for him.
Lady Rhaena's smile grew wider, but Cregan saw a flash of something fierce beneath her courtly facade, "You said it yourself," she paused, picking the goat's leg and holding it in her hand, the hatchling's pink form immediately jumping on her shoulders to follow her food, roaring at her, or attempting to; the roars came out as squeals, "small babes become large men in time, and a babe sucks down his mother's hate with his mother's milk." The lady held up the goat's leg before turning to the creature on her shoulder, saying something to her in a language Cregan did not understand. In a flash, the goat's leg was bathed in gleaming pink flames, this time without any streaks of black, then the dragon tore into the flesh with her black teeth.
He did not see the goat's meat burn. He saw pink flames consuming the Great Keep of Winterfell, and thick black smoke rising into the skies above the North. He heard the screams of the burnt and the burning, all of them begging for death. Cregan immediately understood.
Her charming and demure smile suddenly morphed into a deadly smirk as she walked closer to him, leaning forward and whispering in his ear in a voice as sweet as honey, "The Hour of the Wolf may be the darkest hour in the night, but the sun has never failed to rise, and with it, Morning comes." The squeal the hatchling produced at those words was a great roar of an eldritch monster of the tales he had been told since he was a babe.
As quickly as she had leaned in and whispered in his ear, she turned away, walking gracefully towards the castle, the train of her dress trailing behind her and the hatchling flying above her.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and the story as a whole so far. If you did and you would like to read more, you can do so here. Let me know your thoughts.
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Error29
The Wandering Reader
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Interesting, Im looking forward to what is going to happen. Is it going to be all outside pov? I noticed asoiaf fic are usually better when they are outside prespective. And do you have an update schedule? Thanks for the chapter.
Right, how many dragon are still there right now?
Right, how many dragon are still there right now?
neyra
Getting some practice in, huh?
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Stay tuned to how things will go. Yes, for now I've planned for it to be all outsider perspective, to see how Si's actions and thoughts affects those around her. We'll also get plenty of her character through the lenses of her siblings.... Update schedule hasn't been set in stone quite yet, but I'm planning of it being on the 4th, 14th and 24th of every month, once I have sufficient backlog to make it work consistently even if with things in RL.
I'm glad you liked the chapter.
Dragons: The Cannibal riderless on Dragonstone, Silverwing riderless in Red Lake, Sheepstealer and Nettles in the Mountains of the Moon in the Vale, Morning ridden by Rhaena.
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2. Outsiders
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neyra
Getting some practice in, huh?
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9th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Red Keep - King's Landing
BAELA
Baela swung her wooden sword swiftly, feigning right but instead going left, striking Rhaena's right wrist and making her drop her own sword. Before she could recover, Baela pointed her sword at her sister's throat.
"Dead," she exclaimed as their chests rose and fell in heavy pants and sweat glistened from their skin. Her sister raised both her hands in surrender, as she often did after being disarmed, with her usual defeated look on her face.
"You're getting there, Rhae," Baela told her, attempting to encourage her.
"Not fast enough," her twin replied, with a sullen look on her face, cradling her wrist that was sure to bruise soon enough.
"You began your training less than a year ago," Baela reminded her sister, "I followed Father into the training yard since I was old enough to walk. Your progress is remarkable." Baela said, in as reassuring a tone as she could muster.
"I agree with Lady Baela my Lady," Ser Corwyn Corbray added. Her sister's martial pursuits had been a recent development, and under Ser Corwyn's tutelage, which began during her wardship in the Vale during the war, she had made remarkable progress. That was in their nature, Baela knew. Whatever endeavour they pursued, they would put an indomitable determination into it; they were their mother's daughters, after all. Laena Velaryon had claimed the largest living dragon of her time, right under the king's nose, tilting the balance of draconic power to another house for the first time since the Doom of Valyria. According to their late grandmother's tales, their grandfather's ambitions for the Iron Throne had been the greatest at the time, and were it not for her grandmother's dissuasion, the dragons would have danced a few decades earlier than they eventually did.
"Thank you, Ser," her sister replied before continuing, "What did Lord Stark decide on his executions?" she asked the knight. Ser Corwyn would serve as one of their brother's regents once the wedding to join the two factions was done.
"They will happen tomorrow, and your grandsire has been spared from his sword." the knight told them as he took their training swords, shields, and handed them to his squire for them to be taken to the armoury. That was strange to Baela. The Lord of Winterfell was hellbent on seeking justice, even for those who slew a usurper. However her sister intervened, it seemed to have cowed him considerably, just as Rhaena had said it would.
After wishing farewell to the knight, the two of them walked, arm in arm, back to the castle to bathe. It was an unspoken routine they had fallen into since reuniting. They rose at dawn, trained, and then proceeded to bathe together in the same tub, just as they had done when they were children. In Baela's mind, it seemed to be such a long time ago. Memories of her father, mother, and her twin sister together in the resplendent mansions in the east always seemed blurry, for they were only four years of age when their mother died in childbirth and they returned to Westeros. Most of the memories they had of Laena Velaryon were in the form of stories told to them by their father, his eyes shining with love and grief as he did so. After that, they resided with their new mother on Dragonstone. Rhaenyra Targaryen may have neither been a good queen nor a good battle commander, but she had been a good mother who raised the two of them the same as she raised her sons; it was from her they learned how to do their hair the way Queen Visenya did (at least before Baela began chopping hers to a shoulder length), it was to her they went to when they first flowered, and she was oh so gentle in easing their shame and pain. Rhaenyra Targaryen gave them brothers as well, five of them; all loving, caring and different in their own way. Before the pain and grief and loss could come to the surface once more and cripple her, Rhaena interrupted.
"You think very loudly sister," she japed.
Baela noticed that she was frowning then, and eased into a smile, albeit a small but genuine one. Even with all the people she'd lost, she was grateful that the person with whom she had shared a womb with had survived and returned to her healthy and whole, no matter the strange changes she had undergone this past year.
Rhaena had always been most like their mother; cheerful, charming and easily sociable. Baela was the one who was most like their father; moody, brooding and headstrong, Yet now her sister also seemed to have gained a spine of Valyrian Steel. 'War does that to people,' she surmised.
"The bath has been drawn, my ladies," Lady Elinda Massey said to them once they reached their shared apartments, "If you need anything else, just ring for me. I shall be in the adjoining quarters."
"Thank you, Elinda." Baela appreciated Lady Elinda. She was another relic of their distant childhood. She had been the head of their mother's household on Dragonstone and had endeavored to learn all their preferences, even the small ones: the food they liked, the times they preferred to eat, the soaps and perfumes they preferred to use, the scalding hot temperature of the water they enjoyed bathing in, the clothes they liked to wear, the material of the bed sheets they liked to use; linen for her, silk for her sister. She took great care in her work in ensuring their lives were as comfortable as possible and Baela knew she was indispensable.
Rhaena helped her unlace the leather tunic she wore when they trained, then undid the braids of her shorn hair. She, in turn, did the same for her luscious, waist-length silver tresses, and soon after, their clothes were all on the floor, leaving them as naked as the day they were born. It bore no shame to them; they had shared a womb, and no matter their differences and how they evolved over time, they would share their lives.Like all things, seemingly, their bodies had been changed because of the war. Rhaena had blossomed and grown even more beautiful, with her breasts and hips growing rounder and more shapely as her girlhood faded, while her skin remained flawless. However, the skin on Baela's stomach was twisted and scarred from the burns and battering she had received during her and Moondancer's duel with the usurper and Sunfyre. She was also thinner as well; still regaining the weight she had lost when she had been a prisoner to said usurper, at a time she thought her death was all but assured. The first time they bathed together after the war, it had been hard. She had wept after looking at the mirror and seeing her form and differentiating it with her sister. Rhaena had come from behind and put her hands around her waist in an embrace as she let out her tears.
"You bare the marks of a warrior," she reassured her, "it makes you 1000 times more beautiful than before, and fiercer than many could even hope to be." They stood there for an endless amount of time as her sister traced every scar, every swathe of skin that appeared mangled and twisted from dragonfire. Despite her calloused hands, Rhaena's touch was still as soft as ever. After a time, she turned and embraced her, with as much warmth and affection as she usually did, and Baela was assured that she was home. Both had been broken and bruised with injury and grief, but they were home.
Her sister took care to scrub her thoroughly as she did the same for her, and soon the water grew tepid and dirty with their sweat and grime. She took the basin next to their bath and washed the soap off their bodies. They then dressed each other; Baela in a resplendent tunic, an overcoat made to fit a woman's curves, and breeches underneath, while her sister wore a gown as jeweled and ornate as their mother preferred, though not too formal for a normal day in the castle.
"Have you decided yet?" Rhaena asked, breaking the comfortable silence between them.
"Decided what?" Baela answered, trying to play coy, but she knew what her sister was asking. There were four dragons that were alive at the moment. Silverwing, Sheepstealer, The Cannibal and Morning, two of whom were riderless. Rhaena had been trying to convince her to claim another dragon since they reunited. She had made excuses then, saying that no rider could take a second dragon. Her twin had dismissed her excuses, reminding her of the dragon's egg that had hatched while they were visiting great-aunt Saera in Volantis, the hatchling dying only a few hours later. Now she had Morning, her pink dragoness that hatched from one of the three eggs she had taken with her to The Vale. Baela had tried to stall once again, claiming that they had to make sure their grandfather survived the Judgement of the Wolf. Her sister had not pushed her further on the matter, but Baela knew that Rhaena was aware of the truth of why she was hesitant to become a Dragonlord once more.
Baela was terrified. It was not the all-consuming, irrational fear that her brother had developed of dragons and anything concerning them, but she still feared nonetheless. Both her mothers were slain by dragonfire. Her father died during a dragon battle. Jacaerys, her betrothed, her Prince, the love of her life, had died the same way. Lucerys and Joffrey as well. She had not witnessed any of those deaths as Aegon had, but the pain lived in her heart all the same.
"Baela," her sister called her, taking her arms in hers, "if you cannot do it for yourself, do it for Viserys." At that, she was puzzled and she could not hold back her look of surprise.
"Viserys?" she asked, surprised.
Her sister sighed and continued, her eyes holding nothing but truth. "Aye, he's alive, in Lys. Some powerful banking family has him hostage, biding their time until they can use him to gain influence on the Iron Throne. Morning will not be large enough to ride into battle for some years yet, and we need to retrieve our brother and return him home whole and unharmed as soon as possible."
"How do you know this?" Baela asked.
To her credit, Rhaena did not hesitate. First, she made her swear to secrecy. Baela took her dagger and sliced the flesh of her palm, and Rhaena did the same with hers. It was the kind of oath sworn to the Gods of Valyria; their father had taught them that if such an oath was broken, the oath-breaker would combust into flames and die instantly. Though she rather doubted that, they both respected the sanctity of such a vow. Rhaena sat her down on the bed and began her tale, telling it in High Valyrian, the language of their ancestors; The Red Keep was still filled with ambitious men who wished to see their house vanquished, and it would not do for the rats in the walls to learn of their secrets.
