Chapter Text
One by one all those gathered in the chamber of the carved table fell silent as they turned their heads to Queen Rhaenyra. Behind her the hearth fire was burning and crackling, its amber glow cast all about her as if some god had given her thrumming thoughts life for all to see. Shadows are servants of light, the children of fire, and the look in Rhaenyra’s eyes was every bit as dark as the fire was bright. Her grief and her fury were terrible things to behold.
“Your … your Grace?” Lord Celtigar ventured.
Their queen said but one thing, her words cutting through the silence like the sharpest, cruelest blade.
“I will have Aemond Targaryen’s head.”
With that she strode out of the chamber. She didn’t acknowledge any of the perturbed faces staring at her or giving each other uneasy looks. Whatever she’d set her gaze on was not here in this hall. Or anywhere in this keep, Daemon knew.
He followed fast on Rhaenyra’s heels, ignoring the feeble call of “My prince?” that carried after him. He tossed the piece of parchment that had been crumpled in his fist onto the table as he went. Let the least feeble amongst them dare to pick it up and learn of the usurpers’ latest treachery for themselves.
He’d lost sight of Rhaenyra by the time he stepped out of the chamber, but he knew her. He knew where she was going and what she intended to do. They were the same, him and Rhaenyra. They’d been forged from the same fire. Had one of his sons been murdered by those vile, usurping c*nts that infested the Red Keep, he would’ve walked the same path, the same end in mind.
He found her where he’d known he would. In the cavernous depths beneath the mountain, down in the dragons’ lair. He’d caught up to her just in time. She stood waiting at the end of the landing, and a terrible, high-pitched cry, equal parts despairing and enraged, was drifting up out of the cave and growing louder all the while. She’d called her dragon, and if he’d got here any later, she would’ve been gone.
Her back was to him, her shoulders set with a rigid strength. In the short time since she’d learned of Lucerys’s death, she’d become iron, her resolve hardening with every step. She’d break before she’d bend.
“Rhaenyra!” he called, striding closer.
She didn’t respond. She didn’t look at him. Not until he reached her side, took her arm and turned her to him. She flinched, and something that looked uncomfortably like a sense of betrayal joined the dark emotions burning in her eyes. Tears glistened on her cheeks and a mottled stain marred the pale skin of her throat. It showed an accusatory shade of red tinged with the first traces of purple. It matched the shape of his hand perfectly.
He let go of her arm and took a step back.
“You know you can’t do this,” he said evenly.
Her eyes burned a darker shade as rage overtook all other emotions roiling and tearing through her being. This wasn’t what she wanted to hear, and she looked fit to kill him too. Syrax roared and her great claws dug into the cave wall as she climbed, the sound like so many longswords slashing at the rock. Soon he’d have to fight fury made fire and flesh to keep Rhaenyra from doing this.
“Believe me, I want to go tear the ugly beast limb from limb every bit as much as you do. But Syrax doesn’t stand a chance against Vhagar. You know that,” he said, speaking reason to her. The reason that was currently beyond her.
“Then come with me and help me avenge my son’s death!” She spat the words at him, pain and rage tearing out of her and into him.
He paused a moment, reluctant to voice the discomfiting truth. He misliked feeling weak. “Even Caraxes’s strength may not be enough. If we’re going to end that hoary old bitch, we need Meleys.”
Rhaenys and Meleys were off patrolling the Gullet. They weren’t due back on Dragonstone to make their next report for several hours yet.
Rhaenyra clenched her jaw and huffed a breath out through her nose. She glanced away into the depths of the cavern where dragon’s fire had ignited. The glow cast by the red-hot flames sent great shadows rippling and dancing along the tunnel walls. And soon a wave of heat and strong-smelling smoke was washing over them and then onwards, upwards to be exhaled by the cave’s mouth.
“It may not be as simple as seeking Vhagar out and falling on her with all our strength,” Daemon continued.
She glanced back at him.
“The Greens will expect retaliation. They’ll be preparing for it. They might even welcome it. Otto Hightower rules the realm in all but name, and that traitorous c*nt is as sly as the fox on his dead wife’s banner.”
Rhaenyra frowned in question.
“Even should we kill Vhagar in the end, there’s every chance one or more of our dragons would also be killed or grievously injured. Any dragon who emerges intact will be exhausted. Flight may be beyond them until they gorge and regain their strength. Any dragon of ours that survives the fight will be weak. Vulnerable. A sitting duck in enemy territory. It would be an easy thing for another dragon waiting in the wings to fall on them and their rider. Even a few score men armed with scorpions might get the job done.”
Rhaenyra took a fast step closer to him, hands clenched at her sides, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. He could feel the heat coming off her like another wave of dragon’s breath. She was burning, her anger and despair the fuel that fed the flames. “You, of all people, preaching caution to me?! Has the realization that my father never considered you his heir left you so unmanned that you’ve lost the will to fight?”
He knew Rhaenyra as he knew himself. Her pain had turned to rage had turned to a desire to lash out. To make someone, anyone pay. And he was the only target in sight. She didn’t mean the words for true. She wasn’t her true self at present. Even so, her accusation rankled, and he had to bite back the inflamed, retaliatory words sparking on his tongue and threatening to spill forth.
