VII
DRAGONSTONE – 86 years after the Doom of Valyria
As she leisurely took sips of the concoction her son had made, Valaena could not help but sigh. The hunting party that would make its way to the woods had left hours earlier, when the first rays of sun had just begun creeping out at the crack of dawn while the sky was still a bruised purple. Aerion had decided to lead the hunt, clad in linen undergarments to wick away moisture with woollen outer garments to keep warm. Accompanying them would be her eldest nephew, her brother and Aerion's two eldest sons and a retinue of knights.
The hunting grounds of Dragonstone were not a thickly forested as the one in Driftmark but there was a fair amount of game: boar and hart and hare. Aerion had never been one to love the hunt, no more than their eldest son did, but even Valaena had to reluctantly admit Aerion's misbegotten get was a fine hunter and rarely ever came back emptyhanded. Valaena herself was a keen hunter in her youth, always at her brother's side when their own father had brought them out hunting. Yet today she had declined from sheer exhaustion. While she loved her brother and his family's visits, it always did leave her swamped with work. There were feasts to plan, servants to direct, and energetic children to watch over. Her sweet boy always helped however, always offering to take over, something that never failed to win a smile and a kiss on the brow from her. The thought of him made her turn to face the window again, wondering what it was her eldest boy was doing. Viserys Targaryen was a prodigy with the sword and taller than his father despite his young age, a child that would no doubt define a era of history. He was already so strong, so powerful. Yet, she could not help but worry as the sun slowly faded away into the distance as dusk slowly rolled it.
She had expected them to return hours before, emptyhanded or not. Instead, the sky continued to darken and no call had been made to signal her of their return.
Grabbing the pitcher, she poured more of the brandy her son had invented. He had distilled a cask of Arbor Gold and allowed it to age and mature before serving it with apples to provide a soothing drink that filled her with warmth and soothed her worries. Not for the first time, Valaena could not help but feel immensely proud of her eldest.
He had been born when she had been still seven-and-ten, a small babe but quiet, rarely prone to crying. She could still remember how his first words had been 'mama', how he had grown into a precocious and inquisitive child gifted at all one could be gifted at. Already, he had beaten countless of knights and squires at Driftmark in melees and had shown remarkable prowess with lance and flail though it was the longsword he loved the most. On his twelfth nameday, he had been bestowed the longsword Dark Sister by his father, Valyrian Steel that was as sharp as they came. It had been made for a woman's hand yet Viserys was skilled in its use.
As he grew, so too did his passions and his ventures. In scarce ten years, he had quadrupled the harvest of Dragonstone with the use of a method called four-field crop rotation by taking advantage of the fertile volcanic soil of Dragonstone and had begun countless other experiments. The concepts were often complex yet logical when one truly mulled over them. "Selective breeding" as he called it made note of how by breeding cattle with more beneficial traits would have a larger chance of yielding children with those traits. Valaena had found the theory itself dubious originally but after five years of continuous breeding, the yield of milk and the size of the cows had increased. Viserys had also begun a process called pasteurisation in which milk was boiled before use to eliminate small creatures he dubbed pathogens and to extend its shelf life.
To her surprise, the taste had vastly improved and when kept it the more advanced ice pit Viserys had created, it no longer spoiled quickly. The redesign to the ice pit itself was ingenious. The pit itself was a domed structure dug deep into the ground, brick-lined, with most of its volume underground, but now, the walls were sheathed with tin to keep the warmth from spreading inside. Huge blocks of ice were held underground with a conical bottom to hold the melted ice and a drain to carry away the drain water. Instead, deep inside the ice pit, meat and other perishables could be stored for moons on end with no risk of fouling in the rippling summer heat.
To procure the ice was another story. The easiest way to obtain it was through the North, near the Wall. It was arduous and costly to import the ice though by covering them in furs or sawdust, they were prevented from melting too quickly.
Her son had also introduced a new dessert called "iced cream", a variant of an old Valyrian dessert that could now be more easily produced. It was made with the use of his "ice machine", zinc lined bucket-like cylinder full of salt and crushed ice surrounding the centre pewter jar which froze the cream in the matter of minutes. Then, it would be carried to the ice pit where it would freeze overnight. The next day, they could all enjoy a sweet dessert that had quickly become a favourite of the family and a regular feature at dinner, pairing nicely with the flavourful fare of the East.
