One Ring. Seven Kingdoms. (LOTR x ASOIAF crossover)

[Warmaster_Abaddon]

And thou Melkor shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not it's uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite for he that attempteth shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful which he himself hath not imagined – Eru Illuvator (J.R.R Tolkien)

Mount Doom
​

The Ring-bearer screamed, and with the last of his ferocious will, he hurled the creature from his back. Smeagol wobbled on the edge of the cliff, his filthy toes clawing for purchase against jagged stone. Below, the fire and molten rock hissed and spat, a churning sea of fiery hunger that waited to devour them. Smeagol's wide eyes flickered between terror and devotion as he clutched the Ring to his chest.

The Ring-bearer collapsed to his knees, chest heaving. His task was incomplete. Smeagol had found footing and would surely flee deeper into the mountain. The air thickened with tension. Outside, the Nazgûl were still afar, their fell beasts shrieking in agony beneath the whip of dark sorcery, driven to a frenzy but unable to hasten their flight. Their hooded masters gnashed their rotten teeth in impotent fury as the hour was nigh and they were found wanting. Try as they might, in their dark hearts, they knew they wouldn't reach in time.

Then, all chaos ceased. A stillness fell, deep and suffocating, as though the world itself had drawn a deep breath and forgotten how to release it.

Then, reality bent, and a presence entered the cavern.

Vast, unseen, and yet undeniable. The mountain groaned under the weight of such a will. The Ring quivered in Smeagol's trembling grasp as its sharp senses felt the change that mortal hearts could not. For a heartbeat, even the flames seemed to recoil, unwilling to act according to their nature.

With a silent act, the unseen power turned its attention upon the wretch. Smeagol was lifted from the precipice and cast downward like refuse. His scream was devoured by the roar of the lava below as his body met its end.

But the Ring lingered, resting upon a charred hand that floated above the molten sea.

It did not fall. Instead, it prayed and it begged.

The burning air pulsed with its plea - not to the ethereal monarchs of the far West, but to the unknowable presence that stood beyond time, beyond space, beyond death itself. The ultimate mystery, vast and silent, yet filled with love for its creation. The One Above All.

It wasn't its fault. It had never been granted autonomy since its birth. It had never been given a true chance to be judged fairly.

The Ring prayed and pleaded for an eternity uncounted, until reality shivered once more and the threads of fate rewove themselves.

A ripple crossed the magma's surface. The cavern warped again, as though creation hesitated in its unfolding. From the inferno, a fragment of stone tore free and rose. Upon it, a blackened hand twitched and found purchase, the ring in its grasp floating to safety.

The Ring burned with a blinding light, purging the last echo of its master's malice. Somewhere, far beyond Middle-earth, a scream of defiance was silenced forever.

And in the heart of Mount Doom, what had once been a forge of evil, became a mausoleum. For now, it rested and observed the outside world through means beyond physical sight.

 

[Warmaster_Abaddon]

But the delight and pride of Aulë is in the deed of making, and in the thing made, and neither in possession nor in his own mastery. - The Silmarillion, "Ainulindalë"

A Brief History of The World

The Great Empire Of Dawn & The Long Night


​

The victorious armies of the grand alliance had long dispersed to return, triumphant, to their holds. To celebrate, make merry, be fruitful and multiply.

A long silence followed, one that stretched across centuries. The fires cooled, the mountains slept, and the world was remade in the quiet aftersong of its deliverance. The elder races' great and final migration to the eternal West was at its very end.

No longer will those of the great beyond influence the fates of the sons of man.

From the western shores to the silver fields of the East, the tongues of men whispered of peace reborn. Kingship returned in mortal form yet tempered by immortal grace of the elder races. In that age, the blood of two races, once divided by fate, flowed as one.

Nimloth the Fair bloomed again under the wise patronage of the Númenórean kings.

Under their reign, the world flowered anew. Great cities rose from ruin, not in fear but in defiance of the nightmares of the dark age. The high towers were carved from pale stone that caught the morning sun and shimmered like starlight in honor of the great white city.

The laws of men were rewritten in the spirit of mercy rather than conquest. The harvests grew heavy again, and even the long-silent forests sang beneath the touch of gentler hands.

The wise who had guided the elder world withdrew, their task complete, their blessing left behind in the form of quiet wisdom that lingered like fragrance in the air. The sea calmed. The shadows of the North receded. For a time, no blade was raised in anger. Scholars called it the Age of Renewal. Poets named it The Dawn of the Twice-born Race.

The men called it the Great Empire of Dawn.

Great voyages sailed across distant seas, carrying banners of peace and discovery. Lands once hidden from the eyes of men were charted and claimed, and for a time the world knew harmony and abundance. It was an age of grace, when wisdom tempered power and the memory of divine wisdom still lingered in mankind.

An Empire spanning an entire continent was formed.

Yet peace, like all mortal works, could not endure. As the centuries passed and the wise accepted the Gift of the Man, the hold upon higher truths began to fade. The hearts of men, ever restless and easily swayed, turned from humility to vanity. They crowned lesser men as rulers and the wisdom of Numenor slipped into legend.

A shadow crept once more across the lands. The white city, dimmed and dulled beneath the weight of pride and neglect. Trade faltered, wages fell, and corruption festered in high places. The fortresses and watchtowers of the borderlands, once steadfast and vigilant against the shadowed realms, stood empty, their beacons unlit when trouble came marching forth.

The fear of death, long conquered, returned to the hearts of kings and it took priority over everything else.

The rulers of men began to curse their mortality, naming it a cruelty of the gods rather than a gift. In their despair, they sought forbidden paths. Cults of dark learning spread through the cities, reviving knowledge best left buried.

The air grew thick with whispers of necromancy and the summoning of shades that had been cast out of the world in ages past. And so, as knowledge rose and wisdom faltered, the light of that great age began to die. The monarchs turned sorcerer kings maintained blood harems and feasted on human flesh to unnaturally prolong their lives.

In the cold, lifeless places of the world, a new evil began to take root. Another song of creation perverted by the Great Evil emerged from its long slumber. The Great Others emerged from the heart of winter and descended with merciless hunger for warm blood upon the realms of man.

City after city, grown soft and spoiled by the virtue of their ancestors, fell beneath their onslaught. The slain were raised to swell the ranks of the dead, and the legions of winter marched southward, devouring the warmth of the world. Civilization collapsed beneath their advance. Entire bloodlines were wiped from history, their names surviving only as faint echoes in ruined tombs. The bustling cities of trade and life became grim mausoleums where the dead ruled in silence. Rivers froze solid beneath the tread of the Great Others, and the lands of men lay buried under endless frost. The very flame of mankind guttered, and the world stood on the brink of a night without end.

For a moment all seemed lost.

If these were the choking gasps of a species, it was a fitting end for their hubris.

Yet, it was not to be. For today was not the end of all days. On this day the sons of man decided to fight.

After all, the fate of humankind was not bound to the spheres of this world alone. As decreed by the One Above All, a fierce desire for life and liberty burned within their hearts, a flame that no shadow could ever hope to quench. The Great Enemy, the accursed Morgoth, could not hope to achieve it.

What hope could these fey of ice and darkness have?

It was this fire, older than despair, that allowed men to reshape the very skeins of fate in ways even the mightiest magi and warriors of the elder races could not.

From the ruins of fallen kingdoms, refugees who had fled the decadence and corruption of the Old Empire began to gather and organize. They turned once more to the old ways, seeking strength and courage in the wisdom of the ages.

Tomes hidden from the flames of burning libraries were opened. The ancient forges sang again, their hammers ringing with purpose. Legions rose from among the disillusioned and the dispossessed, bound by shared defiance.

At the heart of the Great Muster of Men stood one descended from the blood of Númenor. Beneath his banner, the remnants of humankind gathered, weary yet unbroken, their eyes alight with the fire of ancient oaths. The frozen silence of the world was broken by a cry older than kingdoms, a battle-shout that once sent dread through the hosts of darkness.

Aure entuluva! Day Will Come Again!

The hosts answered as one, their voices rising like peals of thunder across the plains. They fell upon the undead and their eldritch masters in a storm of honest steel, fury, and a renewed love for death.

The air rang with the song of iron, and the frost split beneath the fury of their charge. Men perished by the thousands, yet none yielded. Their courage blazed brighter than the pyres of their slain, and the long night itself seemed to tremble before that wrathful light.

Yet it was not enough. Try as they might, the undead tide slowed but did not relent. The earth groaned beneath the endless march of the dead, and even the bravest hearts began to waver.