She spoke of having memories of another life, another world that had many wonders and had seen many tragedies. In these memories, she was a warrior, fighting against men made of iron and steel who wished to kill and burn men made of flesh. In this world, the towers are topless, but unlike those in Valyria, they were made almost completely of glass. The people in her memories moved from city to city in carriages that fly, carriages that do not require horses to move. She talked of devices they had, like glass candles, that could conjure the forms of a person halfway across the world and speak as if they were in the same room. She talked of many more things, of how men of flesh thought themselves gods and made men of metal to be their slaves, but the metal men rose up in rebellion and began brutally killing the men of flesh to gain ultimate power over that world. Even with all that, the most surprising thing she said was that the people of that world read about them in stories. A scribe of great renown had written numerous tales of their world; from Aegon's Conquest to the war they had just survived, and many more tales of their future. Before she joined the army to topple the tyranny of these insurgent metal men, she had read all these tales and knew them like the back of her hand. In her memories, she had been a teacher as well, giving knowledge to many eager students willing to learn their histories, be it distant or not. She knew the histories of that world extremely well, just as she knew many other things. She was an inquisitive soul that sated her curiosity with immense studies into many different subjects. Because of this, she was the one of the few who had been recruited by the kings of that world to end the war with the metal men. Using some wizardry Rhaena claimed she could not explain, her mind was to be sent back in time to a point before the men of metal in that world were created. They were to stop those who invented them from doing so, to prevent the death of billions. That was the last thing she remembered before she woke up in the Eyrie as the sun rose, to the song of her newborn dragon, Morning.
Baela stood dumbfounded, allowing her face to show the shock of all she had just heard. Rhaena was silent, her look pleading with her twin to believe her. Baela did believe her; she was her sister, they had shared a womb, there was no one in the world she trusted more. Moreover, Rhaena had never lied to her. Their father had told her tales, fables describing the founding of their Old Valyrian empire; that it was done by a man who had memories of a different world as well, but those tales were highly disputed. That man apparently became first among the Valyrian pantheon of gods, to be worshipped eternally since that time. The myths say it was he and his children who created the first dragons, performed the magic and rituals required to tame and ride them, and passed that knowledge down to their descendants as the empire they built grew in the peninsula of the Lands of Always Summer and expanded to the rest of the continent.
Her sister's tale explained her change in behaviour and demeanour this past half year, as well. She had become more stoic, her face never betraying her emotions except in the privacy of their shared chambers. She was bolder as well; not that she was ever shy, but more willing to assert herself and her presence on others. Her sudden interest and quick progress in the training yard made sense as well. Moreover, most strangely, her sister now wrote a lot. From dusk until the candles wax sticks in their chambers are all melted and done, she wrote. She never questioned her on it, giving her the ample space she needed to grieve in her own way. Baela composed herself, her mind returning to the matter at hand.
"What happens to Viserys then?" she asked her sister.
"He shall be married. Alyn will learn of it while voyaging in Dorne, as a member of the family keeping him hostage will become Dorne's prince consort. Viserys will be married to that family's youngest daughter, who is of age with us, and he shall father a child on her soon after, before he turns thirteen, before Aegon does. That family then tries to poison Aegon, his wife, you and me, so that Viserys may become the undisputed king with their daughter as his queen. Their power and wealth will wax, as they will have married into both Dorne and the Iron Throne. Lys will rule Westeros in all but name and in less than two decades, the dragons will die. Morning, Sheepstealer, Cannibal, Silverwing, and several more that hatched later on. The younger dragons born grow ever smaller, becoming stunted and twisted. As Aegon is known as the conqueror, our brother will be known as The Dragonbane and House Targaryen will never be the same again."
Baela was stunned once more, but the shock morphed into determination, burning away all the fear that had crippled her spirit.
"Then I shall claim Silverwing," she declared.
She was the largest dragon remaining at the moment and Baela would have her. Aye, The Cannibal was closer, only a three-day sail away on Dragonstone, but he was a wild dragon who had feasted on any would-be riders for nearly a century, and Baela would not tempt the gods. Silverwing would be her mount, Baela decided with conviction then; she would find her on the other side of the continent (the most recent reports indicated that she roosted at Red Lake), and bind herself to the dragon. Her house, her father's house, had suffered enough from the grasping ambition of the lords of Westeros; she would not let it be preyed upon by outsiders as well.
Rhaena smiled, before replying, "I'll speak to Lord Stark and arrange for a host of five hundred of his men to accompany us to Red Lake. We shall be ahorse, thus the journey should not take more than a moon's turn. We shall depart at dawn the day after tomorrow, and the Good Queen's dragon shall have a new rider."
Author's Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and are enjoying the story as a whole so far. I've debated with myself and some friends of mine for a long while whether to keep the method of transmigration or not, since to be frank, it is very clunky and might break SOD to some of you readers. But, it also serves another purpose of showing the trust between the twins, and because of that, I therefore decided to keep it. Let me know your thoughts on it and the chapter as a whole. If you would like to read more, you can do so here.
BAELA
Baela swung her wooden sword swiftly, feigning right but instead going left, striking Rhaena's right wrist and making her drop her own sword. Before she could recover, Baela pointed her sword at her sister's throat.
"Dead," she exclaimed as their chests rose and fell in heavy pants and sweat glistened from their skin. Her sister raised both her hands in surrender, as she often did after being disarmed, with her usual defeated look on her face.
"You're getting there, Rhae," Baela told her, attempting to encourage her.
"Not fast enough," her twin replied, with a sullen look on her face, cradling her wrist that was sure to bruise soon enough.
"You began your training less than a year ago," Baela reminded her sister, "I followed Father into the training yard since I was old enough to walk. Your progress is remarkable." Baela said, in as reassuring a tone as she could muster.
"I agree with Lady Baela my Lady," Ser Corwyn Corbray added. Her sister's martial pursuits had been a recent development, and under Ser Corwyn's tutelage, which began during her wardship in the Vale during the war, she had made remarkable progress. That was in their nature, Baela knew. Whatever endeavour they pursued, they would put an indomitable determination into it; they were their mother's daughters, after all. Laena Velaryon had claimed the largest living dragon of her time, right under the king's nose, tilting the balance of draconic power to another house for the first time since the Doom of Valyria. According to their late grandmother's tales, their grandfather's ambitions for the Iron Throne had been the greatest at the time, and were it not for her grandmother's dissuasion, the dragons would have danced a few decades earlier than they eventually did.
"Thank you, Ser," her sister replied before continuing, "What did Lord Stark decide on his executions?" she asked the knight. Ser Corwyn would serve as one of their brother's regents once the wedding to join the two factions was done.
"They will happen tomorrow, and your grandsire has been spared from his sword." the knight told them as he took their training swords, shields, and handed them to his squire for them to be taken to the armoury. That was strange to Baela. The Lord of Winterfell was hellbent on seeking justice, even for those who slew a usurper. However her sister intervened, it seemed to have cowed him considerably, just as Rhaena had said it would.
After wishing farewell to the knight, the two of them walked, arm in arm, back to the castle to bathe. It was an unspoken routine they had fallen into since reuniting. They rose at dawn, trained, and then proceeded to bathe together in the same tub, just as they had done when they were children. In Baela's mind, it seemed to be such a long time ago. Memories of her father, mother, and her twin sister together in the resplendent mansions in the east always seemed blurry, for they were only four years of age when their mother died in childbirth and they returned to Westeros. Most of the memories they had of Laena Velaryon were in the form of stories told to them by their father, his eyes shining with love and grief as he did so. After that, they resided with their new mother on Dragonstone. Rhaenyra Targaryen may have neither been a good queen nor a good battle commander, but she had been a good mother who raised the two of them the same as she raised her sons; it was from her they learned how to do their hair the way Queen Visenya did (at least before Baela began chopping hers to a shoulder length), it was to her they went to when they first flowered, and she was oh so gentle in easing their shame and pain. Rhaenyra Targaryen gave them brothers as well, five of them; all loving, caring and different in their own way. Before the pain and grief and loss could come to the surface once more and cripple her, Rhaena interrupted.
"You think very loudly sister," she japed.
Baela noticed that she was frowning then, and eased into a smile, albeit a small but genuine one. Even with all the people she'd lost, she was grateful that the person with whom she had shared a womb with had survived and returned to her healthy and whole, no matter the strange changes she had undergone this past year.
Rhaena had always been most like their mother; cheerful, charming and easily sociable. Baela was the one who was most like their father; moody, brooding and headstrong, Yet now her sister also seemed to have gained a spine of Valyrian Steel. 'War does that to people,' she surmised.
"The bath has been drawn, my ladies," Lady Elinda Massey said to them once they reached their shared apartments, "If you need anything else, just ring for me. I shall be in the adjoining quarters."
"Thank you, Elinda." Baela appreciated Lady Elinda. She was another relic of their distant childhood. She had been the head of their mother's household on Dragonstone and had endeavored to learn all their preferences, even the small ones: the food they liked, the times they preferred to eat, the soaps and perfumes they preferred to use, the scalding hot temperature of the water they enjoyed bathing in, the clothes they liked to wear, the material of the bed sheets they liked to use; linen for her, silk for her sister. She took great care in her work in ensuring their lives were as comfortable as possible and Baela knew she was indispensable.
Rhaena helped her unlace the leather tunic she wore when they trained, then undid the braids of her shorn hair. She, in turn, did the same for her luscious, waist-length silver tresses, and soon after, their clothes were all on the floor, leaving them as naked as the day they were born. It bore no shame to them; they had shared a womb, and no matter their differences and how they evolved over time, they would share their lives.Like all things, seemingly, their bodies had been changed because of the war. Rhaena had blossomed and grown even more beautiful, with her breasts and hips growing rounder and more shapely as her girlhood faded, while her skin remained flawless. However, the skin on Baela's stomach was twisted and scarred from the burns and battering she had received during her and Moondancer's duel with the usurper and Sunfyre. She was also thinner as well; still regaining the weight she had lost when she had been a prisoner to said usurper, at a time she thought her death was all but assured. The first time they bathed together after the war, it had been hard. She had wept after looking at the mirror and seeing her form and differentiating it with her sister. Rhaena had come from behind and put her hands around her waist in an embrace as she let out her tears.
"You bare the marks of a warrior," she reassured her, "it makes you 1000 times more beautiful than before, and fiercer than many could even hope to be." They stood there for an endless amount of time as her sister traced every scar, every swathe of skin that appeared mangled and twisted from dragonfire. Despite her calloused hands, Rhaena's touch was still as soft as ever. After a time, she turned and embraced her, with as much warmth and affection as she usually did, and Baela was assured that she was home. Both had been broken and bruised with injury and grief, but they were home.
Her sister took care to scrub her thoroughly as she did the same for her, and soon the water grew tepid and dirty with their sweat and grime. She took the basin next to their bath and washed the soap off their bodies. They then dressed each other; Baela in a resplendent tunic, an overcoat made to fit a woman's curves, and breeches underneath, while her sister wore a gown as jeweled and ornate as their mother preferred, though not too formal for a normal day in the castle.
"Have you decided yet?" Rhaena asked, breaking the comfortable silence between them.
"Decided what?" Baela answered, trying to play coy, but she knew what her sister was asking. There were four dragons that were alive at the moment. Silverwing, Sheepstealer, The Cannibal and Morning, two of whom were riderless. Rhaena had been trying to convince her to claim another dragon since they reunited. She had made excuses then, saying that no rider could take a second dragon. Her twin had dismissed her excuses, reminding her of the dragon's egg that had hatched while they were visiting great-aunt Saera in Volantis, the hatchling dying only a few hours later. Now she had Morning, her pink dragoness that hatched from one of the three eggs she had taken with her to The Vale. Baela had tried to stall once again, claiming that they had to make sure their grandfather survived the Judgement of the Wolf. Her sister had not pushed her further on the matter, but Baela knew that Rhaena was aware of the truth of why she was hesitant to become a Dragonlord once more.