Aerion had also commissioned Viserys' dragon ships which were possessed of copper hulls and dovetailed planks banded with iron that made the mast taller than before. Even the swan ships of the Summer Islands did not compare. They had five ships in their possession with plans for two more to join from the village of Hull that was quickly becoming a font for shipyards thanks to Viserys' influence.
Moreover, Viserys had grown even more involved with Dragonstone's affairs over the years and had implemented many of the concepts he had introduced on Driftmark on Dragonstone. He had rearranged the household to make everything more manageable with the introduction of a set of people he called "human resources" who paid the wages of the staff on time, managed any complaints and handled recruitment and training of the servants. The various roles of the household were also rearranged in such a way that feasts could be thrown out of nowhere with but a simple request, making Valaena's labours far easier than before.
He had also begun the production of glass which formed a new form of income for Dragonstone and was beginning to compete with the Myrish. More ships now visited Dragonstone than ever before and the already strong coffers had carefully curated were beginning to overflow with gold, even with Aerion's prudent spending in the years since Daemion had suddenly died.
The glass had also saved her youngest nephew Laenor's life as he had come earlier than expected. The "incubator" as he called it was a wooden cuboid with a glass lid with an exhaust pipe to allow air to flow into the apparatus so that the babe may breathe. A small compartment beneath the cot housed hot water bottles that produced steam that kept the baby warm. Birthing forceps, smooth metal instruments that had the look of two spoons welded together had also become a common practice as it helped in easing out babes stuck in the birth canal during complicated births. Had it not existed, her nephew would no doubt have perished alongside his mother, her goodsister, Laena.
His newest invention was also showing great promise, a thick grey slurry he called "concrete" which when solidified, was as hard as stone. It was made by mixing volcanic ash with lime and seawater to make a mortar, and then incorporating into that mortar chunks of volcanic rock. Given Dragonstone was lousy with the stuff, it was not as difficult to source as the ice. Already the locals were using concrete to build their homes though he did not allow them to make the roads with the same mixture. When she had asked why, he had simply sent her a sly smile and told her she would find out one day.
He had also made mention of something called a printing press, a mechanical device used for applying pressure to an inked surface resting upon parchment or paper he had begun importing from Yi Ti and was planning to make on Dragonstone itself. It was based off the design of a wine press and was still in the development phase though Viserys would no doubt produce a finished product soon enough. The boy had a reputation for delving into his work to her dismay. She wanted nothing more than to have him be that little boy who called her mama again.
A knock on the door broke her train of thought and she made her way to open it. Rhaenys and Aegon slammed into her middle, smiles on their face as they embraced her tightly.
"My little dragons." She could not help the smile that formed on her face. "What have you come here for?"
Rhaenys' lips pouted as she pulled away. "Where's Vissie?"
Aegon nodded. "He promised he would tell us a story called Attack on Titan."
Valaena raised an eyebrow upwards. "Titan?"
Her two children both nodded profusely. "It is about giant humans who eat people," Aegon supplied.
The thought made her frown. Perhaps she would need to have a discussion with her son about his latest stories. He had a talent for coming up with the most interesting ideas ever. One of his most loved tales revolved around a boy called Squire Luke who freed Westeros from the sway of Emperor Sheev of House Palpatine who along with his apprentice Lord Darth Vader led a reign of tyranny, slavery and evil. His other treasured tales spoke of worlds where magic was practiced. There was the world of Middle Earth where a fellowship of people of different races, including small human-like 'hobbits' with hairy feet, were sent to destroy a ring into which was embedded the power of the evil Sauron, servant of the Black Foe of the World, Melkor, once of the Valar. Another took place on the isle of Leng called Naruto who could use a magic called "chakra" to run of water and to injure and even kill people though his most powerful attack according to Viserys was the "Talk no Jutsu" which in simpler terms was Naruto's ability to coax people into joining his side, an ability the boy envied.
"Hunts take time," Valaena sighed, settling down on the featherbed, "And they should be coming back soon."
"But it's been hours, mama," Rhaenys complained, "We all know what Vissie will say when he comes back. He'll tell us he's too tired to play with children."
Valaena could not help but laugh. "Viserys himself is still a child himself, no matter how much he fancies himself to be a man grown."
"But he acts like a man grown," Aegon noted, "Uncle Daemon says his mind is much older than his physical age."
"The Gods have blessed your brother with a sweet wit and a sharp mind."
"We have all been blessed," Valaena said, smoothing out Aegon's hair, "Especially me. They have given me three wonderful, beautiful and intelligent children."