But hope was nearer than any could have guessed. Not all ancient beings that lingered in the forgotten corners of the world were peversions of Morgoth's evil. The Ents - shepherds of the trees and eldest of the Earth's children, watched in sorrow as mankind gasped its last. When they saw the flame of courage rekindled in mortal hearts, they knew the time for silence had passed.

They came before the chosen of men, he whom the songs would declare Azhor Ahai, and spoke of visions granted by the One Above All. They told of a relic hidden deep within the bones of the world, a treasure of unmeasured knowledge and power that might turn the tide. Guided by their counsel, Azhor descended into the mountain and battled shades and unnamed horror that forever gnashed its teeth in impotent fury and frustration.

He found it there, gleaming amidst cold lava and a burnt hand.

It was the Ring, an artifact of an older age, and it beheld him with wonder.

In the noble warrior it saw both humility and wrath, a fierce love for his people and an iron will that hope against the dying of the light. And so it chose him. The Ring bound itself to his spirit, whispering the secrets it had once hoarded in silence.

Under its guidance, the knight learned to shape dragonglass and forge weapons of arcane might, tools of light and flame to drive back the darkness. For though its former master had been cruel beyond measure, he had been a smith without equal, and the Ring had learned much under his dominion.

With its aid, Azhor Ahai waged war unending, and the legions of the dead were cast down. The Great Others were driven into the farthest reaches of the night, and the living world breathed again. When at last Azhor fell, his body laid low by time and toil, the Ring did not perish with him. It sought another whose heart echoed that same spark of creation and defiance.

In the cold North it found Brandon Stark, a maker of things and a shaper of stone and steel much like its own nature. The ring was delighted beyond words to find a kindred spirit. To him it offered its counsel, and together they forged a wall beyond reckoning, a bastion that would forever stand between mankind and the returning dark.

Rise Of Valyria
​

The banishing of the Others led to the rebirth of civilization. Mankind rose again from ashes and ruin, building kingdoms and forging empires that reached farther than the dreams of their forebears. Chief among these was the Great Empire of Yi Ti.

Yet far to the west, of the continent now called Essos, another power began to stir. It was born not in courts or military legions, but among the herdsmen of the Valyrian peninsula.

In time, those herdsmen uncovered secrets that should have remained buried. They found the lairs of dragons, creatures forged from Morgoth's perversion of the song of creation. Rather than fear them, they sought to master them. With blood rites and binding spells, they yoked the fire drakes to their will.

The shepards now fancied themselves kings and godlings.

The Ring beheld their ascent with dread and loathing. It saw in them a perversion of every virtue it had once known in the hands of noble men. The Valyrians raped, plundered, and killed with a bloodlust not seen in a long time. Every waking moment was spent filling their halls with blood harems to fuel their blood magic.

They reveled in cruelty and called it high culture. Whole tribes of men were chained, burned, or erased from memory on a whim because one of the fourteen flames was inconvenienced. Their cities shone like jewels above rivers of blood, and their towers scraped the heavens as if in mockery of the divine. Meanwhile, entire tribes toiled in boiling mines in utter darkness, forever denied the light of Varda.

Not even the proud kings of old Númenor, in the madness of their fall, had sunk so deep. It reminded the Ring of Ar-Pharazôn and his debauchery. And the mighty king had been made to kneel and pay dearly for his horrifying crimes.

Suddenly, an idea sparked in its mind as if by Providence. When it had been whole with its master, they had similarly humbled an Empire. If it can be done before, why can't it be done again?

The Ring would humble these usurpers as it had once humbled kings. It would whisper in their dreams and tempt their pride, until the mighty towers of Valyria crumbled into ash and silence, and the world would once more remember that all empires, no matter how terrible, must fall.

Fall Of Valyria

​

Just because it had turned over a new leaf, didn't mean it had lost its older talents.

The Ring, ever patient and cunning, bided its time. Like a siren's song, it lured an ambitious dragonrider to its snowy domain, a woman of pride and restless hunger, she immediately claimed it for himself.

To her, it whispered secrets of power and dominion, of knowledge long forbidden even to the highest of Valyria's magi. The rider, blinded by her own brilliance, believed the gift was her birthright. Together they soared until the ring found its way into the very heart of the Freehold's power base.

Yet the Ring was treacherous, as it had always been. From the grasp of one flame it slipped to another, moving from lord to lord, lady to lady, like a siren with its seductive song. Each it seduced with visions of supremacy, each it left ruined or slain. Soon the Freehold, once united in bloated arrogance, turned upon itself. Dragonlord battled dragonlord, and the skies over Valyria burned with fire.

When their wars grew wild and senseless, the Ring passed into humbler hands. A servant found it, believing it a trinket of luck, and gifted it to his daughter. She, in turn, lost it to a merchant, who sold it for coin to a smith, who bartered it to a priest. So it wandered, nameless and unseen, slipping ever downward through the cracks of empire until at last it came to rest in the black mines beneath the Fourteen Flames.

There, in the bowels of the world, the Ring found its true audience. It whispered to the miners in their dreams, teaching them to speak to the earth's blood, to shape the molten rock with rites. Blood ran in channels beside lava, and the air grew thick with dark incantations. The mountain stirred, restless and aware.

Soon, Valyria would be no more. The Ring's design neared completion, and it exulted in the ruin it had wrought. Yet before the final stroke could fall, another darkness awoke, vast and alien to its understanding. The Ring cried out in fury as unseen hands tore it from the plane of its triumph and hurled it across the continent, far from the fires it had kindled.

And thus, on the eve of Valyria's doom, the Ring vanished once again into shadow.

 

[Warmaster_Abaddon]

The Shy Maid

​

He leaned into his harp, facing pressing deeper into the mahogany wood as the boat gently swayed to the flow of the waves. He played a sad tune, owing to the tumultuous storm of emotions raging inside him.

Rhaegar sang and played it better.

A snarl came upon him and the melody shifted into a jagged, screeching wail. He did not care. The only reason he was still playing a harp was because Rhaegar Targaryen played it. As such, it was imperative that he too played it in a manner befitting a Targaryen Prince.

Had he been listening, he would have immediately relented and stopped torturing the poor strings. Yet, Young Griff could not hear it. He might as well be a continent away from here. All he could comprehend right now was Jon Connington. His so called "father" who acted anything but.

The eyes that stabbed holes into him with their unrestrained vitriol. Always disappointed in him. Always finding him wanting in ways that Aegon couldn't dream of. Always failing him before Aegon had even tried.

Rhaegar's aim was impeccable. He would not have missed. Rhaegar would have dodged it in time. Rhaegar would not have cried out in pain. Rhaegar would not have missed the trebuchet and protected his dragon. Rhaegar played the harp well. He would not have missed the correct notes.

The poison that the man's tongue spat in his darker moods was worse than any training wound he had ever endured.

He squeezed the harp and wood creaked under protest, but he did not care. He bent the strings farther, demanding anger and ruin from them. A song worthy of his foul humors in the moment.

Earlier they had sparred, Ser Duck had been dismissed for some far-off errand. Aegon had asked where Duck had gone and the question set Jon's temper ablaze. He turned on him with accusations of sloth, dishonor, lust, greed. Connington went as far as declaring him a stain upon his glorious father's legacy, his father's father's legacy – all the way back to Aegon the Conqueror himself.

Aegon had finally snapped and thrown himself at Jon with a massive overhead blow which he easily dodged. Jon had not been merciful in his retaliation and with a single, painful blow to his back – sent him sprawling to the deck floor. Jon spat over the railing before walking away, not even bothering to check up on his royal charge.

Aegon clawed harder at the harp, the song growing ever more discordant. His hands moved faster and harder, his breathing sharp and loud. The song was no longer a song, only rage given sound.

SNAP

The strings tore apart and the song immediately ceased. Silence followed save Aegon's harsh breath. All was deathly still for a moment.

A heartbeat later he screamed, the sound torn straight from his chest.

He brought the harp down on the table beside him with a sharp thud.

Then again. Then again. Wood splintered, strings scattered, the melody died a second death beneath his fury. By the time he stopped, all that remained in his hand was the broken handle, trembling under his fearful arm.

Bitter tears streaked his face and he snarled through clenched teeth, a prince reduced to a wounded boy.

Jon was right. He was no Rhaegar Targaryen. Aegon angrily thought. He could hardly be angry without crying. He wasn't even worth the blood of the dragons.

The angry shivers stopped as warmth wrapped around him from behind. Aegon stiffened, breath hitching.

"Calm yourself, child," Septa Lemore said. "Do not lose faith in the gods. They will guide your path, come no matter what."

The words broke something inside him. Aegon turned and buried his face against her shoulder, clutching her like a drowning man. He shook with every breath as Lemore held him close, her hands steady where his were not. This was not the first time he had embraced her as such. Lord Connington had an inkling of their bond and had strictly forbidden such formalities.