“We will have our vengeance. We will take it with fire and blood,” he promised, fighting to hold his own anger back, fighting to keep from yelling at her. “But we must needs take enough time to lay our plans sufficiently to see them succeed –”
“Luke is dead!” she yelled, as if she blamed him for this too. Her voice echoed in the large cavern, and two or more dragons’ voices gave answer, eery rumbles rising from the dark. “He went to deliver terms under a peace banner. He and his dragon were no threat, not against Vhagar! Aemond butchered him for malice and spite. He died alone.” Her voice broke then, a raw cry tearing out of her. It was a dagger to his chest.
“He was nervous. But he tried so hard to be strong and brave, for me,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “And now my boy’s body is somewhere in the sea. He’s lost and cold and alone, and … and I want Aemond to pay, he has to pay!”
Syrax appeared, roaring, steam swirling out of her nostrils, her eyes glowing in the dark. She crawled towards them, great yellow-gold, leathern wings dragging heavily across the cave floor. And Rhaenyra lost the ability to form words, collapsing to shuddering sobs.
Daemon forcibly subdued the rankling beast that was roaring inside of him and pulled Rhaenyra into his arms. She let him, and cried against his shoulder for a long time. Syrax hovered close all the while, watching them, bathing them in warm dragon’s breath and her mournful song.
When Rhaenyra’s tears finally stopped and Syrax fell silent, they were both shivering, as if their anger and despair had leeched the heat from their bodies.
Daemon cupped Rhaenyra’s tear-stained cheeks, meeting her gaze. “There is another way. A way to have our vengeance sooner rather than later and gain the upper hand,” he said softly.
Her lips parted on a question she wouldn’t voice. Her hands clutched at his arms as if she meant to hurt him, or needed to hold onto him to stay standing.
“It doesn’t have to be a dragon battle, not now. If we kill Aemond first, Vhagar will be riderless. The Greens don’t have another dragon rider to claim her. She’ll be of no use to them, and no threat to us until such time as we send her to join the kinslayer in the most torturous hell or add her to our own number and loose her on all those who would stand against us,” he said as the first shard of daylight pierced into the dark of the cave.
---
King’s Landing sprawled beneath him, a morass of flickering lights in the blue-dark. The city was considerably more tolerable like this. In the dark. At a distance. Eyesores hidden behind night’s veil. A safe distance between him and the unsavoury smells that stewed in that flea-infested hollow between the Hill of Rhaenys and Aegon’s High Hill. When the wind turned the wrong way, you could smell Flea Bottom all the way up in the Red Keep. That was just one of the unfortunate realities of his home.
He sighed, and commanded Vhagar to turn. The hour of the wolf was almost at an end and he couldn’t hold off the inevitable for much longer. He’d do one last lap over the city and then he’d go face the less than warm welcome home he was bound to receive.
Vhagar groaned, a deep, low rumble that reverberated through his person. She’d been displeased since their second turn over the city. She was lethargic after the long flight from Storm’s End and eager to retire to her hollow in the Kingswood, but she heeded his command nonetheless and some of the tension left his shoulders.
Since the … incident he’d become reacquainted with an old foe from his childhood. He’d thought to lay that gnawing dread to rest for good the night he claimed Vhagar, but now it was back. Vhagar had refused to obey him, and he’d felt like that weak, powerless boy he’d once been. Vhagar may disobey him again and make him a fool for all to see.
He forced the trepidation out of his mind as he did all unpleasant memories of his childhood and thoughts of what had happened over Shipbreaker Bay. Such weakness was a scourge that he had to purge himself of at any cost. A hatchling may attach themselves to any foolish babe they’d shared a cradle with, but adult dragons only bowed to the strong and the bold. If Vhagar sensed more weakness in him, it would be his undoing and hers. More than that, it would be the ruin of all of them. And he’d be damned to the seven hells before he’d allow their side to lose the war. He’d be damned to the seven hells twice over before he’d bend the knee to Rhaenyra and her bastard heirs.
The sky had lightened to cobalt blue by the time he walked into the Red Keep. The hour of the wolf had become the hour of the nightingale and dawn was near, but the horizon would hold the sun at bay for a little while longer and he found the halls were still quiet, no one in sight but guards at their posts and the servants who worked the third shift. He’d just become hopeful that he’d make it to his chambers unmolested when a page appeared bearing a summons from the Hand.
Aemond gave the boy a look that sent him scurrying like a rat, then he went to pay the piper. It was all he could do.
“Grandfather,” he greeted as he walked into the Hand’s chambers. “Mother,” he added when he spotted her lingering by the fireplace, pale-faced and shivering with some barely restrained emotion.
These were two of the three people whose reactions he’d dreaded the most, and to face both of them at the same time was a less palatable prospect than the thought of taking up residence in Flea Bottom. But he steeled himself, forced an inscrutable expression over his face, and waited for the onslaught.
Grandfather gave him a long, hard look, jaw clenched.
Mother stared at him in wet-eyed horror, as if he’d walked in with Lucerys Velaryon’s severed head clutched in his hand. “What have you done?!” she said hoarsely, her voice strained with dismay. “We might’ve prevented a war, but Rhaenyra will never accept our terms now!”