Baela was terrified. It was not the all-consuming, irrational fear that her brother had developed of dragons and anything concerning them, but she still feared nonetheless. Both her mothers were slain by dragonfire. Her father died during a dragon battle. Jacaerys, her betrothed, her Prince, the love of her life, had died the same way. Lucerys and Joffrey as well. She had not witnessed any of those deaths as Aegon had, but the pain lived in her heart all the same.
"Baela," her sister called her, taking her arms in hers, "if you cannot do it for yourself, do it for Viserys." At that, she was puzzled and she could not hold back her look of surprise.
"Viserys?" she asked, surprised.
Her sister sighed and continued, her eyes holding nothing but truth. "Aye, he's alive, in Lys. Some powerful banking family has him hostage, biding their time until they can use him to gain influence on the Iron Throne. Morning will not be large enough to ride into battle for some years yet, and we need to retrieve our brother and return him home whole and unharmed as soon as possible."
"How do you know this?" Baela asked.
To her credit, Rhaena did not hesitate. First, she made her swear to secrecy. Baela took her dagger and sliced the flesh of her palm, and Rhaena did the same with hers. It was the kind of oath sworn to the Gods of Valyria; their father had taught them that if such an oath was broken, the oath-breaker would combust into flames and die instantly. Though she rather doubted that, they both respected the sanctity of such a vow. Rhaena sat her down on the bed and began her tale, telling it in High Valyrian, the language of their ancestors; The Red Keep was still filled with ambitious men who wished to see their house vanquished, and it would not do for the rats in the walls to learn of their secrets.
She spoke of having memories of another life, another world that had many wonders and had seen many tragedies. In these memories, she was a warrior, fighting against men made of iron and steel who wished to kill and burn men made of flesh. In this world, the towers are topless, but unlike those in Valyria, they were made almost completely of glass. The people in her memories moved from city to city in carriages that fly, carriages that do not require horses to move. She talked of devices they had, like glass candles, that could conjure the forms of a person halfway across the world and speak as if they were in the same room. She talked of many more things, of how men of flesh thought themselves gods and made men of metal to be their slaves, but the metal men rose up in rebellion and began brutally killing the men of flesh to gain ultimate power over that world. Even with all that, the most surprising thing she said was that the people of that world read about them in stories. A scribe of great renown had written numerous tales of their world; from Aegon's Conquest to the war they had just survived, and many more tales of their future. Before she joined the army to topple the tyranny of these insurgent metal men, she had read all these tales and knew them like the back of her hand. In her memories, she had been a teacher as well, giving knowledge to many eager students willing to learn their histories, be it distant or not. She knew the histories of that world extremely well, just as she knew many other things. She was an inquisitive soul that sated her curiosity with immense studies into many different subjects. Because of this, she was the one of the few who had been recruited by the kings of that world to end the war with the metal men. Using some wizardry Rhaena claimed she could not explain, her mind was to be sent back in time to a point before the men of metal in that world were created. They were to stop those who invented them from doing so, to prevent the death of billions. That was the last thing she remembered before she woke up in the Eyrie as the sun rose, to the song of her newborn dragon, Morning.
Baela stood dumbfounded, allowing her face to show the shock of all she had just heard. Rhaena was silent, her look pleading with her twin to believe her. Baela did believe her; she was her sister, they had shared a womb, there was no one in the world she trusted more. Moreover, Rhaena had never lied to her. Their father had told her tales, fables describing the founding of their Old Valyrian empire; that it was done by a man who had memories of a different world as well, but those tales were highly disputed. That man apparently became first among the Valyrian pantheon of gods, to be worshipped eternally since that time. The myths say it was he and his children who created the first dragons, performed the magic and rituals required to tame and ride them, and passed that knowledge down to their descendants as the empire they built grew in the peninsula of the Lands of Always Summer and expanded to the rest of the continent.
Her sister's tale explained her change in behaviour and demeanour this past half year, as well. She had become more stoic, her face never betraying her emotions except in the privacy of their shared chambers. She was bolder as well; not that she was ever shy, but more willing to assert herself and her presence on others. Her sudden interest and quick progress in the training yard made sense as well. Moreover, most strangely, her sister now wrote a lot. From dusk until the candles wax sticks in their chambers are all melted and done, she wrote. She never questioned her on it, giving her the ample space she needed to grieve in her own way. Baela composed herself, her mind returning to the matter at hand.
"What happens to Viserys then?" she asked her sister.
"He shall be married. Alyn will learn of it while voyaging in Dorne, as a member of the family keeping him hostage will become Dorne's prince consort. Viserys will be married to that family's youngest daughter, who is of age with us, and he shall father a child on her soon after, before he turns thirteen, before Aegon does. That family then tries to poison Aegon, his wife, you and me, so that Viserys may become the undisputed king with their daughter as his queen. Their power and wealth will wax, as they will have married into both Dorne and the Iron Throne. Lys will rule Westeros in all but name and in less than two decades, the dragons will die. Morning, Sheepstealer, Cannibal, Silverwing, and several more that hatched later on. The younger dragons born grow ever smaller, becoming stunted and twisted. As Aegon is known as the conqueror, our brother will be known as The Dragonbane and House Targaryen will never be the same again."
Baela was stunned once more, but the shock morphed into determination, burning away all the fear that had crippled her spirit.
"Then I shall claim Silverwing," she declared.
She was the largest dragon remaining at the moment and Baela would have her. Aye, The Cannibal was closer, only a three-day sail away on Dragonstone, but he was a wild dragon who had feasted on any would-be riders for nearly a century, and Baela would not tempt the gods. Silverwing would be her mount, Baela decided with conviction then; she would find her on the other side of the continent (the most recent reports indicated that she roosted at Red Lake), and bind herself to the dragon. Her house, her father's house, had suffered enough from the grasping ambition of the lords of Westeros; she would not let it be preyed upon by outsiders as well.
Rhaena smiled, before replying, "I'll speak to Lord Stark and arrange for a host of five hundred of his men to accompany us to Red Lake. We shall be ahorse, thus the journey should not take more than a moon's turn. We shall depart at dawn the day after tomorrow, and the Good Queen's dragon shall have a new rider."
Author's Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and are enjoying the story as a whole so far. I've debated with myself and some friends of mine for a long while whether to keep the method of transmigration or not, since to be frank, it is very clunky and might break SOD to some of you readers. But, it also serves another purpose of showing the trust between the twins, and because of that, I therefore decided to keep it. Let me know your thoughts on it and the chapter as a whole. If you would like to read more, you can do so here.
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3. Penance and Damnation
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neyra
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9th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Dungeons of The Red Keep - King's Landing
LARYS STRONG
The Clubfoot paced his cell frantically from one end to the other. He was barefoot, so none of the guards could hear the pittapatta of his steps. Something was wrong, very wrong. He still felt the presence of the one he had been ordained to destroy. Like he had done in his previous life, he was to make an envious younger brother slay his older sister. Again like last time, the entire world would slowly descend into divine darkness afterwards. He had walked the right steps, followed every action that he was ordained to do. The problem was that he could not see anymore. He could not see his people, those who had given him another life and another mission. He was blind, as blind as the darkness he served.
"It was meant to end this way" he muttered, trying to calm himself, "the sacrifice was done and he who gave his force to the fires shall die."
"Then why can I still feel them? Why are they still here? He was supposed to be dying and his strength fading," he mused to himself in frustration as he took his head into his hands and he sat on the bed.
Everything had gone perfectly; the way he had been told it was supposed to go. The sun, the moon and the bleeding star had fought each other and from there only the moon had risen from the ashes of their battle. Then the fire had plunged its flaming sword into the sapphire orb of the moon, and the sword broke. The fire was drowned and the moon shattered. When they fell, the sun rose once more, albeit briefly, to drive its sword into the egg to unleash the demons of divine darkness upon the world. After that, the sun was meant to set, and the divine darkness would begin its reign for another lifetime. He had done his part, like he had done in his previous lifetime, slaying the little stars that the sun had birthed with the sword of fire.
Her words came back to his mind unbidden. "The sun has never failed to rise, and with it, Morning comes." No, no, no. That would only be a false dawn. All had gone perfectly; the darkness would reign and the next servants of the divine would come after him, after his time was done. He knew their names; The Raven of Blood and The Crow With Three Eyes. He had seen it everyday when he closed his eyes in dreams as vivid as memories.
He sat down and with the practice of several lifetimes, felt his feet step into the eyes of the rat and scurried to the home of the children of the one he was destined to destroy. He saw both of them speaking the ancient tongue, the foreign one that belonged to the children of his master's greatest enemy. He did not understand that tongue. His god-emperor forbade his servants from learning it, therefore it remained foreign to him. He stayed a few moments all the same, but caught nothing with his ears. With his nose however, he smelled the two of them, to see for himself whether the scent of his enemy still lingered on them. When he did, it felt wrong. His children did not smell like this; most of them had the scent of fire, fire which soon destroyed them from the inside, but with one of these two he was watching, her scent was strange, foreign, otherworldly. Suddenly, before he could see further, he was devoured in one bite by the pink creature bonded to her. He broke free of the rat a split second before he too was no more.
The sun had set when he heard the stomping of boots approaching his cell, lifting him out of his trance. It was time for his last meal. Tomorrow, his life would come to an end. He wondered whether his master would give him the honour of being one of the servants to follow him. No, he discouraged himself of the thought immediately; that was being greedy, a sin of lesser men. He had already done his work, the world would descend into divine darkness, that was what mattered.
He sat on the simple bed in his cell. He smirked at the thought. He was a lord in his own right, and thus the accommodations even in his captivity had slivers of luxury; like a bed. He twisted his left foot, feeling the bones break for the thousandth time. The pain was sweet, it always was. It was what gave him reprieve from the onslaught of visions granted by his master. It served a purpose as well. The Clubfoot would be a part of who he was in this life, and like always, he played the part perfectly, making sure none suspected of the power he wielded. The knight, a Northman from his appearance and style of dress, put the tray on the small table near the bed. "Your last meal, traitor. Eat up."
The Ratcatcher did as he was told. He thought of trying to step into the eyes of the northman; he had done it once or twice, but it took much strength from him, strength he currently did not have. Then again, this was his last day, he might as well do it, purely for the pleasure of feeling his mind impose itself on another. As he prepared himself to do it, the knight guarding his door gave two knocks and announced, "Lady Rhaena Targaryen." The Northman left, and the guard let the lady in and then shut the door.
He immediately felt his anger rising. The child of his master's enemy; his enemy, was here. The tamer of that creature that almost devoured him when his mind had seized that of the rat. The strange scent of her mind wafted to his nose one more. It was very foreign, and the otherworldly nature of it made his mind squirm.
"Lord Strong," she addressed him.
"Lady Rhaena, or should I call you Princess now. You're the king's sister after all." he replied, with the normal oily slickness that was ever present in his voice.
"Platitudes are useless to a dead man." Lady Rhaena retorted, sitting on a stool on the opposite end of his bed.
"What do you wish to know?" he asked her, going straight to the point.
"I've racked my head everyday since the war ended," the Lady began, "you were Lady Alicent's confidant for a better part of two decades, meaning you believe your brother was the true father of my betrothed. In that case, why war against your own nephews? Then, when the king you pledged your loyalty to won the war, you plotted with my grandfather to poison him and support my brother's ascension to the throne. You are the lord of your own castle, the largest castle in the realm at that, yet you did nothing with its vast resources during the conflict to aid your cause."