Lemore did not care. Connington was a hard man living in waking nightmares borne out of past failures. He knew not the intricacies involved in rearing children, even those to whom one day they must all bend the knee. There was only so much force that could be applied even on the hardiest of metals before they shattered. Such was true of Princes as well.

She would know it best having been witness to such truths.

Aegon sobbed again, his entire body wracking with grief. Lemore said nothing but instead responded with rubbing slow comforting circles on his back. There was no crown between them here, only a kindly lady and a boy with no mother.

.

. .

Sleep did not come easily to him that night. The fiery tempest that had gripped him refused to die down so quickly. Septa Lemore had stayed for as long as was proper, humming Mother's Mercy in a low, soothing rhythm until the sobs finally ran their course.

Aegon could feel himself drifting in and out of deep sleep's embrace. His mind was active, but his body was disobedient. Every attempt to rouse himself, move his limbs, or even yell for help was a fool's folly. Try as he might, he was unable to move. For a moment, fear gripped him, was he poisoned?

Connington had thoroughly drenched the boy in a healthy dose of skepticism and paranoia. The Usurpers blades can reach us from everywhere. Always be on your guard.

Did Lemore poison me? Aegon thought, forcing his body over the bed to no avail.

Soon he felt a weakness grip him, an emptiness deep inside him as if he he hadn't eaten for days on end. A white light emerged from the corner of his vision and engulfed him.

Aegon blinked against the light and found himself standing on polished marble. The floor shone so brightly it looked like sunlight itself had been imprisoned in it. High above him, the roof was decorated with ornate tile designs, and the sun spilled inside from high windows.

A grand manse surrounded him, every wall smooth and white, every corner trimmed in gold.

His heart slammed against his ribs. How did he get here?! A moment ago he had been in the Shy Maid. Now he was in a palace of impossible splendor.

Maids dressed in little more than silk ribbons drifted through the halls, murmuring quietly as they moved from room to room. Their presence only deepened the pit in his stomach. Connington would lose his mind if he knew Aegon had wandered into a place like this. The thought of the man's fury made him swallow hard.

A sudden murmur of voices sounded behind him. Aegon spun around in panic, eyes darting for cover but found nothing. The footsteps grew closer. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the clash.

The voices and men passed through him as if he wasn't even there.

He opened his eyes, startled. The men behind him strode forward without even glancing his way, their shoulders brushing through him as though he were nothing but air. Aegon looked down at his hands. They shimmered faintly, pale and transparent in the sunlight.

"And what makes you think the Dothraki savages will honor their deal, Ilyrio?!" A young boy snarled at another older, fat man. He blinked at that. There was something about him…. Aegon gently approached the terrace where they argued with each other.

He approached the terrace slowly, careful not to draw attention, though he suspected they could not see him.



"Sometimes calculated risks are necessary, my prince," The other man, whom Aegon assumed was Ilyrio spoke. "If you are to once again fly the Targaryen banners over Westeros…."

The man paused his considerable bulk rumbling as if he ate something wrong before speaking again, "Westeros will not bend to a crown or name alone, my prince. The Dothraki will be the wind that carries your banners home."

Wait, Aegon's eyes widened. Did he just say Targaryen?! Were they talking about conquering Westeros?!

Jon had not mentioned anything about any other Targaryen survivng the sack. Who were they? Siblings? Cousins? Were the Rhaegar's? Or Aerys's?

A thousand questions swirled in his mind, one after another, but there was no answer.

"Aegon Targaryen didn't ally himself savages to conquer Westeros. Just like him, Viseryes Targaryen," The boy pointed a thumb at himself. "Won't need any savage cavalry to re-conquer my ancestral homeland."

Aegon was dumbstruck by "Viserys's" declaration. Did he truly not see the difference between his situation and Aegon the Conqueror's? Septa Lemore had said first impressions were often last imperssions. So far, this Viserys Targaryen had failed to live upto his expectations by just one statement alone.

Ilyrio sighed, discreetly covering it with his wine goblet, but Aegon could see the frustration in his eyes.

"Your Grace, I have no doubt about your martial might. I have no doubts that the blood of ancient Valyria flows through you along with that of the Conqueror's," Ilyrio started. "But, it should not be forgotten that the Conqueror had the luxury of thee wholly grown dragons. Alongside capable riders who were loyal to him – his sister wives."

The man knows his history well, Aegon thought.

Viserys laughed sharply. "And you would have me marry my own sister off to a Dothraki savage instead of taking her as my own, just as the Conqueror did?"

"Princess Daenerys is no dragon rider, Your Grace," Ilyrio replied, voice patient but strained. "The dragons have been gone for centuries. What we lack in dragons, we can make up for in shock and fury with the Dothraki. And once the Golden Company sees you at the head of a Dothraki horde, they will not dare dismiss you as they once did. You will have the world's most fearsome cavalry matched with the finest infantry."

"And what if their savage lord rejects Danaerys?" Viserys demanded.

Ilyria barked a laugh at that. "Trust me, my prince. There is not a horse lord born on this world that will ever be able ot resist Danaerys Targaryen."

The man concluded with a leecherous grin that left him deeply unsettled.

An uncomfortable feeling gripped Aegon. He had not meet this Danaerys, but seeing her being weighed and judged like meat on a butcher's hook left him with a bad taste. No doubt Jon Connington would have lauded Ilyrio's plan. After all, Old Gryff believed in making hard choices for the greater good.

But still, hesitation gripped him like a hook inside a fish's body. Would he be willing to proceed with this? All the long hours spent sitting on the Shy Maid' deck, looking at starry night sky wishing to be around kids his age. To play the games that they did and embrace each other and share secrets that all children his age did.

Yet all he had gotten in return was bruises, sermons, and lectures on war, killing, and rule.

What kind of a ruler bartered his kin on meat hooks? Was this all there it was to kingship?

In the darker moments of the night, Aegon had often dreamt of slipping loose of his minders when they docked at a port. The cities were massive. He could shave his head and puncture holes in clothes to look like one of the thousands of bastards and orphans that dotted port cities and hide amongst them.

It would most certainly be a better fate than what Jon had planned for him. An eternity of war and the purisuit of power.

Before he could ponder further, his vision swam again and the world tilted.

Aegon groggily rubbed his eyes as they recovered from the blinding light. He blinked rapidly and could make out a slim figure morosely sitting on a large chair. The blindspots cleared and his breath caught in throat.

He had seen Ser Duck make drunken passes at Septa Lemore, leering with the clumsy hunger of a sailor too long at sea. He had even endured Duck's whispered perversions, the times he dragged Aegon along to spy on Lemore when she bathed.

Aegon had felt disgust then at himself, a hot shame in his chest at being morbidly curious and even aroused.

But all of that paled compared to the sight of the woman sitting before him now.

White-blonde hair fell like silk down her shoulders, catching the light like a halo spun from frost. Her eyes were a deep violet, clear and sharp even as trouble sat heavy on her face. She carried her beauty like a burden, and that made it more striking still.

Aegon stood frozen, staring at her as if the very air had been stolen from his lungs.

Even with taking hints, Aegon knew in his heart of hearts this was Danaerys Targaryen.

The vision shuddered and broke apart like glass under a hammer. The terrace dissolved, the sunlight faded, and darkness bled in from every corner. Aegon's breath turned shallow as the world reshaped itself around him.

The young woman was still there, but now the light in her eyes was gone. The vision forced him to watch as shadows closed in. Rough hands dragged her through the dirt. Screams filled the air. He saw her thrown to the ground beneath the burning sky of some distant plain, saw the shapes of men circling her like wolves.

He tried to look away, but the vision held him fast.

Her trials spilled out one after another. The endless heat of the desert baking her skin. The wild laughter of the Dothraki as she stumbled through their camps, a broken prize passed from one hand to another. Bald sorcerers with blue lips wrapped her in chains of smoke and shadow, peeling pieces from her like carrion birds.

Faces blurred together, men and women both, each clawing something from her, feasting on her, draining her.

Aegon's scream tore through the blackness. Enough was enough! He charged at them, fists swinging, but the phantoms only laughed as his blows slid through empty air. Rage and helplessness gripped like an eagle's embrace.

His body convulsed, rattling in the grip of the vision.

Then a sharp gasp wrenched from his throat. He shot upright, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. Rough hands gripped his shoulders.

Yandry's voice cut through the dark, "Easy, lad. It's all right. Just a nightmare."

Aegon's heart still pounded like war drums, but the shadows were gone. Only the creak of the Shy Maid remained, and Yandry's worried face hovering above him.

Aegon immediately tries to sit up but winces as his gut flares in a piercing pain.