She bent down to brush her lips against their brows before embracing them tightly. Rhaenys leaned into her boldly, eager for more attention as she knocked her mother onto the soft featherbed, while Aegon followed them with a laugh, making even Valaena burst into giggles. How silly were her children! For all she was proud of her eldest's maturity and influence, she still loved it when the three of them begged to be mothered. There was no greater joy in life in her eyes. She loved her little dragons so much, more than anything else in the world. Even more than Aerion. Even a dragon seemed a worthy sacrifice if it got her her sweetlings.
"You two will make an old crone out of me," she huffed exaggeratedly, trying desperately to hide her smile. Rhaenys only sent her a bright and toothy smile.
"You cannot possibly blame us for that. Papa says Vissie's the one who makes him age," her daughter remarked, giggling.
"I fear you will do the same to him once you are wed, sweetling," Valaena said happily, giving up on forcing off her smile. Rhaenys pouted.
"I will be the best wife to Viserys, mama! We will be like Gaemon and Daenys. Like Rahaedar the Seafarer and his lady love Laena in the old stories. Our wedding will be so grand and beautiful," she swooned.
"Papa will call your wedding Viserys' reckoning more like," Aegon chirped in. Valaena only laughed, watching as Rhaenys narrowed her eyes in annoyance, ready to retort.
A loud knock at the door made her flinch. instead Aegon and Rhaenys both shared a surprised look while Valaena frowned. Most servants were terrified to arouse her anger, especially if it meant disturbing her peace and quiet. The ominous feeling that something tragic had unraveled seemed to rear its ugly head again despite her protests. Her legs felt like lead as she inched towards the door, readying to be the Archontissa once more.
"Enter," she stated clearly, standing tall and proud. The gold and silver door swung open, revealing Ser Quenton Qoherys, the master-at-arms. Two guards flanked him; guards she was sure had departed this morning along with the rest of the retinue of those who had gone hunting. The sight of them brought about a sinking feeling to her stomach, making her very insides turn to ice.
"Archontissa, you must hurry!" He paused to take a breath, his face glistening with sweat. "It is the Archon and his heir. They are both wounded."
"Wounded?" Her mouth gaped open, uncertain whether to scream or to breathe.
"What?" Rhaenys' voice was barely above a whisper. "Papa and Vissie are hurt?"
"Bandits fell upon them while they went to a secluded part of the woods. They managed to slay them but both took arrows. Quick, my Archontissa! We must hurry!"
The pain was a blinding thing, one Aerion had not known even existed. Every fibre in his body was taut with agony, concentrated on the three parts the arrows had fell upon: one to the chest, one in the arm and another in his shoulder. How he had had the strength to wield a sword, Aerion did not know. Viserys had always called that rush of energy adrenaline for some reason, some sort of fight or flight stimulus that made a man strong and alert even in fear. Or perhaps it was the fact he had had his son with him, his three-and-ten nameday boy who had so much to live for.
Viserys had slain five with Dark Sister by the time the rest of their party had fell upon them with Aerion getting the other four. The others fled the moment they saw a slew of knights though others continued the pursuit while others stopped their mounts at the sight of their wounded lord and his son.
They had ridden hard from there on through the haze of agony that accompanied ever step their horses took. It had taken all he had in him not to cry. Yet now, all the tears flowed. He was dying, dying before he could hold his first grandchild, dying before he could see his children reach adulthood. His ever dutiful wife remained at his bedside, warm hands clasped around his pale and clammy ones as if trying to will her own strength into him. Aegon and Rhaenys were both sobbing, wrapped in their mother's arms. He had already seen to Orys given he knew his wife would be especially cold to him after his death. Viserys would see him taken care of, Aerion knew.
His heir, soon to be Archon in his own right, did not kneel at his bedside. He was seated on a chair, eyes fluttering from the milk of the poppy he had taken and face stuck in a scowl. He did not speak, did not even move. All he did was glower, his eyes filled with a rage untold. It was a fury that consumed men and left them hollow shells of what they had been, one that needed blood to be sated. Lesser men had succumbed to it, men with not an ounce of his son's acumen. There would be death in the days to come, death on his son's hands.
A boy should not need to bear the weight of all the decisions of House Targaryen, a boy should not watch his father die at such a young age. But his sons would, as would his daughter and his wife.
"Valaena, my love," his voice was a whisper, hoarse and strained, "Take the children. They must not see me like this. I want them to remember me smiling, not rotting away in this bed."