The Ratcatcher scoffed, what did this simple child know of the god-emperor he served? What did she know of the unfathomable primordial forces at work in the vast expanse? Although she was the daughter of his god's mortal enemy, she was still only flesh and bones, ordained to live once for a miniscule amount of time and then die and be forgotten soon after. These simple creatures played their childish games to determine who would seize an iron chair, and all they obtained from it was only a sliver of the power he had commanded in countless lifetimes.
"Humour me, My Lord. At least before you die, satisfy my curiosity. You will die and be forgotten anyway." the Lady continued. Her scent was overwhelming to him now. Foreign, otherworldly, different. The voice in his head that told him something was wrong, was returned with a vengeance, screaming at him. He felt a head coming on. He held the veins temple, trying to calm himself.
"Something has changed within you." he told her.
To her credit, she was only unsettled for a split second before she regained her usual smoothed expression and replied, "You are going mad now as well. It is good you shall die soon."
"Even if I tried to explain, you could not even begin to comprehend." the Ratcatcher told her as he all but inhaled his food. His last meal was oddly tasteful. Mutton chops served with bread and elk soup. The voice in his head came back stronger. It kept shouting, "Something is wrong, something is wrong." He ignored it, his mission was done and admittedly, he was tired. Very tired. Fighting his master's enemy had always drained him. He had already won his battle. He needed to die, to drown in the darkness once more and regain his strength for the next mission. The lady sitting across him crossed one leg on top of another and sat up with poise.
For his own humour, he decided to unsettle her one last time. He repositioned his foot and felt the bones setting with tiny cracks and then he stood up, walking confidently to approach her where she sat. He was surprised by her once more, her face remained still. He walked back to his bed to finish his food.
Lady Rhaena only shrugged before replying casually, "I always suspected."
The Ratcatcher decided to indulge her. What could she do with the secrets he shared? The darkness would descend upon the world soon enough and this life was over for him anyway. His treason was already discovered and he would still be executed.
"I served your mother's cause my lady," he then proceeded to confess with his voice barely above a whisper, "my nephew was slain, and your father demanded a son in his stead. I obliged him. The boy was slain by a butcher and a Ratcatcher, was he not? Curious, the Ratcatcher was never found." The Clubfoot smirked in his victory.
The realisation seemed to hit her then but she quickly recovered before confronting him once more, "My father willed it that the Kinslayer be the one to die."
"Aye, he did, but the fate of the sapphire moon had already been determined," he replied casually, "so I killed the one they called Cheese and took his place, and the butcher was small of brain, so he followed whatever his Ratcatcher friend told him to do."
"Then why help the usurper escape? He murdered my mother and made my brother watch," The Lady asked him once more, with consternation clear in her voice.
"It had been ordained since beginningless time." The Ratcatcher replied.
"Speak clearly, Ratcatcher." Lady Rhaena retorted.
"As I told you before, you cannot even begin to comprehend the truth," he replied.
The lady looked thoughtful. The Ratcatcher knew exactly what she was thinking so he addressed her once more, "The war is over, the usurper is dead, my treason has been discovered. Even if you wish to tell the world that I am responsible for Jaehaerys' death, it will do naught to wash out the sins of your parents. Your father commanded the death of a son, and a son died, his original intent matters not. Your mother's reign killed more than a hundred thousand in King's Landing alone, saying nothing of those across the rest of the realm. This is my last night alive, content yourself with that."
Lady Rhaena stood up to leave the room, seemingly satisfied with the confession she had pried from him. She opened the door to walk out only to stop upon seeing the pitiful dowager queen.
"You killed my grandson as well!" the dowager queen shouted. The shift of the guard was changing, it would take half an hour for the new guard to take the place of the old for the night. Queen Alicent rushed at him, only being stopped by Lady Rhaena.
"He will die for his treason," Lady Rhaena tried to assure her, "his life is forfeit. Justice will be served for their deaths."
The Ratcatcher only laughed softly to himself. He had enjoyed using the pitiful queen, breaking her and letting her shame herself to the false gods she supposedly revered. Oh, how he wished that his seed had taken and her womb quickened in one of the several times they lay together. Strongs on both sides fighting for the Iron Throne; the thought amused him.
Soon, the pitiful queen's ruckus ended and he was once more left alone. Good. He was done with those of this world. He finished his last meal. Night had settled in now. With a smile on his face, he climbed on his bed and quickly fell asleep, reminding himself that tomorrow he would descend into the divine darkness once more; that he would rest in knowing his work was done.
He awoke when he heard the clanging of metal right next to the bed. "Get up, you worthless traitor. Today is the day you die." In his bed, the Ratcatcher remembered to twist his leg once more. Even on his final day they would not know. He limped, following the guard to the castle courtyard. His eye came upon the wolf then, with his greatsword sheathed behind his back. The sword that would take his head. Two scores of his fellow criminals stood with him, together with the royal family and a gaggle of lords and ladies who resided in the castle. His crimes were the greatest, therefore he would be the first to die, Lord Stark announced.
He was asked his last words, replying that he wished his clubfoot be removed and buried in a pauper's field. As he knelt, and placed his head in front of the executioner's block, ready to leave this world, the voice in his head came back once more, "Something is wrong! something is wrong!" That was when he saw it, that was when he saw her. He remembered her words once more, "the sun has never failed to rise, and with it, Morning comes." He had known what he meant when she said those words to the wolf of Winterfell. She was talking about her dragon. He turned to look at the creature once more; the pink beast still in its infancy. He had seen that it would die soon, barely grown from the size it was now. The rising of the darkness would kill it. He was wrong. He was so very wrong, he realised. He saw it, he saw her. She was supposed to have died. Her death was supposed to bring The Divine Darkness. Her brother had slain her by commanding his mangled dragon to eat her. How was she here? If she was here, it meant that his work was not done. His mind raced. He had to remain alive. He had to kill the creature.
Before he could seize the mind of some random lord standing in front of him to continue his work, he felt the cold, sharp touch of Valyrian Steel upon his neck before it all went black. And Larys Strong's last thoughts were of failure.
As Lord Cregan Stark went to call the next convict, Morning pounced at once, burning the Ratcatcher's body and devouring him in his entirety, even The Clubfoot.
CORLYS VELARYON
The scent of pouring rain was refreshing as it reached him through the window he liked to keep open and stare out of. For once, it even overshadowed the stench of shit that forever riddled this city. It was not as cold as he remembered it being during his voyages to the frozen lands and Ib and Mossovy, but it was cold nonetheless, so he won his overcoat, ten days dirty by now. He did not mind it. He had been stuck in the Black Cells for far longer, and he was almost at the point of death when he was released the last time; he could bear a dirty overcoat for one more night. On the morrow the Stark boy would be taking his head anyways, an he would be done for good and all.
With the support of his cane, he slowly walked back to his bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling of his cell. Sleep would not come to him; no, he would not be granted the blessing of a good-night's sleep before he was decapitated, and his headless remains sailing out to the sea for the final time, never to return. That was somehow better, Corlys knew. If he slept, the nightmares would begin once more, and with how horrifying they had been getting these days, he couldn't bear it. He would have eternal rest after all.
The opening of his door broke him out of his hopeless musings. What could it be now? He wondered. In walked Rhaena, dressed in a lovely red gown, made of samite, embroidered in silver with the mosaics of dancing dragons. Her platinum hair reached her waist and was almost shining in the scant light that reached the dreary cell. Unbidden, the memory of his lovely daughter, her mother, came back to his mind, dressed in aquamarine silk instead of red, bejeweled in pearls and seashells instead of silver. He shook the memory from his mind before the guilt clawed its way to his throat once more, and the happy Pearl of Driftmark was turned into a pile of ash, choosing to face dragonfire when her last babe could not come.
"Rhaena," he called out. She would be regarded a princess soon enough, if not already. At least that was a thing to be proud of, her granddaughter would be a princess.
"Grandfather," she replied, "it is very good to see you whole."
Corlys chuckled dryly, "as I was yesterday, and the day before that, and the one before, when you came to visit on all of them."
She smiled in return as well, "Doesn't make it any less good to see you whole."
She took a seat on the small table that was in front of him, the table he used to place his plates. She sat down, with a courtly poise, one leg clasped above the other, her hands in front of her. The smell of her perfume reached him then. It was the most wonderful thing he smelled in the few minutes of every day she or her twin came to visit; wildflowers, mixed with roses; although in the most delightful way. Corlys resisted looking into her eyes as he gathered his wits to speak; they were a light lilac, just like her grandmother's, just like his wife's.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, granddaughter. Have you finally come to accept that this old man will be joining your grandmother in the great beyond? And where is Morning? She is usually perched on your shoulders at all hours of the day."
"Like I told you grandfather, you would not die. And it seems that I was correct. I convinced Lord Stark to spare you, on account of all you did to end the war, and surprisingly, he agreed." Rhaena told him, her eyes dancing with the same mischief he had seen on Daemon Targaryen's many, many times.
His own eyes widened in surprise. How had she done it? Of course, he knew that there was no way that she had managed to convince Lord Stark. The boy lived up to the reputation of the Northmen, grim and stubborn. But, he was not one to pry. It seemed like life was not yet done with him. He would not be drowning in the waters of the coast of the ruins of High Tide just yet, as he had requested of his grandchildren once was beheaded.
"Thank you, Rhaena. Truly," he managed to say, his gratitude true and honest, "I am truly grateful for pleading for my case so earnestly."
She smiled and nodded, before her face turned serious once more, "I have one thing to ask of you, however. It would be a fine way to show your sincere thanks."
"Go on."
"Troubled times for our house and the realm are ahead of us. There's only three of us Targaryens remaining now, and with only one dragon, a hatchling at that. It will take time and considerable effort for us to set the realm to rights. And as always, lords with ambition on their minds have knives pointed at our backs, some of them doubtless thinking that the Dance has broken our power for good and all."
"Aegon is young," she continued, "there'll be a regency that shall rule the Seven Kingdoms for the next five and a half years, before he comes of age and takes rule into his own hands. I would ask you to be part of this regency. You are one of the only men we can trust with such a task. You were loyal throughout the war, despite the wrongs and slights that the queen did to you. Your loyalty has not been taken for granted, grandfather."
Corlys tore his eyes away from the girl in front of her, staring at the ceiling once more, not knowing what to think. The knowledge that of his only remaining kin valued him made his heart squeeze with a feeling he could not explain. That he had been an adventurer, a warrior, a prince, a kingslayer, a man enshrined in legend for all time. All that had been amounted to nothing, washed away by the waves he had sailed aboard The Sea Snake, and turned into ash beneath the heat of dragonfire. It would all mean nothing in the end. He had failed as a father, a husband, as a leader of his family. But, perhaps, perhaps he could do right by his grandchildren.
"Very well, I accept," he said, with conviction.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and the story as a whole so far. If you did and you would like to read more, you can do so here . Let me know your thoughts on Larys' delusions/mythic origins and old man Corlys' musings.
LARYS STRONG
The Clubfoot paced his cell frantically from one end to the other. He was barefoot, so none of the guards could hear the pittapatta of his steps. Something was wrong, very wrong. He still felt the presence of the one he had been ordained to destroy. Like he had done in his previous life, he was to make an envious younger brother slay his older sister. Again like last time, the entire world would slowly descend into divine darkness afterwards. He had walked the right steps, followed every action that he was ordained to do. The problem was that he could not see anymore. He could not see his people, those who had given him another life and another mission. He was blind, as blind as the darkness he served.