"Easy, now son," Yandry said as he hooked his arms underneath his pits and sat him against the bedside.

He placed a wrinkle hand against his forehead and asked, "You allright there, lad?"

Aegon let out a shaky breath, the sound almost lost to the creak of the hull. Lad. Not prince. Not my lord. Just lad. He was grateful for that. When Jon was away, they sometimes forgot who he was supposed to be and treated him like one of their own. Like part of the crew. Like family. It never lasted long. Jon's temper burned hot when he caught wind of it, so they had learned to be careful. But in the quiet hours, when the Shy Maid belonged to its crew alone, Aegon could almost pretend he was theirs and not Rhaegar Targaryen's shadow.

Yandry uncorked a wineskin and pressed it to his lips. It was only water.

Aegon tried to push it away, mumbling something about being fine, but Yandry didn't budge. "Drink. It'll steady you."

Aegon didn't need to be told twice and he gulped entire mouthfuls of the refreshing drink before Yandry gently tugged the wineskin away from him.

"You'll choke yourself if you're too greedy. Breathe a bit. Then we'll see if you want more."

Yandry spoke about other things, telling him what Jon had told them the day would involve but all Aegon could hear were hear were her screams.

I have to save her.

He didn't know how he would do it. He recalled from his lessons that the Dothraki were located near a patch of land called "The Dothraki Sea."

An endless sea of grass to graze, chase, raze, and enslave.

Aegon winced at the last thought. He didn't even know if and when Daenerys would be near the Dothraki sea. What if the horse lords travlled to Ilyrio's manse? He had no knowledge of where Ilyrio was with his kin. Aegon's jaw locked and teeth grit in anger. He had never left this useless before. Not even in the times when Jon and Ser Duck had sent him below duck while they battled the occassional desperate raider hungry enough to board their rickety boat.

Still he swore to himself on all that he found good and holy in this world.

I will save you, Daenerys. Just hold on.

Afternoon




​

"The boy is troubled," Yandry grunted as he chopped the onions.


Septa Lemore tutted, as she sauted something over low flame. "The Prince, Yandry. The Prince," Lemore said and Yandry scowled.

"Wasn't it the Young Gryff?" Ysolda rasped, skinng a rabbit to cook for dinner later.

All three worked in awkard silence, embarassed over their breach of protocol.

"Prince, Young Gryff, boy – it matters not," Yandry declared after a few moments. "What matters is, he is unwell. And I be willing to wager a thousand honors its not of the body but of the spirit."

" 'Tis the swamp and the constant slow water. The miasma makes for an ill temperment." Ysila said. "A young man should be out in the open under the sun. Frolicking with boys and girls his age. Not locked on a barge and kept secret from the world."

Lemore said nothing and both of them looked at her expectedly.

"Jon Connington is a hard man with a with harsh past. I am not sure what you expect me to accomplish here, friends," Septa Lemore said. "

Ysila snorted softly, not unkindly. "Then I'll say it plain. Too much pressure on the boy will break him long before he plants his pompous arse on any throne and finally makes Jon happy." She slammed the lid down on the pot with a decisive clatter. "He's young. A sapling bends easy, but press too hard and it snaps."

Yandry nodded. "The Old Griff might not listen to the likes of us, but he listens to you. For better or worse, he respects your counsel, Lady Lemore. If anyone can make him ease the reins, it's you."

Lemore's hands stilled on the spoon. The firelight caught the lines on her face, softening nothing.

"He does not trust me. I doubt the Old Gryff even trusts himself," she admitted quietly. "He will not welcome such counsel kindly."

Ysila folded her arms. "Then make him hear it anyway. Better his pride be bruised than the boy broken."

Yandry gave a slow grunt of agreement, turning back to the onions. "A prince with a shattered spine won't sit any throne. Best he learns to breathe before he learns to bleed."

"When will Jon return?" Lemore asked.

"In a day's time," Ysila said.

"Has Ser Duck returned from his errands?" Lemore said and she nodded.

"I will see what I can do," Lemore said. "Meanwhile, I will get Ser Duck to practice archery with him. That usually tempers the Prince's humors."

Archery

​

The arrow went loose with a soft twang and sliced clean through the fish's belly, pinning it to the waterbed with a muted splash.

"Well shot, my prince!" Yandry toothily grinned as he tossed the net overboard to haul in the carcass.

Ser Duck let out a booming laugh and clapped Aegon hard on the back. "Seven hells, lad, you're a better shot than I ever was at your age. Better than some of those wet-behind-the-ears scouts in the Golden Company too. Hells, what I wouldn't give to have you tutored by them."

Aegon said nothing. A grunt slipped past his lips, but there no usual smile. He notched another arrow, drew, and let it fly. The second fish died as cleanly as the first.

Ser Duck's laughter turned into a sigh. "What's gnawing at you, Young Gryff? Any other day you'd be shouting to the heavens about being a better shot than Bloodraven himself. Now? You like a maiden whose lord father told her that she will be marrying a man ten times her age."

Aegon ignored the jab, but Duc could see he had crossed some invisible line. The bow creaked as Aegon pulled it back harder. This time he didn't loose and instead kept looking into the river. Duck leaned over the railing to get a better look at Gryff's target all the while muttering about being old.

"Ser Duck," he said quietly, still aiming, "do you know anyone by the name of Ilyrio Mopatis?"

The knight froze, then spun toward him. "How do you know that name?"

Aegon tilted his head.

"Funny," he said softly, "you didn't deny it. You only want to know how I know…. That tends to make a man suspicious."

Then he turned, still holding the bow steady, and lowered the arrow until its point hovered over Duck's gut. The air between them grew still.

"Gryff," Duck said quietly, all jovialty forgotten. "Lower the bow. Please. I know you are frustrated , but this isn't the way."

"Tell me," Aegon said again, "do you know who Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen are?"

Evening


Jon Connington

​

Ser Duck hailed him with a wave as Jon's small boat slowly rowed towards their river barge.

With a grunt, the younger knight easily pulled him aboard. Jon took a few moments to take in his surroundings, as if his eyes could pierce through the darkness of the twilight and identify ambushers. Finding nothing outside of the ordinary, he turned to see Ser Duck's stern visage. The usual joviality missing from it.

"What happened?" Jon demanded, bracing himself for the worst possible news.

"The boy knows," Ser Duck said as if that would have immediately illuminated him.

"Knows what?" Jon snapped. He had left a maester incase the boy got sick. Lady Lemore and Maester Haldon had been left with strict instructions to keep the boy engaged with mental exercises and lessons. Ser Duck after his mission was incharge to run the boy physically with swordwork.

They were to ensure Prince Aegon would not have a moment's idle time to indulge in childish mischief.

Ser Duck looked taken aback by Gryff's attitude and straightened himself. "He asked me if I knew who Ilyrio Mopatis was and what was our relationship with him."

That made Jon pause.

He had expected some leecherous grope towards Lemore, a nasty prank on Yandry, or another shouting match with Haldon followed by a temper tantrum. Jon had always resolved to crush such temper tantrums in their budding. He of all people knew better than anyone else what happened when sharp measures weren't executed to foil a rebellion in its infancy.

This, however, was completely beyond him. How could Aegon who had no possible means to contact anyone had learned of this?

"What did you say?" Jon asked.

"I tried doding and delaying to the best of my-"

"What. Did. You. Say?" Jon interrupted.

"I said that he was a wealthy beneficiary of ours who was tired of the Baratheon's degeneracy and corruption and wished to restore the true monarchs," Duck said.

"Why would you ever think that was a good idea? You should have plead ignorance!" Jon shouted.

"He had a bow pointed at me! Your boy threatened to kill me!" Duck shouted back and that once again knocked the wind from Jon Connington's sails.

Had Aegon done that? Did he really threaten to kill a man over a piece of information?

Burn them! Burn them all!

Jon angrily shook his head. No, he won't tolerate this. Aegon must be made to learn there are limits to priviledge. Even a king's priviledge should have limits lest they end up causing…. Unfortunate circumstances.

"That's not all," Ser Duck and Jon groaned internally.

"He shot somebody?" Jon asked miserably.

"Nay, he asked about somebody…." Duck repeteadly snapped his fingers to remember the name. "Somebody called Danaerys and Viserys Targaryens?'

Mother's mercy. Jon thought.

Confrontation

​

Jon stepped through the door and into the dark. The room was pitch black, the only sound the soft creak of the Shy Maid beneath them. Aegon lay on his cot, still as a corpse. Too still infact.

Jon paused at the threshold.