Mother was the only person on the Council who somehow still clung to the vain hope of avoiding a war. Rhaenyra was never going to accept those terms or any others. And it was some miracle that Grandfather wasn’t taken hostage or beheaded as soon as he set foot on Dragonstone to deliver the terms. Uncle Daemon had never encountered a dissatisfaction he didn’t think to solve with bloodshed. Of course, Aemond didn’t say any of this, true as it all was.
He spoke evenly. “My nephew Lucerys was ever the fool. He never knew when to let a jape die, or when to leave well enough alone.”
Mother made a half-strangled sound, too incensed or distressed to form words.
Grandfather interjected, cold disdain turning to barely contained fury as he spoke. “You have single-handedly destroyed any advantage we still had. Many who might’ve supported Aegon’s claim will turn against us for this. You only lost one eye. How could you be so blind?!”
Aemond held his head up, let the disdainful words pass over him. He wouldn’t let this affect him. To be affected was weak.
Mother recovered herself and advanced on him. She wore a dangerous glare, fire sparking where there had been tears just moments ago. For a moment he thought she’d slap him like she’d slapped Aegon so many times before. She didn’t, but the scorn and disappointment directed at him stung no less than a blow to the face would have.
“Kinslaying is an abomination in the eyes of the gods! Mother have mercy, you’ve damned us all, Aemond!”
He chose silence again, lest his words inflame Mother even more. He didn’t place much stock in the gods, especially not the rigid Westerosi ones. At least Valyrian deities had the sense to take a more practical approach to killing. In his estimation, kinslaying was no better or worse than any other kind of killing was. The taboo was a silly old wives’ tale, nothing more.
His stoic silence inflamed Mother all the same. “Is that why you killed your nephew? For a jape?!” she accused.
“Lucerys took my eye, and he thought that a jape. He’s made light of me ever since. He was foolish enough to challenge Vhagar, and I was disinclined to show him mercy. Mayhaps if Father had seen him punished that night on Driftmark he would’ve learned his lesson sooner instead of continuing to goad me all this time.”
Mother stilled at his dispassionate tone, and drew back at the mention of Father. He’d said too much now, or mayhaps he’d said just enough.
She stared at him for a moment longer, all wide eyes and dismay, Then she abruptly turned her back, stalking back to the fireplace.
He wouldn’t be allowed more than a moment’s reprieve. Grandfather was quick to speak into the silence. “And what have you concerned yourself with these past two days instead of hastening back to King’s Landing to answer for your actions? The fact that we had the dark news from a raven sent by Lord Borros Baratheon’s maester instead of from your own person was a glaring oversight for one who’d chosen to conduct himself so boldly.”
Now was as good a time as any to make the announcement. “It would’ve been remiss of me to reject the Baratheons’ hospitality, especially now that our houses are to be joined. I am to marry Lady Floris Baratheon when the war is at an end.”
He’d taken his time to choose a betrothed, giving the impression of awarding all four Baratheon daughters the proper consideration due a highborn lady, and paid with his last shred of patience. Each Baratheon girl was duller than the last, but he’d done his duty and secured the alliance.
If he’d hoped for the smallest scrap of appreciation for his efforts, he’d be disappointed. “Hmph. We can be grateful Lord Borros didn’t rescind his acceptance of our offer after the way you’ve conducted yourself,” Grandfather said. Then came a dismissal in the form of a demand: “The Council meets in an hour. I expect you there. This sorry mess has to be accounted for, and you’ll do your part.”
At that, Mother spun around, her anger surging. “He doesn’t have a seat on the Council. He has no business there!” she gestured.
Grandfather paid her an irritable look. “Overzealous and impulsive as Aemond may be, he rides our largest dragon. The only dragon we will have at our disposal, in truth, should it come to dragon fighting dragon, gods forbid. Aegon’s life cannot be risked in battle, Helaena is no warrior, and Daeron’s Tessarion is but a small juvenile dragon. So, like it or not, Aemond will be there when strategy is discussed,” he insisted.
Mother looked no less displeased but didn’t argue the issue.
He left his mother and grandsire to their own squabbles then and took his leave, intending to go salvage what little rest he could. He walked into his chambers anticipating blessed solitude and a reprieve from being disparaged, only to find that he had company. Helaena was asleep on the settee in front of the fireplace with Maelor in her lap. His bed had been given over to the twins.
Sighing, he poured himself a cup of wine and took the armchair.
He’d been staring into the flames for an indeterminable time and the sky visible through the windows had lightened from a cold blue to a cool grey stained with dusty pink when Helaena stirred.
She stared at him for a beat, concern in her eyes. Whether it was for him or not he couldn’t tell. Most things were hard to tell with Helaena.
“I had a nightmare,” she finally said, keeping her voice down so she wouldn’t wake the children. “There were dragons in the sky with rain, thunder and lightning all around them, and then a broken boy was swallowed by the sea.”
He looked away. He was avoiding thinking about that.
“It’s real, isn’t it?” Helaena said sadly.
He didn’t reply. It hadn’t been a true question. She already knew the answer. He kept his gaze averted. He didn’t want to know if she blamed him too, not just now.
Helaena said no more. They sat in silence and watched the flames dancing in the hearth as the sun started bleeding gold into the sky.
---
He wasn’t late for the meeting. Not by much, anyway. And a king was never late, besides. By rights, everyone else served at his pleasure. That was one of the better parts of the position.