"It was meant to end this way" he muttered, trying to calm himself, "the sacrifice was done and he who gave his force to the fires shall die."
"Then why can I still feel them? Why are they still here? He was supposed to be dying and his strength fading," he mused to himself in frustration as he took his head into his hands and he sat on the bed.
Everything had gone perfectly; the way he had been told it was supposed to go. The sun, the moon and the bleeding star had fought each other and from there only the moon had risen from the ashes of their battle. Then the fire had plunged its flaming sword into the sapphire orb of the moon, and the sword broke. The fire was drowned and the moon shattered. When they fell, the sun rose once more, albeit briefly, to drive its sword into the egg to unleash the demons of divine darkness upon the world. After that, the sun was meant to set, and the divine darkness would begin its reign for another lifetime. He had done his part, like he had done in his previous lifetime, slaying the little stars that the sun had birthed with the sword of fire.
Her words came back to his mind unbidden. "The sun has never failed to rise, and with it, Morning comes." No, no, no. That would only be a false dawn. All had gone perfectly; the darkness would reign and the next servants of the divine would come after him, after his time was done. He knew their names; The Raven of Blood and The Crow With Three Eyes. He had seen it everyday when he closed his eyes in dreams as vivid as memories.
He sat down and with the practice of several lifetimes, felt his feet step into the eyes of the rat and scurried to the home of the children of the one he was destined to destroy. He saw both of them speaking the ancient tongue, the foreign one that belonged to the children of his master's greatest enemy. He did not understand that tongue. His god-emperor forbade his servants from learning it, therefore it remained foreign to him. He stayed a few moments all the same, but caught nothing with his ears. With his nose however, he smelled the two of them, to see for himself whether the scent of his enemy still lingered on them. When he did, it felt wrong. His children did not smell like this; most of them had the scent of fire, fire which soon destroyed them from the inside, but with one of these two he was watching, her scent was strange, foreign, otherworldly. Suddenly, before he could see further, he was devoured in one bite by the pink creature bonded to her. He broke free of the rat a split second before he too was no more.
The sun had set when he heard the stomping of boots approaching his cell, lifting him out of his trance. It was time for his last meal. Tomorrow, his life would come to an end. He wondered whether his master would give him the honour of being one of the servants to follow him. No, he discouraged himself of the thought immediately; that was being greedy, a sin of lesser men. He had already done his work, the world would descend into divine darkness, that was what mattered.
He sat on the simple bed in his cell. He smirked at the thought. He was a lord in his own right, and thus the accommodations even in his captivity had slivers of luxury; like a bed. He twisted his left foot, feeling the bones break for the thousandth time. The pain was sweet, it always was. It was what gave him reprieve from the onslaught of visions granted by his master. It served a purpose as well. The Clubfoot would be a part of who he was in this life, and like always, he played the part perfectly, making sure none suspected of the power he wielded. The knight, a Northman from his appearance and style of dress, put the tray on the small table near the bed. "Your last meal, traitor. Eat up."
The Ratcatcher did as he was told. He thought of trying to step into the eyes of the northman; he had done it once or twice, but it took much strength from him, strength he currently did not have. Then again, this was his last day, he might as well do it, purely for the pleasure of feeling his mind impose itself on another. As he prepared himself to do it, the knight guarding his door gave two knocks and announced, "Lady Rhaena Targaryen." The Northman left, and the guard let the lady in and then shut the door.
He immediately felt his anger rising. The child of his master's enemy; his enemy, was here. The tamer of that creature that almost devoured him when his mind had seized that of the rat. The strange scent of her mind wafted to his nose one more. It was very foreign, and the otherworldly nature of it made his mind squirm.
"Lord Strong," she addressed him.
"Lady Rhaena, or should I call you Princess now. You're the king's sister after all." he replied, with the normal oily slickness that was ever present in his voice.
"Platitudes are useless to a dead man." Lady Rhaena retorted, sitting on a stool on the opposite end of his bed.
"What do you wish to know?" he asked her, going straight to the point.
"I've racked my head everyday since the war ended," the Lady began, "you were Lady Alicent's confidant for a better part of two decades, meaning you believe your brother was the true father of my betrothed. In that case, why war against your own nephews? Then, when the king you pledged your loyalty to won the war, you plotted with my grandfather to poison him and support my brother's ascension to the throne. You are the lord of your own castle, the largest castle in the realm at that, yet you did nothing with its vast resources during the conflict to aid your cause."
The Ratcatcher scoffed, what did this simple child know of the god-emperor he served? What did she know of the unfathomable primordial forces at work in the vast expanse? Although she was the daughter of his god's mortal enemy, she was still only flesh and bones, ordained to live once for a miniscule amount of time and then die and be forgotten soon after. These simple creatures played their childish games to determine who would seize an iron chair, and all they obtained from it was only a sliver of the power he had commanded in countless lifetimes.
"Humour me, My Lord. At least before you die, satisfy my curiosity. You will die and be forgotten anyway." the Lady continued. Her scent was overwhelming to him now. Foreign, otherworldly, different. The voice in his head that told him something was wrong, was returned with a vengeance, screaming at him. He felt a head coming on. He held the veins temple, trying to calm himself.
"Something has changed within you." he told her.
To her credit, she was only unsettled for a split second before she regained her usual smoothed expression and replied, "You are going mad now as well. It is good you shall die soon."
"Even if I tried to explain, you could not even begin to comprehend." the Ratcatcher told her as he all but inhaled his food. His last meal was oddly tasteful. Mutton chops served with bread and elk soup. The voice in his head came back stronger. It kept shouting, "Something is wrong, something is wrong." He ignored it, his mission was done and admittedly, he was tired. Very tired. Fighting his master's enemy had always drained him. He had already won his battle. He needed to die, to drown in the darkness once more and regain his strength for the next mission. The lady sitting across him crossed one leg on top of another and sat up with poise.
For his own humour, he decided to unsettle her one last time. He repositioned his foot and felt the bones setting with tiny cracks and then he stood up, walking confidently to approach her where she sat. He was surprised by her once more, her face remained still. He walked back to his bed to finish his food.
Lady Rhaena only shrugged before replying casually, "I always suspected."
The Ratcatcher decided to indulge her. What could she do with the secrets he shared? The darkness would descend upon the world soon enough and this life was over for him anyway. His treason was already discovered and he would still be executed.
"I served your mother's cause my lady," he then proceeded to confess with his voice barely above a whisper, "my nephew was slain, and your father demanded a son in his stead. I obliged him. The boy was slain by a butcher and a Ratcatcher, was he not? Curious, the Ratcatcher was never found." The Clubfoot smirked in his victory.
The realisation seemed to hit her then but she quickly recovered before confronting him once more, "My father willed it that the Kinslayer be the one to die."
"Aye, he did, but the fate of the sapphire moon had already been determined," he replied casually, "so I killed the one they called Cheese and took his place, and the butcher was small of brain, so he followed whatever his Ratcatcher friend told him to do."
"Then why help the usurper escape? He murdered my mother and made my brother watch," The Lady asked him once more, with consternation clear in her voice.
"It had been ordained since beginningless time." The Ratcatcher replied.
"Speak clearly, Ratcatcher." Lady Rhaena retorted.
"As I told you before, you cannot even begin to comprehend the truth," he replied.
The lady looked thoughtful. The Ratcatcher knew exactly what she was thinking so he addressed her once more, "The war is over, the usurper is dead, my treason has been discovered. Even if you wish to tell the world that I am responsible for Jaehaerys' death, it will do naught to wash out the sins of your parents. Your father commanded the death of a son, and a son died, his original intent matters not. Your mother's reign killed more than a hundred thousand in King's Landing alone, saying nothing of those across the rest of the realm. This is my last night alive, content yourself with that."
Lady Rhaena stood up to leave the room, seemingly satisfied with the confession she had pried from him. She opened the door to walk out only to stop upon seeing the pitiful dowager queen.
"You killed my grandson as well!" the dowager queen shouted. The shift of the guard was changing, it would take half an hour for the new guard to take the place of the old for the night. Queen Alicent rushed at him, only being stopped by Lady Rhaena.
"He will die for his treason," Lady Rhaena tried to assure her, "his life is forfeit. Justice will be served for their deaths."
The Ratcatcher only laughed softly to himself. He had enjoyed using the pitiful queen, breaking her and letting her shame herself to the false gods she supposedly revered. Oh, how he wished that his seed had taken and her womb quickened in one of the several times they lay together. Strongs on both sides fighting for the Iron Throne; the thought amused him.
Soon, the pitiful queen's ruckus ended and he was once more left alone. Good. He was done with those of this world. He finished his last meal. Night had settled in now. With a smile on his face, he climbed on his bed and quickly fell asleep, reminding himself that tomorrow he would descend into the divine darkness once more; that he would rest in knowing his work was done.
He awoke when he heard the clanging of metal right next to the bed. "Get up, you worthless traitor. Today is the day you die." In his bed, the Ratcatcher remembered to twist his leg once more. Even on his final day they would not know. He limped, following the guard to the castle courtyard. His eye came upon the wolf then, with his greatsword sheathed behind his back. The sword that would take his head. Two scores of his fellow criminals stood with him, together with the royal family and a gaggle of lords and ladies who resided in the castle. His crimes were the greatest, therefore he would be the first to die, Lord Stark announced.
He was asked his last words, replying that he wished his clubfoot be removed and buried in a pauper's field. As he knelt, and placed his head in front of the executioner's block, ready to leave this world, the voice in his head came back once more, "Something is wrong! something is wrong!" That was when he saw it, that was when he saw her. He remembered her words once more, "the sun has never failed to rise, and with it, Morning comes." He had known what he meant when she said those words to the wolf of Winterfell. She was talking about her dragon. He turned to look at the creature once more; the pink beast still in its infancy. He had seen that it would die soon, barely grown from the size it was now. The rising of the darkness would kill it. He was wrong. He was so very wrong, he realised. He saw it, he saw her. She was supposed to have died. Her death was supposed to bring The Divine Darkness. Her brother had slain her by commanding his mangled dragon to eat her. How was she here? If she was here, it meant that his work was not done. His mind raced. He had to remain alive. He had to kill the creature.
Before he could seize the mind of some random lord standing in front of him to continue his work, he felt the cold, sharp touch of Valyrian Steel upon his neck before it all went black. And Larys Strong's last thoughts were of failure.
As Lord Cregan Stark went to call the next convict, Morning pounced at once, burning the Ratcatcher's body and devouring him in his entirety, even The Clubfoot.
CORLYS VELARYON
The scent of pouring rain was refreshing as it reached him through the window he liked to keep open and stare out of. For once, it even overshadowed the stench of shit that forever riddled this city. It was not as cold as he remembered it being during his voyages to the frozen lands and Ib and Mossovy, but it was cold nonetheless, so he won his overcoat, ten days dirty by now. He did not mind it. He had been stuck in the Black Cells for far longer, and he was almost at the point of death when he was released the last time; he could bear a dirty overcoat for one more night. On the morrow the Stark boy would be taking his head anyways, an he would be done for good and all.
With the support of his cane, he slowly walked back to his bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling of his cell. Sleep would not come to him; no, he would not be granted the blessing of a good-night's sleep before he was decapitated, and his headless remains sailing out to the sea for the final time, never to return. That was somehow better, Corlys knew. If he slept, the nightmares would begin once more, and with how horrifying they had been getting these days, he couldn't bear it. He would have eternal rest after all.