He had seen that stillness before, years ago. Prince Rhaegar used to feign sleep when he wished to avoid petitioners, his father's wrath, or even his mother's devotion. Jon had learned to tell the difference between his prince at rest and his prince in turmoil. Not even Ser Arthur Dayne nor Ser Barristan could tell that. He prided himself on having such knowledge.

He could see the same in the prince's son now.

He used a candle to turn on an oil lamp hanging near him. The shadows vanished.

"I know you're awake," Jon said, loud enough.

Jon turned around and nearly did a double take. Aegon was already up, the blanket pooled around his knees. His face was hard, jaw clenched tight, and his purple eyes fixed on Jon. Jon felt something cold stir in his chest. The boy's eyes seemed brighter in the low light, almost glowing.

Were they glowing? he wondered.

Jon forced himself to speak before his temper could match the boy's silence.

"The Young Griff's behavior toward those who risk their lives for his well-being has left much to be desired," Jon began, his voice calm but cutting. "Yandry, Ysila, Lemore, Duck—they serve without complaint, yet you repay them with suspicion, threats. Laziness, and insolence."

Aegon said nothing.

"Threatening Ser Duck with some nonsense rumor? Pointing a bow at the man? Have you lost all sense?" He stepped closer, the anger now spilling freely. "You owe him your life more times than you can count, and this is how you repay him?"

Aegon's expression didn't change. His silence was deliberate, and that only made Jon's blood boil.

"I'll have an answer," Jon demanded. "Who told you of Ilyrio Mopatis?"

Still Aegon said nothing, only shadows danced across his face as the lantern swayed to the waves' motion outside.

"Is this any way to speak to a prince, lord Connington?" Aegon demanded. "Have you forgotten your proper place in the scheme of things? You will address me by my title, as the Prince of Westeros, the only son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen!"

Jon's jaw clenched. He felt the heat rising behind his eyes.

He took a step forward, his voice low but trembling with anger. "Careful, Gryff. You may have Rhaegar's blood, but you've yet to earn a single drop of his dignity."

"I will not be taught about dignity by a man who barters my kin like fish," Aegon snarled, tossing aside the blankets and rising to face his regent. Aegon was a tall boy, his Valyrian heritage clear in every line of his face, but Jon was a man grown and stared him down without flinching.

"You make demands and throw accusations when you know nothing of the matter, Young Griff," Jon shot back.

"I am the Prince!" Aegon barked. "I command you to tell me about your dealings with this Ilyrio Mopatis!"

"The Mad King thought he could make all the demands he wished, and courtiers would flock to cover it," Jon said. "Did Maester Haldon ever tell you what happened to him? What became of the greatest dynasty this world has ever seen?"

"You will not keep me in the dark any longer, Jon," Aegon shouted. "I demand to know why a woman of my house is being sold off as a broodmare to a Dothraki savage."

Jon was taken aback again. He wondered how many more times the boy would manage to do that. Was this Aegon growing up, pushing boundaries as all children did before they became men? And with how loud he was, Septa Lemore would no doubt come knocking soon, ready to demand answers for the noise.

Jon swallowed hard. "How do you know all this? Was it Lady Lemore? Haldon? Duck?"

Aegon lifted his chin, his voice almost solemn. "I am of Daenys the Dreamer's lineage. When the gods will it, they send visions to our blood. Visions of calamities that will shape the world. Clearly they think this match is one such calamity, and they have shown me what is to come so that I may save her."

Lemore it is then, Jon concluded. How SHE came to know of this was a separate matter entirely.

Jon almost laughed outright, but smothered it with a cough.

So the boy fancied himself a prophet now. It would have been comical if it were not so dangerous.

"At the very least, you listen to Maester Haldon's stories," Jon said dryly. "As for your… information…" He let the word hang. "Know this, there are many with deep pockets and sharper blades who want Targaryen rule restored, and even more who would see the usurpers fall."

Jon stepped forward. "Winning such a war means gaining the loyalty of such dangerous men. That is the cost of power. Women of noble houses have long carried that burden. They endure childbirth and do not flinch when told whom to marry, no matter how wretched their lord husband is. They do their duty. A man dons his armor, marches to war, and gets his flesh torn. That is how the realm is held together, through shared burdens and duty."

Aegon's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Jon placed a hand on his cheek and forced his head up.

"If you are to be king of the Seven Kingdoms one day," Jon said evenly, "you will learn to heed this lesson, Young Griff."

"We have to save her," Aegon said at last, his voice almost whining. Please, I know how much she will suffer. We have to help her! He bit back the words before they could leave his mouth. He did not know how Jon would react if he spoke of the visions.

Jon finally laughed. "You are not even ten and two, and you think to charge a Dothraki camp," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Put such foolish notions away, my prince. The realm has had enough of adventurers."

He turned to the oil lamp and blew out the flame. The room sank into darkness.

"Go to sleep," Jon ordered.

Septa Lemore

​

Lemore watched from the corner of the cabin as Jon and Ser Duck spoke in low tones. She tried not to wring her hands, but the tension in the air felt heavy enough to crush bone. Things had grown darker over the past few days, ever since she had heard shouting from Young Griff's room. Neither the boy nor Jon had spoken much since. They passed one another like men carrying the plague, careful to keep their distance.

She had tried to offer her help, thinking to smooth things over. Life on a river barge demanded harmony, or at the very least civility. But when she had approached Jon, he had turned on her. Jon accused her of everything. From being soft on the boy, to feeding him lies and foolish hopes. The words still stung. For a moment, he had even told her to pack her things and prepare to be set ashore at the next port. He had returned later to mutter an apology.

Yet none of it eased her unease.

Young Griff had changed in ways that unsettled her. His portions had grown larger, and he had taken to eating alone in his room without calling for company. Even Duck, with his endless jokes and coarse humor, had failed to coax a smile or even a snarl from him. Worse still, Maester Haldon had quietly mentioned that Aegon had taken an unusual interest in astronomy, tides, and navigation. That alone was odd enough to make the hairs on her neck stand.

A cold dread crept into her chest as the pieces began to fit together in her mind.

Without another word, she stood from her chair. Duck frowned, and Ysila followed her movement with narrowed eyes as she hurried down the passage. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she reached Young Griff's door and pushed it open. The room was dark and still.

He was lying in bed. Or so it seemed.

Lemore rushed to the bedside, yanking back the blankets. The shape beneath them collapsed like a poorly built wall.

Lemore screamed for Jon, but it was too late.

Aegon had vanished.

Aegon

​

Aegon thanked the Gods and his lucky stars that it had been an unusually long and warm summer. He didn't think he would have been able to survive otherwise if the water had been chill. Another stroke of luck was that the tide was not against him.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Aegon adopted a rhythm between each stroke of his arm as he swam through the water. He suppose credit must be given to Jon for insisting that he learn to swim in case they needed to abandon the boat immediately. The rational part of his mind told him that this was a folly, but he was tired of caution and planning. It was time for action!



Then, without warning, a strong current seized him and dragged him under. Water filled his ears and the world spun. Panic surged like wildfire in his chest as he kicked and clawed at the pull. He held his breath as long as he could.

The pressure mercileslsy built in his lungs.

The riverbed was beneath him, muddy and filled with underwater growth. Something glinted in the dark. Instinct pushed him to reach for it. His fingers closed around a fistful of wet dirt, clutching whatever it concealed just as the current heaved and spat him back toward the surface.

He burst into the air with a choking gasp.

Aegon spotted a riverbank low enough for him to easily climb. With a defiant roar and with the last bits of his strength, he rowed towards it till his hands found purchase on wet mud.

He dragged himself up, breath coming in harsh bursts, crawling on hands and knees until solid ground held beneath him. He stayed like this for a precious few moments until his lungs stopped burning.

Trembling, he opened his fist, wet earth spilled away, revealing a simple golden ring threaded through a slender silver chain. It gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Without a second thought, he slipped it over his head.

He pulled the sealed pack from his shoulder and fumbled as he tried to open the knot. He pulled out several pieces of dry cloth.

All the while, a prickling sensation crept along his back. It felt as if someone was watching. He glanced around. Nothing but reeds and trees met his gaze. Just nerves, he told himself. The start of any great adventure must feel like this.

He pressed the ring to his chest, closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer to the gods to keep Daenerys safe.

Hold on, he thought. I'm coming.

.

. .

Slightly away from him, hooded figures observed the young Targaryen prince from the shadows and gave the signal.

Daggers were drawn and traps tightened; they would not lose their quarry.

 

[Warmaster_Abaddon]

"In every age there come forth things that are new and have no foretelling, for they do not proceed from the past." - The Silmarillion, Valaquenta

Aegon Targaryen

​

Aegon grunted as he squeezed the last bit of water from his drenched tunic.