Little Rhaenys' lips wobbled and she threw her arms around him, snot running down her nose, mixing with her tears. Aegon followed her, his breath short wheezes.
"Papa, don't die," Rhaenys wailed, her voice dissolving into incoherent words.
Aerion summoned the last of his strength and pressed a kiss to their brows. "We cannot help it, my little dragon. Please, do not make it difficult. I want to see you all smiling before I go."
Rhaenys' lips thinned, trying desperately to form a smile but it fell short and turn into a half-choked sob. Aegon only buried his face in his hands. Valaena's hands only held them tighter, even as she took a shaky breath to try and steel herself. Her hair, long and braided as always, seemed to come undone at the seams, so unlike her. It only worsened his guilt.
"I will love and miss you, Aerion. I... I love you, dearest. So, so much. More than I ever loved myself. Forever and always," she said, wiping her tears away before pressing a final kiss to his lips. Aerion savoured it like a dehydrated man would do water, relishing in the warmth and familiarity. When she pulled away, some of the blood from his lips imprinted on hers. Her pale blue eyes were as clear and lovely as the Summer Sea. She was as lovely as the Summer Sea, even in all her grief. Every curve, every line, he tried to memorise, knowing she was doing the same. Rhaenys and Aegon huddled together into his side, causing him pain but he swallowed it. It was not the time. "I... I will keep them safe and loved, you know that. My little dragons will... will never want for a mother."
Aerion only smiled. "You were always the best of us, my beloved. At stories, at riding, at sums...Even now. I would wither away if I were you. Yet you are as strong as you have ever been."
Valaena let out a shaky but earnest laugh, warm as the sweetest of all songs. "You were always the romantic," she murmured weakly, pressing another kiss to his lips, his cheek, his chin. "Even as a boy."
As their foreheads met, Aerion could almost see as she wanted to fight his decision, to be that proud brazen girl he loved so, so much, someone who was a dragonlord in all but name. It was in the tenseness of her shoulders, the way her limbs seemed unmoving. Instead, she sobbed again, one hand covering her mouth before she pulled her youngest two away and led them out of the door, all but dragging the kicking and screaming children away. Aerion's heart ached for her, her touch, her love, for their youngest two, but he said not a word of protest. Valaena would not let them see their own sire die so pitifully, no different from his own dreaded father. Weak, delirious and losing all the fire that made up one of the blood of the dragon.
No, he would not think of that wretched man now, the man who slew or sold off his own siblings for power after murdering their own children. The man without whom neither he nor his love would exist. He would focus on his love instead. She would be strong, far stronger than he ever was. Far stronger than he ever could have been if he had been in her place. The sort of stuff that their son was made of. Finally, his dark eyes met a face so similar to his beloved wife's, Valaena's countenance but with his dark purple irises, already growing so tall like his mother, bound to be even taller and more robust still.
"Viserys, my son and heir," his son's eyes finally fell upon Aerion, full of unbridled wroth not directed at him, "I wish I could be able to say that I have been a good father to you. I wish I could say that I was close to you. Yet, I sent you away when you needed me the most. I abandoned you."
Viserys did not respond. Instead, he rose shakily, as if all the pain he was in had been overtaken by something else, before falling to his knees weakly, heavy breaths leaving his lips. Aerion's landed over his. His arms fell upon the bed and he looked down at the blanket with a helpless stare, as innocent as any child could ever be.
"You did not," he choked out, "I missed Dragonstone but I am glad I went to Driftmark. I learned things there, I learned how to hold a sword and I learned my histories. I just wish…" a sob erupted his lips, "I just wish we had more time."
Aerion felt his lips twitch downwards while tears welled up once more in his eyes. His right hand fell upon his son's face and he wiped away the tears that slid down his cheeks.
"You have made me so proud," he confessed, "More than you ever will know. The little Archon almost a man grown in his own right. Gods, I am so sorry, my son. I do not want to leave you with such a burden on your shoulders."
Viserys wiped furiously at his face, wiping the tears away though more replaced them as quickly as they were gone. "I need..." his voice quivered, "I want to tell you something, father. Before you go, I want to tell you the truth."
The mention made his frown despite himself. "What is it?" he rasped.
Viserys looked down at the floor, as if mentally debating whether he should open his mouth to speak,. His eyes met Aerion's and did not leave them despite the doubt that still loomed in them. "I…" Viserys began, his voice thick, "When I was born, I dreamed I lived another life."