The opening of his door broke him out of his hopeless musings. What could it be now? He wondered. In walked Rhaena, dressed in a lovely red gown, made of samite, embroidered in silver with the mosaics of dancing dragons. Her platinum hair reached her waist and was almost shining in the scant light that reached the dreary cell. Unbidden, the memory of his lovely daughter, her mother, came back to his mind, dressed in aquamarine silk instead of red, bejeweled in pearls and seashells instead of silver. He shook the memory from his mind before the guilt clawed its way to his throat once more, and the happy Pearl of Driftmark was turned into a pile of ash, choosing to face dragonfire when her last babe could not come.
"Rhaena," he called out. She would be regarded a princess soon enough, if not already. At least that was a thing to be proud of, her granddaughter would be a princess.
"Grandfather," she replied, "it is very good to see you whole."
Corlys chuckled dryly, "as I was yesterday, and the day before that, and the one before, when you came to visit on all of them."
She smiled in return as well, "Doesn't make it any less good to see you whole."
She took a seat on the small table that was in front of him, the table he used to place his plates. She sat down, with a courtly poise, one leg clasped above the other, her hands in front of her. The smell of her perfume reached him then. It was the most wonderful thing he smelled in the few minutes of every day she or her twin came to visit; wildflowers, mixed with roses; although in the most delightful way. Corlys resisted looking into her eyes as he gathered his wits to speak; they were a light lilac, just like her grandmother's, just like his wife's.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, granddaughter. Have you finally come to accept that this old man will be joining your grandmother in the great beyond? And where is Morning? She is usually perched on your shoulders at all hours of the day."
"Like I told you grandfather, you would not die. And it seems that I was correct. I convinced Lord Stark to spare you, on account of all you did to end the war, and surprisingly, he agreed." Rhaena told him, her eyes dancing with the same mischief he had seen on Daemon Targaryen's many, many times.
His own eyes widened in surprise. How had she done it? Of course, he knew that there was no way that she had managed to convince Lord Stark. The boy lived up to the reputation of the Northmen, grim and stubborn. But, he was not one to pry. It seemed like life was not yet done with him. He would not be drowning in the waters of the coast of the ruins of High Tide just yet, as he had requested of his grandchildren once was beheaded.
"Thank you, Rhaena. Truly," he managed to say, his gratitude true and honest, "I am truly grateful for pleading for my case so earnestly."
She smiled and nodded, before her face turned serious once more, "I have one thing to ask of you, however. It would be a fine way to show your sincere thanks."
"Go on."
"Troubled times for our house and the realm are ahead of us. There's only three of us Targaryens remaining now, and with only one dragon, a hatchling at that. It will take time and considerable effort for us to set the realm to rights. And as always, lords with ambition on their minds have knives pointed at our backs, some of them doubtless thinking that the Dance has broken our power for good and all."
"Aegon is young," she continued, "there'll be a regency that shall rule the Seven Kingdoms for the next five and a half years, before he comes of age and takes rule into his own hands. I would ask you to be part of this regency. You are one of the only men we can trust with such a task. You were loyal throughout the war, despite the wrongs and slights that the queen did to you. Your loyalty has not been taken for granted, grandfather."
Corlys tore his eyes away from the girl in front of her, staring at the ceiling once more, not knowing what to think. The knowledge that of his only remaining kin valued him made his heart squeeze with a feeling he could not explain. That he had been an adventurer, a warrior, a prince, a kingslayer, a man enshrined in legend for all time. All that had been amounted to nothing, washed away by the waves he had sailed aboard The Sea Snake, and turned into ash beneath the heat of dragonfire. It would all mean nothing in the end. He had failed as a father, a husband, as a leader of his family. But, perhaps, perhaps he could do right by his grandchildren.
"Very well, I accept," he said, with conviction.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and the story as a whole so far. If you did and you would like to read more, you can do so here . Let me know your thoughts on Larys' delusions/mythic origins and old man Corlys' musings.
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4. Stormclouds
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neyra
Getting some practice in, huh?
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10th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Red Keep - King's Landing
AEGON
It was drizzling as dusk approached. There would be a storm that night, Aegon knew, judging by the clouds present in the sky. He walked to the balcony, on the kingly chambers that were now his, to watch the storm clouds gather in the late afternoon sky. He had always enjoyed watching the sky. He remembered the storms at Dragonstone. They were fierce, raging and terrifying to his baby brother. He, on the other hand, had always found them comforting. The beat of the Stone Drum when the winds were howling and rain was falling made him sleep like a log.
However, he did not enjoy them as much as Lucerys did. Lucerys was made for the seas and all the peril they brought; truly a worthy heir for the Lord of The Tides. Lucerys had been the one to teach him what the different types of clouds looked like and what they all meant; after he himself had been taught by his grandfather when they had sailed to Volantis once he turned ten. Lucerys had told him that his dragon had the colouring of the clouds during a storm. So he named him that; Stormcloud.
His father had thought it a stupid name, urging him to name his dragon after one in of the Gods in the Valyrian Pantheon, like him, his mother and his brothers had. Caraxes, Syrax, Vermax, Arrax and Tyraxes were beautiful names for beautiful mounts. Her mother had disagreed then, arguing that Stormcloud was a fierce name in its own right, fiercer than the uninspired Sunfyre, the name his uncle gave his own mount. They had all laughed then.
He was not laughing now. In fact, he had not laughed in a long time. He always wondered why he was named Aegon. His father had told that he was more worthy of that name than any who had borne it before. He did not believe him. There was Aegon The Conqueror, the king every Targaryen since then aimed to match with varying degrees of success. He had asked his mother about it, and she had told him that his father had a baby brother that had died soon after he was born, who was also named Aegon. She had explained that her father thought it was his fault that he could not save him or his mother. So, he had promised to do right by him, the new Aegon. He had gone to his father's room then and gave him a hug, assuring him that he was the best father he could have ever asked for. That was the only time he had seen his father shed tears.
When they went to King's Landing to celebrate Jaehaerys and Jaehaera's fifth name-day however, his uncle, the one with the sapphire eye, told him that he had no right to that name; that the name he bore only belonged to kings and not a whore's son. He ran to his father once more, asking him what a whore was. When he told him where he had heard that, he took Darksister and marched angrily out of the room. His mother had stopped him. It was the first time he had seen his father and mother shout at each other. He was terrified then, and ran to Rhaena's room and slept the night there. Rhaena had held him and had sung sweet songs to him as he fell asleep.
Now, he hated the name. He hated himself for having that name. He hated Aegon The Conqueror. Why couldn't he just stay on Dragonstone and be content with what he had? He could have done what Lord Corlys did and built the island to become the richest demesne in Westeros. Then his mother would have been happy, and most importantly, she would have lived. He allowed his mind to wander to that. Rhaenyra Targaryen would have become Lady of Dragonstone. Jacaerys Targaryen would have followed their mother with Baela Targaryen as his lady. He would have been content to serve the three of them; they were more worthy than most kings he had read about. He hated his father's dead brother; he should have lived so that he didn't have to get that name.
His mind wandered to his uncle then, the usurper that had the same name as him. Everytime that happened, he only saw flames and heard screaming. He couldn't let himself think about it, so instead he took the kitchen knife he had hidden after breaking his fast the day before yesterday and made two more cuts on his forearm. It was painful, as it was every time he did it. He made himself focus on that pain, it took his thoughts away from the screaming and the flames.
What would his father think of him now? He had given him that name and told him that he would be the greatest to bear it. He was sure he would not think of him being worthy of being his son, worthy of being his blood. His father had gone to war for seven years in the Stepstones to make sure his brother's realm was secure from foreign invasion, without hesitation. He was the first to pledge to their mother as queen, without hesitation. He gave his life fighting for them to live, without hesitation.
Jacaerys had flown all across the realm to secure allegiances of multiple houses in the war. He then died burning foreign invaders that threatened his mother's realm, without hesitation. Lucerys as well. Joffrey had spent every day after his mother took King's Landing patrolling the skies, ready to face Vhagar or Tessarion if they dared to invade. He had died, trying to defend their dragons from being assaulted by smallfolk. His brother had just been named Prince of Dragonstone then, and wanted to prove himself worthy. (He was in Aegon's eyes). Aegon had told him not to go, but Joffrey promised him that he was going to save Shrykos for him to claim when the war ended. Joffrey had promised him that he would be his Hand when he sat the Iron Throne, right as he went into the night, never to be seen again. What about him? What had he done, even with his storied name? The only contributions he had made in the war was leaving his baby brother to be killed by invaders and pirates, and to stand and watch as his mother was.... No, it would not do well to remember that.
He had a King's name, but he should never have been King. They remembered the first Aegon as The Conqueror and the second as The Uncrowned. How would they remember him? Aegon the Craven was fitting, or Aegon the Unworthy. He would have been content to serve his brother Jacaerys in whatever way he asked him to. He once thought of joining the Kingsguard and becoming as renowned a knight as Ser Ryam Redwyne or Jonquil Darke, or even becoming Joffrey's hand, that was okay for him too; Joffrey was the boldest of his brothers.
But, they were all gone now. His mother, his father, his brothers; all of them were dead. The rain had begun to pour, and Lucerys was not here to play with him in it until they were found and got into trouble with their mother because of it. Jacaerys was not here to help him train his dragon. His father was not here to teach him how to wield a sword, and get angry with him everytime he stole Darksister and hid it from him. Joffrey was not here to play pranks on Ser Robert Quince, the old fat knight that had been their mother's steward on Dragonstone.
And Viserys. His brother who followed him everywhere since he learned to walk. It had annoyed him greatly, at first. One time, soon after Viserys had begun to walk, Aegon had hidden from him for an entire day. His brother went to their mother, screaming in tears, thinking he had died. That was the only time he could remember his mother being truly angry with him. "He is your baby brother Aegon, it is your duty to watch over him. Like Jacaerys watches over all of you," his mother had told her. That day, he had promised his mother that he would watch over his baby brother; that he would be like Jacaerys.
Oh, how he had broken that promise. He remembered his brother on the boat then, tightly clutching to his dragon's egg. The egg was still warm, even after seven years of having it, and Viserys hoped it would hatch. Aegon was so scared after their boat had been attacked. But Viserys was brave and clever instead. More brave and more clever than he could ever hope to be. He quickly changed his clothes to those of a servant and hid the egg at the bottom of the bed so that it could not be spotted. All Aegon could think of was getting away from the bad men. So he took his two-year old dragon and flew from the boat to go get his brother to help him rescue Viserys.
On the flight, his dragon had protected him. It was his first flight, and he was barely in any control. He tried to think of all he had been taught by his father, mother and Jacaerys about flying on a dragon but it could not come to him. Instead he just clung to Stormcloud as scorpion bolts were being shot at him. Stormcloud, his best friend, his other half, had made it to Dragonstone and died of many of those bolts when he landed. Jacaerys found him, and he had promised him that he would get Viserys back. But he could not. At least Jacaerys fought the people who had taken his baby brother and died trying to save him. Jacaerys was brave. He was not. He had left him. He was a failure. He had left his baby brother to die. What difference was there between him and his uncles? "We are all Kinslayers," he muttered to himself.