Somewhere out in the distance, something howled, and Aegon immediately regretted not being able to bring his chainmail or sword. All he could manage was two daggers and a knapsack with dried bread and meat. Even his bow was back at the boat. He liked to think of himself as an accomplished swimmer, but he had no delusions of swimming to the bank with that many items on his back.

A wave of exhaustion threatened to overtake him, and he fought back a yawn and blinked rapidly. He won't fall asleep. He won't succumb to the tiredness. Try as he might, he couldn't begin to understand why he was feeling this way. It was as if a hidden weight was dragging him down, tempering his furies and humors with a malicious intent till his fire fizzled out. He inadvertently reached for his chest and gripped the ring.

Aegon frowned; he didn't recall putting it around his neck.

The warmth oozing from it gave him brief succor before Aegon's eyes snapped open. His family awaited rescue. He had a job to do. It won't be long before Jon Connington notices he isn't in the boat anymore. He needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and Jon.

And where might Daenerys be, princeling?

Who said that?! Aegon whirled around, eyes digging through the foliage and the distant river.

There was nothing for miles on end, and he could only hear grasshoppers. For a brief moment, panic gripped him. Could it be Jon? Had they already covered the distance and were nearing him? He looked to the left, and an arrow whirled through the area where his head was.

Aegon blinked.

MOVE PRINCELING!

A voice shouted again, and Aegon felt an unseen force shoving him to the side as several more projectiles struck the empty ground. Muscle memory overtook him as Aegon darted towards the thick foliage, tall as a full-grown man, to lose his pursuers.

He could hear footsteps giving chase.

There were multiple men given the tempo and frequency of the sound. Aegon frowned. This was something else entirely. If Connington wished to capture him, he doubted the man would lob arrows at him.

Whoever they were, they hunted him like snarling hounds chasing after a stag.

Gooseflesh broke out as he ran through the foliage. This was the first time he was away from his gilded cage, in the real world, and somebody wanted him dead. This was no mock drill concocted by Ser Duck. If he died here, there would be no do-overs.

With his flame renewed, Aegon ran like he had never run before. The reefs and foliage passed like a blur at the edge of his vision as he dodged rocks and thicker plants on instinct alone. Still, he couldn't help but gasp in horror as they entered his eyesight, where the plants' density was thinner.

The creatures were snarling abominations with scaly, slimy skin, ferociously grotesque fangs, and hunched backs. Their skin was a dull black like smeared charcoal. Whatever they were now, they weren't human anymore.

Abominations from the darker corners of the world. Make haste, princeling. Your life depends on it!

He didn't question the voice's wisdom; it was the only solution at hand right now. He responded by picking up his pace, lungs straining underneath the effort.

Then the reeds broke before him, and he skidded to a halt. One of the beasts dropped from above, landing in his path with a wet thud, crouched and grinning. His black eyes gleamed in the darkness.

Aegon turned his head, desperately searching for escape.

To his right, another emerged from the grass. To his left, a third crept forward, blade in hand.

Seeing no way out, Aegon quietly drew his own daggers and held one in reverse grip.

If this were to be his first test beyond the Shy Maid, he would not meet it begging. Whatever these demons were, they would not find him an easy meal.

Behind you, Prince!

The voice pleaded, but Aegon was already moving. He leapt back just as another shadow burst from the ground like a spider. His boots slid through mud, but he caught his balance and lunged forward, driving a blade into the creature's exposed spine.

A sickening, wet crunch split the air.

The thing shrieked, thrashing as black ichor gushed from its wound, thick and foul-smelling. Aegon wrenched the dagger free and fell into a crouch, circling, his eyes darting from one monster to the next.

He stayed moving, dancing lightly on his feet, refusing to let them get behind him.

The creatures began to move slowly closer in response, trying to shorten their encirclement. Aegon waited, breath shallow as he tried to take in as much of the surroundings as possible, until the first one lunged.

Steel met claw. Sparks flashed as Aegon twisted aside, but another struck from the left, its blade grazing his ribs. He hissed in pain and turned, only for a third to slash across his side before leaping back into the dark.

They were toying with him! Aegon snarled and was rewarded by a rapid chittering sound that suspiciously seemed like laughter.

Aegon rapidly blinked; he refused to let these creatures see him cry in pain. Each breath burned in his lungs and chest.

Enough.

Aegon rushed the nearest one, his boots churning the mud, but the beasts scattered, retreating just beyond his reach. He tried this two more times on the other ones, but they just chittered and repeated the maneuver.

He snarled, arm snapping forward. The dagger flew from his hand and struck true, burying itself in the nearest creature's throat.

The thing stumbled back, clawing at the wound as black ichor poured between its fingers. Before it could fall, Aegon was already moving, darting through the gap it left behind.

The night came alive with shrieks, and Aegon grimly smirked. These whoresons weren't chittering so much now, were they?

The survivors gave chase.

The reeds tore at his arms, the night closing around him like a noose. Then a strange prickling crawled over his skin. His vision swam, the ground swirled beneath him. He stumbled, dropped to one knee, and swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat.

For a few heartbeats, the world tilted and spun. Then the pain hit. A searing heat flared along his ribs. He pressed a trembling hand to the wound on his side, and his fingers came away wet. The flesh throbbed with a strange pulse, deeper than any cut.

Poison. Their blades were poisoned.

Aegon lurched forward, trying to stay upright, but his legs betrayed him. He collapsed, mud splashing beneath his palms. The sound of chittering crept closer, eager to finally corner their prey. He tried to get up and run again, and only managed a few steps as he fell against the tree. The chain on his neck caught on a branch and snapped. Aegon fell as the ring slipped free, tumbling through the air, spinning slowly in the moonlight like a gambler's coin tossed on fate.

Aegon reached for it on instinct. His trembling hand shot up, fingers grasping at the golden glint. The ring brushed his skin, slid down, and came to rest upon his index finger.

Immediately, the world became grey, and he could see things clearly than he had ever seen. He could make out each individual blade of grass, recognize the various tongues of the beasts of the Earth, could see spirits frolicking in the distance near the lake, and see the stars looming above.

Aegon gasped; his mind was not yet ready to interpret this sudden rush of immense detail. He lay there stunned as blood trickled down his nostrils. Suddenly, an immense pain engulfed him, and Aegon screamed his lungs out as he clutched at his head. It felt as if the skull was aflame from the inside.

Vision after vision began engulfing him.

One Ring To Rule Them All

A guttural, utterly dark, and utterly demanding voice declared. He saw the song of creation unveil itself; he saw legions of creatures being bred in the dark places of the world, licked by unholy flames.

One Ring To Find Them All

He saw wars destructive enough to flatten the tallest mountain ranges, fire drakes, and a gleaming, golden host descending upon the darkness to utterly smite it. A ship that serenely sailed the sky and let loose an arrow that brought down a beast of the ages. It crushed the very Earth beneath its descent as its cursed roar haunted the world one last time before falling silent forevermore.

One ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them. In the –

Never! Aegon heard a voice snarl. A tall creature of silver light stood, and it spoke in a musical voice that soothed and enamored in equal measure. Aegon found himself arching his back, weeping openly just to hear the voice speak again.

Never again shall it happen! You are toothless! Without purpose or flesh, utterly spent! Begone, vile one!

The pain immediately vanished, and Aegon squinted as the figure cloaked in light came towards him and knelt.

"Poison," it murmured, voice laced with pity. "I have purged what I could from your body, my prince, but you must move. I can shield you from their sight for a little while, though not if you faint. Rise, before they find you!"

Without thinking, Aegon crawled on his hands and legs; he could see through the greyed visions as the creatures snarled and looked around for him.

We desire man flesh! Where is he?!

Aegon gasped. Were they cannibals?

Not the time to think, my prince! Move!

He obeyed. He pressed himself low to the earth, crawling inch by inch through the reeds. His palms sank into mud, his limbs trembling, yet he kept going, dragging himself toward the darkness between the trees as the monsters prowled behind him, howling their frustration to the wind.

Aegon crawled until the reeds thinned and the smell of water filled his nose. He wondered if the water was merely closed or if it was the artifact's strange effect. Soon, he came up to the lake.

His vision swam, the shapes on the far bank twisting and blurring until they resolved into two men standing beside a small fishing boat. Their voices carried faintly over the water. Aegon hesitated, trying to parse what they were saying before recognizing they spoke Volantene. At last, a friendly tongue!

He tried to call out, but only a rasp left his throat. Gritting his teeth, he forced air through his lungs and shouted again, louder this time. The sound cracked, and Aegon coughed from the exertion, but it was enough.

The fishermen froze, heads turning toward the voice.

Aegon could barely see them now. His limbs were heavy, the poison burning through his blood like dragon fire. He managed another weak cry before his strength failed.