"Another life?"
"Y-yes," he said shakily, "And in that life, I saw things… many wonderful things. I tried to replicate them, to make us stronger. I know…" he sobbed again, "Gods, I just know if we were there, this wouldn't be happening. They would be able to save you. Gods, even with all the knowledge of Valyria bestowed upon, my mind had scarce f-focus. I am trying, father. I am really trying but I can't find an answer. Flesh shaping could help mayhaps... Or purifying the flame. I know how to do it... But.. Gods, I don't know what to do! I can... sort of but I don't know... I am scared, papa. I am so scared."
"You lived another life…?"
Aerion wondered if it was grief or madness that had claimed his son. The thought alone was perplexing yet he needed only to hear Viserys' tone to know it was not a lie. He swallowed thickly, tasting the coppery taste of blood. His hands clasped his son's tightly, feeling the warmth in them.
"The Fourteen sent me here. I shouldn't have existed but I did. I-I am sorry... Gods, I am so sorry," he choked out, sobbing. "This is all my fault!"
"You were my son," Aerion reassured softly, "You are my son, sent here by the Fourteen or not. I love you. I love you. And I will miss you so, so much, Viserys. But I need to know if you will be able to stay strong for our family."
Viserys took a shaky breath, his eyes widening. "What?"
Aerion forced on a weary smile, breaths growing even shallower. "You are not as reticent as you believe, Viserys. Your uncle has told me your plans for years. I must admit even I had thought of demanding tribute from the Riverlands and focusing once more on the East. Though the entire continent itself?" he let out a shaky laugh despite the pain he was in, "Even I am not that ambitious, my son."
Viserys only looked at him wide-eyed, mouth forming an o-shape. "You knew?"
Aerion's smile deepened. "Of course, I knew," he said softly, "You will be a great man, my son. Greater than any of our ancestors, greater than any of your descendants. I have seen it in my dreams, I have seen your legacy. But even then, I do not trust in dreams alone. Promise me you will take love and care of our family. Aegon, Rhaenys and your mother. Even Orys. They will need you more than you will ever know. And you must marry your sister."
Viserys' eyes widened as if he had not considered it before. There was a flash of reluctance in his gaze. "Rhaenys?"
Aerion nodded, fighting back a wince. "Swear it to me. I know well enough your word will be true even without a blood oath."
Viserys blinked, eyes distraught before he nodded weakly. "I swear it, papa," he managed
Aerion sent him one final smile. "Then I will die at peace, knowing our house will be transferred into good hands."
They did not speak after that. He had pressed a kiss to Aerion's forehead, muttering silent prayers as flickers of weak sparks gave his flesh the slightest of reliefs as his pulse slowed, the magics of Old Valyria as soothing as fair Valaena's kiss. Viserys' hand held his, strong and warm. The hands of a boy entering manhood. Aerion's breaths grew weaker then and it took all it had in him to keep his eyes open. The last thing he saw was his son's eyes looking unforgivingly at the wall, full of anger.
Full of loathing.
"Fire..." Viserys said, his voice so frighteningly soft. "and Blood."
Those were the last words Aerion, rider of Balerion, ever heard.
Lord Aerion of House Targaryen was garbed in his finest as they laid him out on the freshly erected unlit pyre. Set upon a couch of carved ivory draped with gold and purple, he was idle in death. His shoes were polished to a blinding sheen, soft red velvet embroidered with thread of gold and lines of pearls. His tunic was of heavily brocaded scarlet silk with gold threadwork, elaborately stitched into geometric shapes along the sleeves and into flame designs at the cuffs and hem. His skin had turned pale since his death, so unlike his usual tan, and as cold as ice when touched. Even then, even in death, his father looked regal. The circlet of Valyrian Steel that crowned his long silver hair only added to that air of decorum, of unearthliness. There was a certain stiffness too, especially with Blackfyre curled tightly in his tight grip, as if he were no more but a statue, so reminiscent of the death masks, funeral veils and marble busts that seemed to surround them all constantly.
He is as alive as one, Aegon thought bitterly.