The rain had begun falling steadily, with the thunder howling and the lightning flashing. It held no more joy for him now. The stars were not out that night either. The last time there had been stars in the skies was when he lay on the beach with Viserys the day before the war began. He was suddenly aware that the pain on his left forearm had dulled, so with the knife, he reopened the two healing scars that he had made yesterday. He was drenched in rain water. He saw fresh blood was mixing with it and the bricks on his balcony's floor ran red with the mixture.
The sweet dark sounds of death urged him to take the knife and plunge it into his neck. Maester Gerardys had taught him that there was a part of the neck that if slashed, a man would die quickly. He could end it all. All this misery, all this sadness, all this pain. He wished to end it. He would see his brothers again, and his father and his mother in the great beyond. In his madness, the elder Aegon had brought him to the execution block so many times when he was his hostage. Each time, he had ordered his traitor Alfred Broome to swing Blackfyre to end his life. He always countermanded the order when Broome had raised the sword high above his head. His uncle thought it would scare him, cow him and make him fear him. It did not. Aegon felt nothing, nothing but a strong sense of desire to join his mother in death. Oh, how he wished to feel the cold of the Valyrian Steel falling hard on his neck. Death would be his freedom, death would be his redemption.
On the first day they had returned from Dragonstone, Jaehaera's grandmother had come into his room holding a kitchen knife. It was in the middle of the night, and like most days, he was on the balcony watching the sky. She had snuck up on him only in her sleeping shift accusing her mother of killing her sons and grandsons, claiming that it was only right for the debt to be repaid by his death. Aegon did not even move, he did not even flinch with fear; he just turned around to look at her. Their eyes locked; his empty, dead and a dark void while hers were full of fury, vengeance and anguish. Baela had saved her that night; she had entered his bedchamber slowly with one hand on Jaehaera's shoulder and another holding the conqueror's dagger to Jaehaera's throat.
"Kill my brother, and I swear, you will watch as I open her throat." Her voice was low, like the roar of a dragon. She sounded more like their father than he ever could. Jaehaera was sobbing silently, with tears staining her face. With a clang, her grandmother had let her knife fall to the floor and ran to her granddaughter. A moment later, they had scurried out of his chambers.
"Why didn't you just let her kill me. You could have been queen, just like mother and father wished you to be," he had asked his sister.
"You're my brother. I will not let you die. Too many of us have. And I was to be Jacaerys' queen. That is what I desired."
Baela had defended them, fought for them. She had duelled Sunfyre and his uncle when he first took Dragonstone. She had sacrificed Moondancer to keep them safe, to keep them alive. She was the reason that Sunfyre was dead. If not for her, her uncle would have held the throne and killed all of them. And now she fought for him again, defended him again, with no hesitation, in order for him to live. Baela was brave, he was not. Baela protected her baby brother. He had left his to die with the bad men. Aegon had let the tears fall then. Baela held him as he sobbed. She did not talk sweetly to reassure him like her mother, nor try to soothe him by singing like Rhaena or his father, but she held him as he let his tears flow, and that was enough.
Aegon did not know how long he had been lying there, in the wet as the rain and hail that fell with such force that it seemed that it would break the earth. The thunder was loud and howling, a sound that reminded him of Stormcloud's roars. The sound of the door to his balcony opening broke him out of his trance. He looked to see his sisters, Baela and Rhaena, dressed in fine resplendent gowns of red and black, with Gaemon, his only friend accompanying him.
"Egg, please come inside." Rhaena's soft voice punched through the falling rain.
Aegon remembered then. Everyday he spent his evenings and nights together with his sisters. They would sup together. Afterwards, Rhaena or Elinda would sing for them, as they had done on Dragonstone for as long as he could remember. These days Rhaena went beyond, her singing accompanied by the sound of a harp. When questioned by Baela, Rhaena would say that she had learnt how to play it in the Vale, where she would entertain the wives, sisters, daughters and nieces of the lords and knights that had gone to war. Within a surprisingly short time, she had become a harpist of great skill. There were nights where they would talk of matters of court, mostly meaning Rhaena feeding him the gossip she had learned.
On other occasions, they would sit in silence as they all went about their various tasks; Rhaena wrote, on one of the massive empty tomes from YiTi their father had gifted her on her sixth nameday. It had taken five years to fill the first one, now she was on the second one. There were twenty of them. Their father had intended for them to last for a century. On them, his sister chronicled the events, achievements (small or large) together with notable daily happenings of all their family members across every day since the day his little brother was born. Rhaena and Baela had shared a nameday with his baby brother, Aegon remembered.
Lady Elinda brought the food, Gaemon jumping excitedly as he went to eat it as Rhaena examined his bleeding arm. She then requested Lady Elinda get a bottle of wine from the kitchens and milk of the poppy from the maester. She returned soon after and Rhaena poured some of it on the metallic chalice and placed it in front of the hearth of fire and soon after it bubbled showing that it was boiling, she took a cloth and poured the hot wine on it, placing it on his arm. He winced at its sting. "It will staunch the bleeding Egg, and make sure the wound will not fester." Aegon listened. His sister knew what she was doing, she always did. Rhaena poured a dose of the poppy milk and handed it to him. "The cuts are deep. They need to be sewn shut and that shall be incredibly painful without the poppy milk." So he drank the dose given. After a few minutes when the poppy had taken effect, she took the needle, poured some of the boiled wine on it and the thread, and began to sew his cuts closed with dextrous hands.
In Aegon's opinion, Rhaena was better at this than even Maester Geradys. She had been treating him since she returned from the Vale; since her grandfather had poisoned his uncle and proclaimed him king. Never once did she even attempt to condemn him or question him on why he was destroying himself. She deftly cleaned his wounds and made sure they were dressed before he went to bed. He was not sure whether she was involved or not, but knives were no longer present for their meals. He was only granted a spoon and a fork. Even the Valyrian dagger that was wielded by all the Kings since his conquering namesake was not in his possession. He did not know when they had been taken, but he knew that his sisters had them. In truth Aegon did not wish to destroy himself as he did. Every time after Rhaena dressed his wounds, he was gripped by a profound sense of shame. He was failing once more. Failing to be stronger than his pain and grief.
"All good now. It shall heal, but it will leave a scar. I shall check it again tomorrow to make sure it does not fester." Rhaena said as he had finished wrapping his arm with a fresh linen cloth.
Tonight the five of them aye, Elinda and Gaemon sat at the table as well, they were practically family now) ate in a comfortable silence. Aegon liked it. The evenings and the nights were the highlights of his now empty life.
Baela broke the silence as she dug her fork into the pork chops, "Egg, tomorrow at dawn…." she shared a look with Rhaena before she continued, "I shall depart King's Landing for a time."
Aegon began to feel a sense of panic rise in her throat. Whenever someone left home, more often than not he did not see them again. He tried to quell the fear that gripped his chest. "Where are you going?" She shared a look with her sister once more. It was as if they had whole conversations with just their eyes. Like him and Viserys used to.
"Swear you shall not tell anyone." Rhaena all but commanded.
"I swear."
"I swear Princess," Elinda and Gaemon added their oaths as well.
"Egg, we think Viserys might be alive. We are not sure exactly, as they are just rumours we heard from the merchants in the docks, but Baela shall set out to see to the truth of them."
His face clearly showed the mixture of shock, surprise and anticipation. There was a chance that he would reunite his brother once more. He quickly responded, "You have my leave sister. If you can, find him and bring him back to us." Baela agreed.
The rest of the dinner was uneventful, as it was usually. They ate, then Rhaena played the harp as Elinda and Gaemon sang, while Baela attempted to, failing miserably. That night was the first night in many that he did not have to take sweetsleep to stop the bad dreams. As he felt sleep claim him, he did not hear screaming nor see flames, however, for the first time in a long time, Aegon allowed himself to feel hope, as Baela continued her awful singing.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, a look into Aegon's mind and how he's handling everything. Let me know your thoughts on it. If you would like to read more, you can do so here.
AEGON
It was drizzling as dusk approached. There would be a storm that night, Aegon knew, judging by the clouds present in the sky. He walked to the balcony, on the kingly chambers that were now his, to watch the storm clouds gather in the late afternoon sky. He had always enjoyed watching the sky. He remembered the storms at Dragonstone. They were fierce, raging and terrifying to his baby brother. He, on the other hand, had always found them comforting. The beat of the Stone Drum when the winds were howling and rain was falling made him sleep like a log.
However, he did not enjoy them as much as Lucerys did. Lucerys was made for the seas and all the peril they brought; truly a worthy heir for the Lord of The Tides. Lucerys had been the one to teach him what the different types of clouds looked like and what they all meant; after he himself had been taught by his grandfather when they had sailed to Volantis once he turned ten. Lucerys had told him that his dragon had the colouring of the clouds during a storm. So he named him that; Stormcloud.
His father had thought it a stupid name, urging him to name his dragon after one in of the Gods in the Valyrian Pantheon, like him, his mother and his brothers had. Caraxes, Syrax, Vermax, Arrax and Tyraxes were beautiful names for beautiful mounts. Her mother had disagreed then, arguing that Stormcloud was a fierce name in its own right, fiercer than the uninspired Sunfyre, the name his uncle gave his own mount. They had all laughed then.
He was not laughing now. In fact, he had not laughed in a long time. He always wondered why he was named Aegon. His father had told that he was more worthy of that name than any who had borne it before. He did not believe him. There was Aegon The Conqueror, the king every Targaryen since then aimed to match with varying degrees of success. He had asked his mother about it, and she had told him that his father had a baby brother that had died soon after he was born, who was also named Aegon. She had explained that her father thought it was his fault that he could not save him or his mother. So, he had promised to do right by him, the new Aegon. He had gone to his father's room then and gave him a hug, assuring him that he was the best father he could have ever asked for. That was the only time he had seen his father shed tears.
When they went to King's Landing to celebrate Jaehaerys and Jaehaera's fifth name-day however, his uncle, the one with the sapphire eye, told him that he had no right to that name; that the name he bore only belonged to kings and not a whore's son. He ran to his father once more, asking him what a whore was. When he told him where he had heard that, he took Darksister and marched angrily out of the room. His mother had stopped him. It was the first time he had seen his father and mother shout at each other. He was terrified then, and ran to Rhaena's room and slept the night there. Rhaena had held him and had sung sweet songs to him as he fell asleep.
Now, he hated the name. He hated himself for having that name. He hated Aegon The Conqueror. Why couldn't he just stay on Dragonstone and be content with what he had? He could have done what Lord Corlys did and built the island to become the richest demesne in Westeros. Then his mother would have been happy, and most importantly, she would have lived. He allowed his mind to wander to that. Rhaenyra Targaryen would have become Lady of Dragonstone. Jacaerys Targaryen would have followed their mother with Baela Targaryen as his lady. He would have been content to serve the three of them; they were more worthy than most kings he had read about. He hated his father's dead brother; he should have lived so that he didn't have to get that name.
His mind wandered to his uncle then, the usurper that had the same name as him. Everytime that happened, he only saw flames and heard screaming. He couldn't let himself think about it, so instead he took the kitchen knife he had hidden after breaking his fast the day before yesterday and made two more cuts on his forearm. It was painful, as it was every time he did it. He made himself focus on that pain, it took his thoughts away from the screaming and the flames.
What would his father think of him now? He had given him that name and told him that he would be the greatest to bear it. He was sure he would not think of him being worthy of being his son, worthy of being his blood. His father had gone to war for seven years in the Stepstones to make sure his brother's realm was secure from foreign invasion, without hesitation. He was the first to pledge to their mother as queen, without hesitation. He gave his life fighting for them to live, without hesitation.