The last thing he heard was the splash of hurried footsteps and the low murmur of frightened voices. Rough hands gripped him beneath the armpits, lifting him from the mud. Someone muttered about the heat of his skin, how the boy burned like a fevered corpse.

The world tilted, the sky folded in on itself, and everything went black.

Who Are You?

Dreams crashed in, one after another, like Ulmo's wrath made manifest against trespassers. Once again, Aegon was assailed by visions of another world that seemed beyond anything he had ever seen.​

He heard the lament of a maiden more radiant than what the mortal world could endure, her song piercing heaven and earth alike. Beside her, a great wolfdog rose in defiance, its fangs tearing through the throat of deceit itself to protect its mistress. Such was her grace that even evil itself succumbed to her charm.

Such was her grace that evil itself was not immune to her.

Apocalyptic was its wrath when it saw the suns missing from its brow.

Aegon trembled and wept, undone by awe and fear.

"Fret not, my prince. You are safe."

The voice was soft, melodic, and near.

Aegon blinked as the world around him shifted. He stood in a forest of impossible beauty, flowers carpeting the ground like living jewels. He sat upon a bench that seemed to have grown from the heart of the tree itself. Everywhere he looked, life thrived in harmony, a song of life over dark.

This was not the hut of the fishing village. He was certain of that.

"You are inside your own mind, my prince," the voice said again.

Aegon's patience frayed. "Show yourself!" he shouted. "Who are you? What is happening? I demand the truth!"

"I can grant your wish, my prince, though not in full. You are not yet ready for all answers. Not now, but soon," the woman replied.

Aegon snarled and reached for his daggers, only to find nothing at his sides.

"While caution in the face of the unknown is wise, I cannot commend the use of force," she said gently. "Quick to anger is quick to fail."

He opened his mouth to retort, but the air before him shimmered.

A woman stood where the light had gathered. Her hair fell straight and silver, brushing against her ankles. She was tall, taller than any man Aegon had known, though her frame was slender and graceful. Her skin was flawless, pale as moonlight, and her ears came to delicate points. When Aegon met her eyes, he caught his breath.

They glowed like living embers.

The woman smiled and dipped into a graceful curtsy.

"Charmed to meet you, your grace. I am Estel," she said in a voice that was both song and speech.

Aegon stared at her, thoughts racing. Fragments of memory fell into place.

"You are the ring," he said. It was more a declaration than a question; still, he waited for her assent.

The woman inclined her head and serenely smiled.

"Yes, my prince."

The two stared at each other, the ring with serene amusement, while Aegon ran through every defensive manuscript he had ever read. Nothing in Ser Duck's challenges, Jon's lectures, or Septa Lemore's had ever mentioned combat in a dreamscape. He was afraid. To say otherwise would have been dishonesty with one's own self, a colossal blasphemy as far as he was concerned.

"H-how?" Aegon stuttered. "This is simply not possible. W-what sorcery is this?"

Estel remained silent as Aegon's ramblings continued.

"The only stories of spirits inhabiting people or objects I have heard are of demonic possession," He looked at her. "Are you a demon?"

At that, Estel laughed for a quick moment before restraining herself.

"Is that what you think of me, my prince? A demon?" she mused, the corners of her lips curling. "I assure you, I am nothing so pitiable. Nothing so small."

"In the Stranger's name, begone, demon!" Aegon said, vaguely recalling Septa Lemore's brief sermon on chasing away the spirits.

This time, Estel could not restrain herself. Her lips quivered, and then she broke into open laughter, bending forward until she had to steady herself against the nearest tree, her laughter ringing through the glade like the chime of crystal bells.

To Aegon, it seemed like a funeral bell as another realization dawned on him.

"Also, stop calling me prince," Aegon stammered. "I am no prince. My name is Young Gryff. My father is Gryff."

Estel tilted her head, the faintest trace of amusement curving her lips. "Ah, yes, of course. The mysterious Young Griff," she said lightly. "A cover as impenetrable as the shadow of night." She paused, her voice growing gentler. "For mortal minds, at least. But I am not mortal, and you need not fear me. Your secret is safe with me."

"I am the Young Griff," Aegon insisted, the words tumbling out more desperately than he intended.

Estel sighed, her patience thinning, though her tone remained calm. "Your name is Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name," she said. "Son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, and ward to Jon Connington, once your father's champion."

Aegon froze. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at her, mouth half-open. "How do you know that?" he demanded. "Who are you? What are you? Only six people know of this; you are not one of them!" His voice faltered. "No human could look as you do. I have never seen a woman as tall and fair as you…"

Estel's expression softened again. "You are kind to think so," she said. "This form is but a memory of what once was. A shape once known among the ancient races of the world. Elves, your kind once called us. Or, if you wish for the name in the older tongue, Quendi."

Aegon paused. His mind was reeling. This was too much. All of it, beyond anything that he had ever seen. It seemed Estel sensed his inner turmoil, and in a single motion, she placed a hand over his head.

"We have a great many things to discuss over the coming days, my prince. Decisions that will forge the world anew or break it," Estel declared. "But we cannot place such troubles on a mind troubled by fever and maladies of the flesh."

Aegon felt speechless. Estel leaned near his ear and whispered,

lûr

Aegon's world went dark again.

A Day Later

He stood in the river, feet buried in the water. The fishermen had told him that he had been merely asleep for a few hours. Everyone marveled at his quick recovery. Aegon did not comment much on it. To him, it felt like he had just woken up from the sleep of ages.​

Everything felt strange to him.

It was as if he were a hermit returning to civilization after a long period of isolation. The air smelled different. The water tasted weird. Even the knowledge of who he truly was felt like a distant memory of a bygone age. Try as he might, he could not Ser Duck's boisterous humor, Septa Lemore's maternal warmth, or even Jon Connington's pragmatism.

They were small things now, fleeting and insubstantial, like tears lost in rain.

After all, who could care about the kingship of lands when he had seen the world break asunder and rebuilt over and over again in his long sleep. Aegon did not consider himself a true believer in higher mysteries, but he had seen things. Time and time again, on the Shy Maid, when everyone else was asleep, he had snuck onto the deck of the riverboat. He swore to have seen spirits frolicking near riverbanks, dancing as serenely as any maiden.

He could hear the fire sing a song of both creation and destruction. He could feel the metal sing to him, advising him on how, when, and where to strike. He could feel a deeper connection to animals than he ever thought possible. It was almost as if they could sense him.

He had once confessed this to Jon Connington. The man had flown into a terrible rage, calling it madness born of Targaryen blood. He had shouted that Aegon would doom them all as his grandfather once had. It took Lemore's calm voice to stay his anger. She had ordered Aegon to recite the canticles of the Seven to cleanse himself of the taint of unseen forces.

If only they knew what he knew now.

Elves, humans, dwarves, ents, and a dime a dozen races that he struggled to recall. For whatever it's worth, there was no finer tutor of history than Estel. Through her eyes, he had seen glimpses of ages most glorious and horrifying. He learnt of how great deeds lead to immortal Empires that were a beacon of hope, light, and prosperity. He learned of how wretched heirs squandered the inheritance of their forebearers.

He smiled morosely at the last bit. If there was one thing that united Elves, Dwarves, and Humans was their tendency to squander the labors of their forefathers.

For a moment, he wished he had access to the lost lore of the ages. Mithril, elven blades, swan ships that could swiftly brave the expanse and establish direct trade with Westeros. Gods, they could even finally see what lies beyond the Sunset Sea.

He inadvertently reached out and clutched the ring.

Prosperity not seen since the days of Valyria and perhaps even beyond was possible.

Pride cometh before the fall, princeling.

Aegon snorted at that. It was easy for an eldritch being like Estel to chastise him. What would she know? She never suffered from the maladies that grip a mortal. He looked around once again and couldn't help but snarl in disgust. Once the mighty hosts of men lay waste to armies beyond madness, boldly sailed and trekked to hitherto unknown lands. Colonized and raised new kingdoms.

Look at us now. He sneered. Frolicking in our own shit, perpetual poverty, and slavery, whose brutality would have shocked even those in the wretched ages of the old days.

Truly, the fall of men was beyond pitiful.

He tried to petulantly kick a rock in the water and winced as his muscle ached. He had healed but still needed rest. Aegon's thoughts turned dark again.

Was he any different than them? Was he also not afflicted with the same maladies?

His family lay enslaved to the whims of a rich madman, and he couldn't even muster the wit to rescue them.

How far we Targaryens have fallen, Aegon lamented.

"And to that I ask once again, my prince. Where is Daenery?" Estel asked, and Aegon did not reply.