A familiar inkling of woe crept up his chest at the reminder. It seemed almost like a dream that father was gone. No longer would he wake up to his father's smiles, no longer would he find the man nestled in the comfort of his solar, a pile of parchment on his desk and that ever familiar scent of ink and parchment. No longer would rides on Balerion be commonplace, lest he claim him as his own steed once the mourning was done. In his stead stood his older brother, Viserys, garbed fully in full ash grey, a long silken cloak held together by a golden clasp set with ruby eyes draped over his broadening shoulders. His silver hair, pleated into one long braid that fell near his waist, was hidden under a dark veil as was the custom of the dragonlords. He was of grim appearance, lips drawn into a thin line that inclined downwards. There was not a splash of colour in sight despite the golden bronze tan that coloured his skin. To Aegon, it seemed as if even colour itself had lost its potency.
Many houses had come to attend the funeral of Aegon's father, a mixture of their vassals and some sworn to the Storm King: House Bar Emmon from Sharp Point, House Massey from Stonedance, their cousins from Driftmark, and the Celtigars from Claw Isle. There were no tears this time. The Fourteen knew they had cried enough over the days since his father had passed. Aegon himself no longer felt grief, rather, he felt anger. Anger at the bandits that had injured his father and brother both, anger at the gods for taking his father when he was still so young. It overwhelmed him sometimes though it did not consume him the way it did his brother.
Not a day went by without Viserys beating knights five years older than him into submission out of pure rage. Not even Ser Quenton was spared from his blows. He had always been stern and serious, even as a babe their mother always japed. But now he had grown even more reclusive, preferring to stay in their father's solar – his solar now – well into the night.
He only ever spoke to Orys and even then, his words were not as gentle as they could be. Instead, they were so angry despite the outward coldness he displayed. And mother... Well, Viserys and mother could scarce look at each other now, let alone speak...
The field where they had played football together only scarce two weeks ago was now a sunless and unwelcoming place, a haunt for ghosts and their like. As the last guests finished paying their respects, Viserys finally made his way to the funeral pyre. He cut a lonesome figure in front of the she-dragon he rode, his eyes looking as dead as their father's wide-open glazed eyes that still haunted Aegon. No one spoke. The only sound that could be heard was the howling of the wind that whipped at their cloaks and hair, the smell of Dragonstone rife in the air. Viserys broke the silence.
"Your Master and Lord, our... our Archon Aerion Targaryen ruled Dragonstone for scarce ten years but in that time, he accomplished much and more than his predecessors. Dragonstone, the last true bastion of Valyria, flourished under his care. He built up our coffers, formed trade agreements with the East, expanded our fleet and brought us from the nadir of our power back to its apex. He took over from a tyrant, and did much to reverse the atrocities that had been committed my grandsire's tainted reign. But, to speak plainly, listing off his achievements alone would be underselling who he was."
"He was a loving husband, a devoted father and a generous ruler. He gave the people under his care justice and prosperity, building upon the foundations that our forebears had long neglected in pursuit of a life of boundless opulence without restraint . To his leal supporters, he provided with protection from the constant wars that marred their lands. To his enemies, he showed them the wroth of Mother Valyria. He gave... He gave me a chance to prove myself and never doubted me despite my young age. He encouraged my... my passions which only helped our family prosper even more. He listened to my... mother, the Archontissa Valaena's advice, never erring to see her, his greatest love as he was wont to say, as his equal in all things. He was all a man could be - should be - until his life stolen from him by filthy mongrels who will be brought to justice."
"I pray our world will see his like again. I pray that my sons and daughters continue to strive to make the world as he wanted it to be: a peaceful and prosperous land, bountiful with wealth and brimming with life. A civilised world, one that will one day make even the Freehold look like but a pale shadow. He was Aerion Targaryen, Archon of Dragonstone. May the God of Death, Morghul, shepherd his soul to the afterlife swiftly and with care, to reunite him with all whom preceded him. May the Fourteen bless his soul and welcome him into their halls as kin. My suffering shall never know an end, for my father takes with him a part of my own soul. Even so, let us not only grieve him but celebrate him as well! Let us trade the dark colours of mourning with the white of celebration. Let mighty games, worthy sacrifices and grand feasts be held in his honour! Let his name not die in obscurity, but be carried by the voices of his subjects, in mourning and in praise! Let Aerion, son of Aerea, Archon of Dragonstone, be remembered as a dragonlord, scion of Valyria!"
With one final command and an almost shaky turn of the head from the new Archon of Dragonstone away from the pyre, Vhagar's maw opened, spitting out bronze flames shot through with green that bathed the pyre, burning the last remnants of Aegon's father into ashes and bones.
A/N: To that one dude who said Viserys was going to get himself killed by being an overconfident moron... You were exactly right! Sorry for the delay guys. Had a bad bout of depression. 7 out 21.