Jacaerys had flown all across the realm to secure allegiances of multiple houses in the war. He then died burning foreign invaders that threatened his mother's realm, without hesitation. Lucerys as well. Joffrey had spent every day after his mother took King's Landing patrolling the skies, ready to face Vhagar or Tessarion if they dared to invade. He had died, trying to defend their dragons from being assaulted by smallfolk. His brother had just been named Prince of Dragonstone then, and wanted to prove himself worthy. (He was in Aegon's eyes). Aegon had told him not to go, but Joffrey promised him that he was going to save Shrykos for him to claim when the war ended. Joffrey had promised him that he would be his Hand when he sat the Iron Throne, right as he went into the night, never to be seen again. What about him? What had he done, even with his storied name? The only contributions he had made in the war was leaving his baby brother to be killed by invaders and pirates, and to stand and watch as his mother was.... No, it would not do well to remember that.
He had a King's name, but he should never have been King. They remembered the first Aegon as The Conqueror and the second as The Uncrowned. How would they remember him? Aegon the Craven was fitting, or Aegon the Unworthy. He would have been content to serve his brother Jacaerys in whatever way he asked him to. He once thought of joining the Kingsguard and becoming as renowned a knight as Ser Ryam Redwyne or Jonquil Darke, or even becoming Joffrey's hand, that was okay for him too; Joffrey was the boldest of his brothers.
But, they were all gone now. His mother, his father, his brothers; all of them were dead. The rain had begun to pour, and Lucerys was not here to play with him in it until they were found and got into trouble with their mother because of it. Jacaerys was not here to help him train his dragon. His father was not here to teach him how to wield a sword, and get angry with him everytime he stole Darksister and hid it from him. Joffrey was not here to play pranks on Ser Robert Quince, the old fat knight that had been their mother's steward on Dragonstone.
And Viserys. His brother who followed him everywhere since he learned to walk. It had annoyed him greatly, at first. One time, soon after Viserys had begun to walk, Aegon had hidden from him for an entire day. His brother went to their mother, screaming in tears, thinking he had died. That was the only time he could remember his mother being truly angry with him. "He is your baby brother Aegon, it is your duty to watch over him. Like Jacaerys watches over all of you," his mother had told her. That day, he had promised his mother that he would watch over his baby brother; that he would be like Jacaerys.
Oh, how he had broken that promise. He remembered his brother on the boat then, tightly clutching to his dragon's egg. The egg was still warm, even after seven years of having it, and Viserys hoped it would hatch. Aegon was so scared after their boat had been attacked. But Viserys was brave and clever instead. More brave and more clever than he could ever hope to be. He quickly changed his clothes to those of a servant and hid the egg at the bottom of the bed so that it could not be spotted. All Aegon could think of was getting away from the bad men. So he took his two-year old dragon and flew from the boat to go get his brother to help him rescue Viserys.
On the flight, his dragon had protected him. It was his first flight, and he was barely in any control. He tried to think of all he had been taught by his father, mother and Jacaerys about flying on a dragon but it could not come to him. Instead he just clung to Stormcloud as scorpion bolts were being shot at him. Stormcloud, his best friend, his other half, had made it to Dragonstone and died of many of those bolts when he landed. Jacaerys found him, and he had promised him that he would get Viserys back. But he could not. At least Jacaerys fought the people who had taken his baby brother and died trying to save him. Jacaerys was brave. He was not. He had left him. He was a failure. He had left his baby brother to die. What difference was there between him and his uncles? "We are all Kinslayers," he muttered to himself.
The rain had begun falling steadily, with the thunder howling and the lightning flashing. It held no more joy for him now. The stars were not out that night either. The last time there had been stars in the skies was when he lay on the beach with Viserys the day before the war began. He was suddenly aware that the pain on his left forearm had dulled, so with the knife, he reopened the two healing scars that he had made yesterday. He was drenched in rain water. He saw fresh blood was mixing with it and the bricks on his balcony's floor ran red with the mixture.
The sweet dark sounds of death urged him to take the knife and plunge it into his neck. Maester Gerardys had taught him that there was a part of the neck that if slashed, a man would die quickly. He could end it all. All this misery, all this sadness, all this pain. He wished to end it. He would see his brothers again, and his father and his mother in the great beyond. In his madness, the elder Aegon had brought him to the execution block so many times when he was his hostage. Each time, he had ordered his traitor Alfred Broome to swing Blackfyre to end his life. He always countermanded the order when Broome had raised the sword high above his head. His uncle thought it would scare him, cow him and make him fear him. It did not. Aegon felt nothing, nothing but a strong sense of desire to join his mother in death. Oh, how he wished to feel the cold of the Valyrian Steel falling hard on his neck. Death would be his freedom, death would be his redemption.
On the first day they had returned from Dragonstone, Jaehaera's grandmother had come into his room holding a kitchen knife. It was in the middle of the night, and like most days, he was on the balcony watching the sky. She had snuck up on him only in her sleeping shift accusing her mother of killing her sons and grandsons, claiming that it was only right for the debt to be repaid by his death. Aegon did not even move, he did not even flinch with fear; he just turned around to look at her. Their eyes locked; his empty, dead and a dark void while hers were full of fury, vengeance and anguish. Baela had saved her that night; she had entered his bedchamber slowly with one hand on Jaehaera's shoulder and another holding the conqueror's dagger to Jaehaera's throat.
"Kill my brother, and I swear, you will watch as I open her throat." Her voice was low, like the roar of a dragon. She sounded more like their father than he ever could. Jaehaera was sobbing silently, with tears staining her face. With a clang, her grandmother had let her knife fall to the floor and ran to her granddaughter. A moment later, they had scurried out of his chambers.
"Why didn't you just let her kill me. You could have been queen, just like mother and father wished you to be," he had asked his sister.
"You're my brother. I will not let you die. Too many of us have. And I was to be Jacaerys' queen. That is what I desired."
Baela had defended them, fought for them. She had duelled Sunfyre and his uncle when he first took Dragonstone. She had sacrificed Moondancer to keep them safe, to keep them alive. She was the reason that Sunfyre was dead. If not for her, her uncle would have held the throne and killed all of them. And now she fought for him again, defended him again, with no hesitation, in order for him to live. Baela was brave, he was not. Baela protected her baby brother. He had left his to die with the bad men. Aegon had let the tears fall then. Baela held him as he sobbed. She did not talk sweetly to reassure him like her mother, nor try to soothe him by singing like Rhaena or his father, but she held him as he let his tears flow, and that was enough.
Aegon did not know how long he had been lying there, in the wet as the rain and hail that fell with such force that it seemed that it would break the earth. The thunder was loud and howling, a sound that reminded him of Stormcloud's roars. The sound of the door to his balcony opening broke him out of his trance. He looked to see his sisters, Baela and Rhaena, dressed in fine resplendent gowns of red and black, with Gaemon, his only friend accompanying him.
"Egg, please come inside." Rhaena's soft voice punched through the falling rain.
Aegon remembered then. Everyday he spent his evenings and nights together with his sisters. They would sup together. Afterwards, Rhaena or Elinda would sing for them, as they had done on Dragonstone for as long as he could remember. These days Rhaena went beyond, her singing accompanied by the sound of a harp. When questioned by Baela, Rhaena would say that she had learnt how to play it in the Vale, where she would entertain the wives, sisters, daughters and nieces of the lords and knights that had gone to war. Within a surprisingly short time, she had become a harpist of great skill. There were nights where they would talk of matters of court, mostly meaning Rhaena feeding him the gossip she had learned.
On other occasions, they would sit in silence as they all went about their various tasks; Rhaena wrote, on one of the massive empty tomes from YiTi their father had gifted her on her sixth nameday. It had taken five years to fill the first one, now she was on the second one. There were twenty of them. Their father had intended for them to last for a century. On them, his sister chronicled the events, achievements (small or large) together with notable daily happenings of all their family members across every day since the day his little brother was born. Rhaena and Baela had shared a nameday with his baby brother, Aegon remembered.
Lady Elinda brought the food, Gaemon jumping excitedly as he went to eat it as Rhaena examined his bleeding arm. She then requested Lady Elinda get a bottle of wine from the kitchens and milk of the poppy from the maester. She returned soon after and Rhaena poured some of it on the metallic chalice and placed it in front of the hearth of fire and soon after it bubbled showing that it was boiling, she took a cloth and poured the hot wine on it, placing it on his arm. He winced at its sting. "It will staunch the bleeding Egg, and make sure the wound will not fester." Aegon listened. His sister knew what she was doing, she always did. Rhaena poured a dose of the poppy milk and handed it to him. "The cuts are deep. They need to be sewn shut and that shall be incredibly painful without the poppy milk." So he drank the dose given. After a few minutes when the poppy had taken effect, she took the needle, poured some of the boiled wine on it and the thread, and began to sew his cuts closed with dextrous hands.
In Aegon's opinion, Rhaena was better at this than even Maester Geradys. She had been treating him since she returned from the Vale; since her grandfather had poisoned his uncle and proclaimed him king. Never once did she even attempt to condemn him or question him on why he was destroying himself. She deftly cleaned his wounds and made sure they were dressed before he went to bed. He was not sure whether she was involved or not, but knives were no longer present for their meals. He was only granted a spoon and a fork. Even the Valyrian dagger that was wielded by all the Kings since his conquering namesake was not in his possession. He did not know when they had been taken, but he knew that his sisters had them. In truth Aegon did not wish to destroy himself as he did. Every time after Rhaena dressed his wounds, he was gripped by a profound sense of shame. He was failing once more. Failing to be stronger than his pain and grief.
"All good now. It shall heal, but it will leave a scar. I shall check it again tomorrow to make sure it does not fester." Rhaena said as he had finished wrapping his arm with a fresh linen cloth.
Tonight the five of them aye, Elinda and Gaemon sat at the table as well, they were practically family now) ate in a comfortable silence. Aegon liked it. The evenings and the nights were the highlights of his now empty life.
Baela broke the silence as she dug her fork into the pork chops, "Egg, tomorrow at dawn…." she shared a look with Rhaena before she continued, "I shall depart King's Landing for a time."
Aegon began to feel a sense of panic rise in her throat. Whenever someone left home, more often than not he did not see them again. He tried to quell the fear that gripped his chest. "Where are you going?" She shared a look with her sister once more. It was as if they had whole conversations with just their eyes. Like him and Viserys used to.
"Swear you shall not tell anyone." Rhaena all but commanded.
"I swear."
"I swear Princess," Elinda and Gaemon added their oaths as well.
"Egg, we think Viserys might be alive. We are not sure exactly, as they are just rumours we heard from the merchants in the docks, but Baela shall set out to see to the truth of them."
His face clearly showed the mixture of shock, surprise and anticipation. There was a chance that he would reunite his brother once more. He quickly responded, "You have my leave sister. If you can, find him and bring him back to us." Baela agreed.
The rest of the dinner was uneventful, as it was usually. They ate, then Rhaena played the harp as Elinda and Gaemon sang, while Baela attempted to, failing miserably. That night was the first night in many that he did not have to take sweetsleep to stop the bad dreams. As he felt sleep claim him, he did not hear screaming nor see flames, however, for the first time in a long time, Aegon allowed himself to feel hope, as Baela continued her awful singing.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, a look into Aegon's mind and how he's handling everything. Let me know your thoughts on it. If you would like to read more, you can do so here.