“Good morrow, my lords, Mother!” he greeted cheerfully as he strode into the Council chamber. This place had been relentlessly dour of late. Martyn Reyne reckoned a boost in morale would be good for the war effort, and he agreed.
There was a new face at the table, one he was pleased to see. “Aemond! You’ve made a good beginning, brother!” he grinned.
Now that his brother had returned, mayhaps they’d finally get somewhere! There had been overmuch dithering for his tastes. All they had to do was send in Vhagar to light up all the traitors and the war would be over in a day.
If his words had elicited any negative response, he did not notice. “What news?” he asked as he took his seat at the head of the table.
Grandfather spoke after everyone else had seated themselves. “Our letters to the Vale, the North and the Riverlands continue to go unanswered,” he said evenly.
“c*nts,” Aegon sighed. Half the realm was dithering too. That, or they’d decided to support the usurper’s claim yet didn’t have the courage or decency to openly declare their intentions. A dragon bearing down on them would see them bend the knee and raise the green and gold banner very quickly.
“The Stormlands should be ours now that Aemond’s made a marriage pact with the Lady Floris Baratheon. I anticipate their sworn declaration,” Grandfather added, as if offering a conciliation prize.
Aegon shot his brother a grin, the length of the table between them. “Happy tidings! Choose the pretty one, did you?”
Aemond watched him silently, his expression impenetrable. His brother could be so humourless. Their bastard nephews may be traitors, but at least they’d always known how to have a laugh – Lucerys, especially. At times such as these Aegon almost thought it a pity the Strong boys had to die.
“My brother, Jason, continues raising the strength of the West. They’ll soon be massing at the Golden Tooth,” Lord Tyland Lannister said, never one to be outdone.
“And Lord Ormund has started his march up the Roseroad, his host already growing. I expect they’ll meet little resistance before reaching the Riverlands. The Reach is loyal,” Grandfather said.
Grand Maester Orwyle had less positive news. “There have been no ravens from Dragonstone, and we must accept that Princess Rhaenyra has refused our peace terms. Her blockade of the Gullet continues to cut off all sea trade to and from Blackwater Bay. The captains of the two Pentoshi merchant ships trapped in the King’s Landing harbour are most wroth and have requested a meeting with the Crown. I expect others will follow and the pressure will multiply quickly.”
Aegon sighed. He cared little and less about the complaints of Pentoshi cheesemongers, and this meeting was already becoming incorrigibly dull. “We should’ve killed Rhaenyra when we had the chance,” he grumbled, ignoring the look Mother gave him.
“Regrettably, the opportunity for surprise has been lost, and with it the chance to end this conflict quickly. We must play the board in front of us now.” For that, Mother gave Grandfather a look too.
“If we are to stand any chance at breaking the blockade, we will need to bolster the Lannister and Hightower navies,” Lord Tyland said.
“And where can we find ships to bolster them?” Aegon asked, suppressing a yawn.
Grand Maester Orwyle spoke up. “The Iron Fleet consists of one hundred longships, and the Iron Islands can raise five hundred longships in total. We do have need for a new Master of Ships. We could offer the title to the young Lord Dalton Greyjoy.”
He’d heard of this so-called Red Kraken. A young, daring man, by all accounts. No doubt they’d fare better if they added another who didn’t have such a damned aversion to doing something, anything at all to their number. But the Iron Islands were far away. They’d have to wait days just to get a reply to their raven, and he meant to act sooner rather than later.
“Aemond, what say you?” he asked, raising his voice over whatever Ironrod was about to blather. “How should we proceed?”
His brother considered a moment. Silence fell around the table as all eyes turned to him. “The path to King’s Landing is through the Riverlands,” Aemond finally said. “We must establish a toehold there. At Harrenhal. It’s the most strategic location, and the most suitable base for gathering a large host.”
At last someone was speaking sense! “Excellent plan!” Aegon declared. “The dallying Riverlords need to be hastened along. We’ll hear them declare for me, or they’ll face Vhagar and Sunfyre together. And we can burn the blockade while we’re at it.”
Mother snapped her head round to look at him, frowning. “Have you forgotten that Princess Rhaenys patrols the skies on Meleys? Anyone who moves against the blockade will have her to contend with.”
“Vhagar is bigger than Meleys. And against Vhagar and Sunfyre both, she doesn’t stand a chance.”
Mother’s frown deepened. “Once we set the dragons loose, there will be no calling them back. It will be war for true then, and a bloodier one than you can possibly imagine! We must proceed cautiously.”
He shook his head. He’d had just about as much of this slow farce as he could stomach. “No. That decaying old corpse, Lord Tully, will drag himself out of the deathbed he’s been languishing in for the past five years and raise my banner, or he’ll burn. Simple as that. Aemond and I will fly to Riverrun first, then –”
Mother slammed her hand down on the table, startling him. “You are the king, Aegon! Or have you forgotten?” she exclaimed angrily. “You cannot put yourself at risk. If we lose you, our cause is all but lost! And Vhagar cannot leave King’s Landing. She’s the only defence the city will have if Rhaenyra attacks in retribution for the death of her son!” At that, she shot Aemond a furious glare too.