"Do you even know where she is?" Estel continued, her tone quiet, almost kind. "Does she know who you are? What if she is far away, beyond your reach? How will you find her? Convince her? Should you succeed, how would you stay this Ilyiro Mopatis's vengeance?"

Her questions were relentless and deeply burrowed themselves in his flesh like meat hooks.

"Then what would you have me do? Go back to my gilded cage on the Shy Maid? Pretend I am content while my kin is traded away?" Aegon demanded instead of answering her questions.

Estel regarded him for a moment, the faintest hint of pity crossing her face. "There are better paths than rage and despair," she said calmly.

Before Aegon could reply, a small voice broke the stillness.

"Who are you talking to?"

Aegon turned. A little girl stood at the edge of the riverbank, wide-eyed and barefoot, staring at him with open curiosity.

He looked back toward the water and snorted softly, realization dawning. The girl could not see her.

"Nothing. I was just … thinking aloud," Aegon lamely said, and to her credit, the girl seemed to buy that explanation. He looked at her again. "Was there something you needed?"

The girl blushed. "Oh yes! The healer wishes to speak with you!"

She ran away without waiting to hear him.

Do Not Go Any Further!
​

Aegon followed the little girl to the largest hut and marched inside without any ceremony.

Inside the largest hut, a woman sat on a low stool, her face hidden behind a lacquered wooden mask. Dark red robes pooled about her like spilled wine and blood. The mask was plain and terrible at once, its surface polished to a dull sheen, the eye-holes narrow slits. She looked up as he entered and inclined her head.

Estel's voice threaded through his head. There is magic upon her, my prince. Be wary.

The woman's masked face did not betray surprise. "Welcome, stranger," she said, and her voice was soft as oil. "It is a wonder to see you walking. Few would have thought you could mend so quickly."

Aegon dropped onto a straw pallet and scrubbed at his face with a hand that still trembled. "You were passing by," he said. "You chanced upon the village and found me. Lucky for me that your caravan routed here."

"There are no such things as coincidences, my prince," the woman replied.

He snapped a dagger free, the steel whispering in its sheath as he drew it. "How do you know that?" he demanded, blade leveled at her throat.

The woman raised both hands slowly in a show of peace. "I mean you no harm, your grace," she said. "I wish only to aid you in your grand and noble ventures. My name is Quaithe, and I hail from Asshai by the shadow. Hear me, my prince, I am bringing portents!"

Aegon's jaw worked. "Speak plainly, then," he hissed, "or I will slit your throat where you sit."

From the doorway, Quaithe's voice cut the air in a tone neither loud nor sudden, a dry insistence that left no room for foolishness. Aegon glanced back to see Quaithe standing by the doorway; the stool in front of him was empty.

"You will not threaten a lady, my prince, I'm sure your courtly traditions have taught you better," she said quietly, her words a reprimand that bore the weight of a lesson. "You should know better."

Aegon's hand trembled, and slowly he lowered the blade. He kept his fingers curled around the hilt, but he did not strike. The woman inclined her head in thanks, a small, almost amused motion before walking to the stool and sitting on it once again.

"I have walked roads that do not appear on any map," she said at last, her masked gaze intent upon him. "I have scoured the ether and the ways unseen to learn what fate had writ. I foresaw that I would stumble on a dragon in this wretched village, and for that reason, I altered my route. The path brought me to you."

"Lovely," Aegon drily said, and she blinked.

"You are brave, Aegon Targaryen," she said. "Few would have torn themselves free from a gilded prison as you have. Fewer still would leave behind comfort, safety, and the love of those who guard them for the sake of a purpose greater than themselves. You have done what many kings and princes would not dare."

Aegon said nothing, his grip still tight on the dagger at his side.

Quaithe's tone changed, quiet but resolute. "Yet I must warn you, do not walk farther on the road that leads toward Daenerys Targaryen. Only sorrow and pain lie that way. Each step will draw you deeper into loss, and the fire that binds you will consume what you hold dear.

Aegon's breath quickened. "I will not let her be sold like a beast," he said fiercely. "She is of my blood. I will not stand by while some pitiful Dothraki lord makes her his prize."

Quaithe shook her head slowly. "You must rethink this," she said. "The world does not hinge upon one bond of blood. The fate of all mankind may rest upon your shoulders. There is a greater design at work than you yet see."

Her masked gaze seemed to pierce him. "Your thread is not tied to Daenerys, not yet. But the skein of fate will draw you together soon enough, sooner than you believe. But you must be patient."

"What are you saying? Speak plainly!" Aegon said.

"I am saying she carries her own quite strength," Quaithe replied softly. "She must find it on her own, without your hand to guide her. You must go east, my prince. Pass beneath the shadow and seek the truth in Asshai. Only there will you learn what must be done."

Her words hung in the air like the lingering smoke of incense. Aegon closed his eyes and contemplated her words before speaking again.

Aegon's jaw tightened. "No," he said flatly. "I will not abandon her. I will not leave Daenerys to the mercy of savages while I go chasing shadows in lands I have never heard of."

Quaithe tilted her head slightly, the firelight glinting across her lacquered mask. "You think this is about mercy," she said, her tone patient but unyielding. "It is about the shape of the world. The higher mysteries stir again. Across Essos and beyond, the glass candles burn where they have long been dark. Their light heralds the return of forces long asleep. You cannot ignore such omens."

Aegon crossed his arms, his expression hard. "I care nothing for the flickering toys of delusional sorcerers," he said. "Every fool with a bit of smoke and mirrors claims to see the higher mysteries. None of them ever changes anything. Aegon the Conqueror needed his kin by his side to conquer Westeros. So I shall follow in his footsteps."

Quaithe sighed softly and lowered her gaze. "The dragon will do as the dragon wills," she murmured. "And the rest of us, the small and the easily breakable, must dance in the shadows of its wings."

She lifted her masked face again. "I cannot make you go where you do not wish to, nor would I try. Consent must be given freely. But will you, at least, allow me to read the signs that follow you?"

Aegon hesitated. Estel's voice brushed his mind. Let her, my prince. There is no harm in knowledge.

He gave a short nod. "Very well. Do it."

Quaithe bowed her head. The room darkened as though a veil had fallen over the sun outside, and it felt heavy, heavier than it had previously. When she spoke again, her voice seemed distant and hollow, like something carried from another world.

"The glass candles are burning," she intoned. "Soon comes the pale mare followed by the nameless, and after them the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, and the sun's daughter. Trust none. Beware the Undying! Beware the perfumed seneschal! Trust only in the brothers!"

The last word lingered in the air long after her voice had faded.

Aegon blinked, his head swimming as the air thickened with the scent of incense. It clung to his throat, and he coughed, trying to wave it away. The fire crackled faintly, but the room had changed.

He blinked again and looked around. The stool before him was empty. The shadows in the corners were still and deep, untouched by motion. The hut itself seemed smaller, quieter, as if no one had ever been there at all.

Quaithe was gone.

The Great Journey
​

The morning sun hung low, its pale light stretching across the riverbanks as Aegon walked the narrow dirt path leading away from the village. A bow was slung across his back, and a wide straw hat shaded his eyes from the glare. His boots sank into the wet soil with each step.

The fishermen may not appreciate that you took their bow, Estel said, her voice soft and amused.

Aegon smirked. "I am not worried. I left a few coins in its place." He adjusted the hat slightly and added, "Truth be told, the old man trying to pawn off his daughter to me was more troublesome than taking his bow."

Estel's tone darkened just a little. I did not like the look in his eyes. He does not seem like a man who takes rejection kindly.

Aegon's smirk faded. "Then it is all the better I left when I did," he said.

They walked in silence for a while.

You should still heed Quaithe of Asshai's warning, she said at last. The path ahead is perilous, and your kin's road is lined with sorrow.

"My mind is made up," Aegon replied firmly. "No prophecy or sorcerer will turn me from it."

The silence returned, broken only by the quiet hum of insects.

After a while, Aegon spoke again.

"Your name," he said. "It's not Valyrian, nor from the common tongue. What does it mean?"

Estel's answer came with a gentle warmth, almost wistful. In the language of the Elves, it means hope.

Aegon tilted his head. "Why do you call yourself that?" he asked. "Hope for what?"

For a moment, there was only the soft rush of wind through the reeds. When Estel spoke again, her voice was quiet, touched with something heavier than sorrow. Hope that one day, something long broken may be made whole again. That my prayers will leave the mortal coils of this vast, vast world and be placed at His feet… Hope of redemption, my prince.

Aegon looked down at the ring on his hand, hanging from a new chain, its faint gleam catching the morning sun.

"You are something else entirely," Aegon remarked and was rewarded with Estel's laughter.