Grandfather raised his voice and paid Mother a pointed look. “Errors were made in the hours following King Viserys’s death. We mustn’t compound them.” Mother glared back at him, though less viciously than she’d stared down Aemond.
Grandfather turned to Aegon then. “You’ve already demonstrated your might, Your Grace. You must now favour patience and restraint.”
Might? What might?! Aemond was the only one who’d demonstrated anything at all. He himself might as well be dragonless for all Grandfather, Mother and the rest of the Council constrained him! They wouldn’t even let him visit Sunfyre in the dragonpit for fear something would befall him on the way there!
Grandfather continued in his placating tone. That tone Aegon resented even more than being yelled at. “I send ravens by the hour. Soon, many and more houses will declare for you.”
And now he was being told there would be nothing but more dithering! He wanted to say something in response, something sharp to express his dissatisfaction yet kingly enough to bring them all to heel. But finding the right words proved more challenging than anticipated, and he didn’t want to open his mouth only to sound a fool. This was why he hadn’t wanted the damn throne to begin with!
Before he was done deliberating, Ser Criston Cole leaned closer to speak to him. “They are right, Your Grace. Admirable as the sentiment may be, and outstanding as your command over Sunfyre is, we cannot let you place your own life at risk,” he said quietly.
Aegon huffed out a disaffected sigh, and slumped back in his seat in capitulation. At least Ser Criston recognised his efforts, which was more than he could say for the rest of the Council.
The meeting carried on, but he’d lost the thread of the discussion and didn’t bother picking it back up. There was no point. Nothing of worth would be said, and they’d all reject his proposals out of hand.
They were supposed to be the king’s council, his council. But in truth they only answered to Grandfather and Mother. Aemond was loyal to him, at least. But Mother had gone off Aemond since he turned kinslayer and would probably skin his brother alive if he so much as uttered one more word.
He let them blather on without him, these ditherers who governed the realm in his name. He let his mind wander. And soon he was elsewhere entirely. Somewhere subterranean, cool and dark where the smell of dragon was all around and his presence was always welcomed.
---
The moon was bright tonight. There were no dark, winged shapes passing in front of it. He kept checking, his eyes drawn to the sky again and again.
The square outside the Grand Sept was deserted but for the four Hightower household guards standing silent sentinel. They watched the streets leading into the square, ready to raise the alarm and take up their swords should they see or hear any sign of a threat.
Sounds of merriment could be heard in the distance, but this was a more pious part of the city. Wine-soaked nighttime revelry and all the sins and dangers that went along with it were far removed from here. Everything seemed in order. Even so, they were at war, there were much worse threats than cutpurses and drunken lechers to contend with, and no place was truly safe. They’d lingered here long enough.
He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as he turned away from the square and headed into the sept. The sanctum was all but deserted too. The only adherents of the Faith present were an old woman crying imploringly by the feet of the Smith’s statue, and the dowager queen kneeling in front of the Mother’s altar, eyes closed, hands clasped in prayer. Criston wondered if she’d moved at all since they got here. That had been quite some time ago, before the sun had slipped away behind the city walls.
He should’ve urged her to leave much sooner, but this was the only place she’d found some peace since the king died. That wide-eyed, overwrought look that haunted him because he stood powerless to vanquish it would be gone from her face when she emerged from the sept. For a little while at least.
He knew how to protect Queen Alicent against most threats. He didn’t know how to protect her against herself.
“Your Grace,” he said quietly when he reached her side.
She opened her eyes as if waking from a dream, and glanced up at him.
“We should head back to the Keep. The streets are not safe at night.”
“Yes, I expect you’re right,” she sighed as she turned back to the Mother. She made no move to get up.
He waited, hand near his sword, glancing at the old woman clutching beseechingly at the Smith’s leg. Anyone could be a threat, even seemingly frail old women.
Queen Alicent spoke without looking at him, her dark eyes fixed on the Mother’s benevolent face. “The wisdom of the Seven teaches that obstinacy in sin makes the sin all the worse. If one is fully aware that what one intends to do is sin, one’s duty is to turn away from that unjust path.”
He glanced back down at his queen. He wasn’t sure what she was getting at. He only had cursory knowledge of the scriptures. He wasn’t a devout man himself. The gods had never favoured him, so why should he favour them? But he had a certain admiration for the dowager queen’s unfaltering faith. She was loyal in everything she committed herself to.
“Do you believe our cause to be just, Ser Criston?” She met his gaze then, the flames of a hundred candles dancing in their dark, glistening depths. “Do you believe we did the right thing in crowning Aegon?”
He frowned, taken aback and confused about what had brought on this sudden uncertainty. Since the king’s passing, Queen Alicent had been nothing but adamant that Aegon should sit the throne.
“King Aegon is the eldest son. He has history and precedent on his side. King Viserys himself saw the truth of that, in the end,” he said evenly.
She glanced away again, shaking her head. At him or at herself, he didn’t know.
“That’s all he’s ever wanted. To be his father’s son,” she smiled sadly. “When I told him Viserys had named him heir, he didn’t believe me at first. He knows that his father has always cared little for him. But I convinced him of the truth of it. I showed him the king’s dagger, the one he’d never be parted from. Even when he’d lost most of his faculties and could barely lift a hand, he still insisted on carrying that dagger. I told Aegon his father wanted him to have it, had told me so with his dying breath and passed me the blade with his own trembling hand. And I saw a change come over him, Ser Criston.”
Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill forth. “For the first time his father had shown pride and trust in him. For the first time he was a wanted son. And now he’s trying. For twenty years I’ve tried and failed to impress any sense of duty or responsibility on Aegon. In the end, all it took was for his father to acknowledge him, just once.”
The tears ran down her cheeks then, like tiny crystalline jewels glinting in the candlelight. “He’s been to every Council meeting since he was crowned. He’s stopped drinking. Well, he’s drinking less than before,” she amended. “He hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s doing, but he’s trying. He proposed giving the smallfolk free bread and beer. A preposterous notion when all of the Crown’s coin is required to bolster the war preparations. But in a time of peace, mayhaps ….”
She wiped at the tears. They kept coming. “He’s named new members to the Kingsguard to replace those who’ve left for Dragonstone. He did that of his own accord before anyone thought to tell him it had to be seen to. Granted, his choices were not quite Kingsguard material, but ….”
“They’re loyal to him, the most important quality in a Kingsguard,” Criston said charitably.
Queen Alicent nodded. “There was a moment when I saw him raising Blackfyre in the dragonpit and heard the people all cheering for him, proclaiming him their king, that I felt so proud of him. Mayhaps the first time I’ve ever felt proud of him.” She glanced down, momentarily overcome by shame, and tears dripped on her emerald sleeve.
"And for a moment I was so sure that I’d done the right thing, a good thing. I’ve always known it has to be Aegon if we are to be safe. It’s never been a choice, in truth. How could there be any choice when the alternative is forfeiting my children and grandchildren’s lives? But now they’re all in more danger than ever. And someone else’s child is dead. He won’t be the last. Many and more mothers will lose their children before this will end. And Aemond’s become a kinslayer. It’s an unforgivable sin in the eyes of the gods. His soul is beyond salvation. And …” She drew in a fraught breath, shoulders shuddering. “And now all I can think is: how can the only choice there’s ever been still feel like the wrong choice?”
She was looking to him like a drowning woman desperate to be pulled from the dark waters, and he stood powerless, nothing to offer. Nothing that would be of any help.
She took another deep breath, as if retrieving her next words from some unknowable depth where they’d been long buried. “I lied. The morning Viserys was found dead, I lied. I’ve been lying ever since.”
Perturbed, Criston shot a quick look at the wailing old woman. Queen Alicent's words hadn't taken him by surprise. He’d always known as much, even as he proclaimed otherwise. Though until now he hadn’t been sure Queen Alicent realized the lie herself even as she was telling it. He’d never met someone who was as adept at lying to themselves, save for himself, mayhaps. He wasn’t disturbed by what the dowager queen had revealed, only by the possibility that someone may overhear her and go whisper in the wrong ears.
He moved closer to the Mother’s altar and took a seat next to Queen Alicent, awkwardly so. The kneeler was lower than an ordinary bench, and armour wasn’t crafted with the thought that it should be comfortable to sit down in, but they could speak more privily this way.
She turned to face him, her shoulders fell, and she sat back on her heels, as if some great strain that had kept her muscles taut had suddenly let her be, as if she could finally breathe more easily. The rest came to her more readily, the words spilling forth heedlessly.
“That last night, the last time I saw Viserys before he died, he spoke Aegon’s name. But he was incoherent, barely sensate. He was in terrible pain. He’d had a strong cup of milk of the poppy. He was rambling about the cold and the dark. None of it made any sense. Mayhaps he wasn’t even speaking of our Aegon. He did always love the histories, and that name looms large in so many history books.” Her lips twitched, part pained grimace, part sad smile.
“In truth, I'm sure Viserys never meant to make Aegon his heir. He steadfastly upheld Rhaenyra’s claim for years, since he’d first named her heir, until the end. But that night and the day after, when I got the news, I spun the truth I’d wanted to hear. I repeated it to myself so many times that I as good as believed it. And then I made Aegon believe it. He's the only one who truly believes it, I think. He's a man grown, but in some ways he's still as trusting as a child.” She shook her head ruefully, and sobered almost immediately, more guilt washing over her.
“I ... I did it for myself, I think. I wouldn’t be usurping the throne if it had been the king’s dying wish to see Aegon succeed him. My cause would be righteous and lawful. I could live with myself while doing what has to be done to see Aegon ascend the throne and keep all my children safe, as ugly as it may get. I’ve paid with my soul just as much as Aemond has. I’ve given everything I’ve had to give, and what has it got me? What has all this been for? We’re going to war and my children are not safe, they're not safe at all. Will they still be alive when all is said and done and the fires die down?” she said darkly, despairingly.
There was silence between them for a long moment then, nothing but the old woman’s muttered pleas drifting through the sacred silence of the sept. Finally, Criston landed on some reassuring truth to speak to his queen. He wouldn’t lie to her, as much as she needed comfort and as comforting as false words could be. They’d both been lied to enough, especially by those they’d once thought themselves closest to.
“I do believe Aegon has it in him to be a good king, Your Grace. And we will guide him as best we can,” he promised. It was all he had to give her.
She glanced up from her hands. There was a faint, old scar on her left thumb, a silver mark marring the soft skin like the Targaryens marred everything around them. She’d stopped crying, a sad, quiet resolve in her expression.
“We should go, Ser Criston. It’s getting late,” she said softly.
He nodded and stood. The old woman’s forlorn keening carried after them as they left the sept, Criston keeping pace a step behind Queen Alicent as he should.
---
Winterfell could be summed up in one word: cold. They said hot water was piped through the walls to keep the castle warm, but he felt only cold stone when he pressed a hand to the wall, and all the while an icy wind howled out of the north and forced itself through the smallest gap in the shutters to bite at your nose, ears and fingers when you strayed more than three steps from the nearest hearth. The white blanket covering the ground outside would be considered a heavy snow in the south. It was certainly the most snow he’d ever seen, but Lord Cregan shrugged it off as nothing but a ‘light dusting’. If it was already this bad in early autumn, Jace shuddered to think what it would be like in winter.
These true Northerners were cold too. As cold and unyielding as their great wall of ice. They showed him respect, to be sure. He’d daresay he’d never felt as esteemed as when he presented the Crown’s terms to Lord Cregan Stark and his advisors. He’d been given a full audience in the Great Hall. All the Stark vassals who had their keeps within a week’s ride of Winterfell had been summoned to come hear his words alongside their liege lord and offer their opinions. There were only a handful of them, but this was a sparsely populated country. The lords had given him their full attention and asked him fair questions. There had been no japes at his expense, and no insinuations made about his youthful years, dearth of lordly experience or lack of Valyrian looks, as he’d come to expect given his reception elsewhere.
Even so, the Northern lords had a hard look to them that made them difficult to read at most times and intimidating even when they were smiling at you. Their words were spoken in a gruff accent, and were straight to the point in a manner that would be considered discourteous in the south. They had no great love of trivial talk, their humour had a savage bite to it that made every jape vaguely unsettling, and the ominous beast that was the coming northern winter was mentioned in near every conversation.
And most disquieting of all was the strange, dread feeling that had enveloped him since he passed the fork in the White Knife. He couldn’t place it, but he liked it naught. Vermax felt it too, more than he did the cold that made him so ill-tempered. Dragons were fire made flesh. The summer sun, smoking volcanoes and steaming, fire-warmed rock that was scalding to the touch sang to their blood while winter, ice and snow did nothing but irk them. Vermax’s mood had been growing worse and worse since they encountered the first snows. He’d grumbled, lashed his tail and pulled on his reins hard enough to rub blisters on Jace’s palms, most disgruntled with the weather and most determined to make his rider well aware of that fact.
But it was something else entirely that had made Vermax reluctant to continue flying north, straining against the commands given him for the first time since he was a rambunctious twelve-year-old who was still growing accustomed to wearing a saddle and having a rider on his back. When Winterfell and the large red-leaved heart tree in its great godswood had come into view, Vermax had given a loud roar and strained to turn back the way they’d come for several long moments before finally heeding Jace’s increasingly agitated commands to fly closer and land outside the walls. And he’d been carrying on ever since, kicking up small snowstorms and roaring intermittently, his baleful cries setting the keep’s hounds to baying and howling multiple times a day.
All in all, Jace would be glad to depart this strange, cold land. But not before he’d had an answer from Lord Cregan, and no such answer had been forthcoming as of yet. One day rolled into the next as he, Lord Cregan and the lord’s bannermen hunted and trained together when the pale sun was out, and drank and feasted together when the sun set. They were modest feasts. Winter was coming, rationing was in full effect, and a large share of every animal kill would be salted, packed in kegs and sent to the cellars. He was told meat preserved in this way could last years in a cold climate.
He liked the hunting and the feasting well enough, freezing cold notwithstanding. He liked Lord Cregan well enough. His host was friendlier than his bannermen, near genial by northern standards. But what he’d like better than anything was an affirmative reply to the terms he’d brought. Their war effort needed the North’s swords, especially after his visits to the Vale and White Harbour had failed to deliver the best results.
He needed the North’s swords. Delivering terms by dragon instead of raven had been his idea. He’d promised Mother he wouldn’t fail her. He couldn’t return to Dragonstone all but empty-handed, not if he was to hold his head up in front of Mother, Daemon and all the rest of their people ever again.
Oh, Lady Jeyne Arryn had pledged her swords to Queen Rhaenyra’s cause in the end, but this was a tenuous thing. The lady wanted a dragon to guard the Vale, and he knew there was little chance Mother would agree to that. The dragons were of better use elsewhere.
Lord Sunderland had sworn obeisance and pledged the support of the Three Sisters, but in Jace’s estimation this was an equally tenuous thing. The islands in the Bite did not command enough ships or swords to be of much consequence in a great war, and moreover, they were known as dens of avarice, sin, smuggling and piracy. Sistermen were not to be trusted, less menacing than ironborn reavers only for the fact that they kept to smaller and more remote hunting grounds. The Sisters were sworn to the Vale, but the Eyrie’s grasp on these three wayward vassals was so weak that Lady Jeyne would not speak for them and bid him go treat with Lord Sunderland himself. If Sunderland and his fellow Sister lords would not honour their oaths to their liege, what were the chances of them honouring their oath to the Crown? He certainly misliked the odds.
And then there was the matter of the compact he’d signed with Lord Manderly of White Harbour. Desmond Manderly was a shrewd man who still felt slighted by House Targaryen for what his great-grandsire had been denied. Many years ago, Princess Viserra had been betrothed to Theomore Manderly. But alas, the princess had died before departing for White Harbour, and no further marriage offers had been forthcoming from the Crown. Until now.
Jace had agreed to a marriage pact, the only offer that would win them White Harbour’s support. Joffrey and Lord Desmond’s youngest daughter were to be wed when they both came of age, and he could only hope Mother would not fault the price he’d paid for the largest Westerosi fleet that could be mustered on this end of the Narrow Sea.
“What say you, my prince?” Lord Cregan asked, motioning a serving girl closer to refill their goblets.
Jace shifted in his seat. He wasn’t sure what to say because he didn’t rightly know what he was answering to. His mind had been wandering again, different strains of dread hounding his thoughts away from the conversation at hand.
Cregan seemed to take his silence for deliberation, and presented further entreatment, such as it was. “You won’t get another chance to see the Wall, like as not. Not unless you come pay us another visit in future. The Winterfell men who’ll be taking the Black this winter are setting out three morrows from now. We’ll have a great feast to honour their service and the sacrifice they’re making for the good of all the realm. And then I intend to march with them, to go pay my respects to the Watch and to see how fare their fortifications. You’re most welcome to join me.”
Jace had to hide a frown at that. The realm was on the verge of war, Lord Stark was taking his good time deciding if he’d raise his banners or not, and now he wanted to march north?! The wrong way!
“I’d wanted to go last winter,” Cregan continued, oblivious to his incredulity. “But there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. My son is here now to do his duty.”
Jace boggled more at that, his temper rankling. He’d seen the Stark boy, wrapped in the arms of his nursemaid! Cregan’s son was but a babe, scarcely a year old! What duties could possibly be laid on him?!
This time his consternation was noticed. “My lad’s been training diligently with spear and long sword, and sitting his lessons with the maester. He’s ready to rule in Winterfell,” Cregan grinned. It was a savage grin, a wolf's grin. A true Northern grin.
Jace didn’t appreciate the jape at present. “And while the lad rules Winterfell, who will rule him in your absence, my lord?” he asked darkly.
Cregan spoke more soberly then. “Winterfell’s steward, maester, master-at-arms, captain of the guard and other advisors are able men all. And should a threat make itself known, our bannerman will rally to my son as they would rally to me. True Northmen do not forget their oaths, my prince. The North remembers.”
“House Stark swore an oath to my grandsire, King Viserys, and to his rightful heir,” Jace pointed out.
“Aye, so we did,” Cregan nodded. “And we have a duty to stand with our queen. But you must know that my gaze is forever torn between north and south. This is no easy choice to make. Winter is coming, and in winter my duty to the Wall is even more dire than the one I owe to King’s Landing. If my men go south, who will stand with the Watch to defend the realm when the cold dark gathers?”
Somewhere Vermax was roaring, and Jace’s temper was becoming a beast to match. “Whilst your men guard against wildlings and weather, the Hightowers and their allies plan to usurp the throne! War is coming to all the realm, the like of which no one’s seen since the days when your ancestor, Torrhen Stark, bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror!”
Cregan gave him a long, hard look. “The last time a dragon came north, my great-great-grandsire hosted Queen Alysanne. The Good Queen visited the Wall too, as you know. And no doubt, you also know that her dragon refused to fly over the Wall. Thrice she urged the beast Silverwing to cross the Wall, and thrice Silverwing refused.”
Jace adjusted his hold on his goblet of wine, dread coiling tightly in his knuckles as he remembered holding the reins for all he was worth and forcing Vermax onwards when approaching Winterfell was the last thing his dragon wanted to do. Vermax had balked, but in the end he’d obeyed. He could scarcely imagine how much worse it must’ve been for Silverwing to steadfastly refuse her rider’s command.
“You’ll forgive me for speaking so plainly, my prince, but do you think Brandon Stark built a 700-foot high wall of ice to keep out north winds and wildling raiders?” Cregan said, and Jace felt colder than he had just a moment ago, as if he was sitting out in the snow with his dragon and not six feet from a crackling hearth fire.
“What does it keep out?” he asked, wondering if he truly wanted to know the answer.
“Death. The death of all the world.”
The words were cold as ice, and somewhere Vermax was keening, a sound as forlorn as a gale howling over an empty world.
The grey-robed maester appeared at that moment, his chain clinking softly as he shuffled into the chamber. There was a letter clutched in his mottled hand. He bowed his head. “Begging your pardons, my prince, my lord. There’s been a raven. Urgent news from Dragonstone.”
Cregan rose from his seat, but the maester shook his head once when the lord held out a hand for the missive.
“It’s for Prince Jacaerys, from his mother, the queen.”
Jace stood from his chair as if in a dream. His dread grew to coil all around him, like so many terrible, ice-cold kraken’s arms wanted to drag him down to drown in some terrible sea.
He took the letter from the maester and strode over to the window, turning his back to the chamber as he unfurled the tightly rolled piece of parchment. His hands were trembling slightly, and soon the neat lines on the parchment had become unsteady too, the script quivering in the teary film that had filled his eyes.
Death had come. His little brother Luke had breathed his last.
