A/N: This is probably the most evil thing I've done, but we're nearing the end.

To everyone who followed, favorited and reviewed this story, I thank you dearly.

BARRISTAN

The horses were all tired, and many of them bore light wounds, muscle strains, scars, and so did their riders. There were thirty-five newly anointed knights, a pitiful number of warriors against a sea of foes.

Ser Barristan was operating in a haze of fatigue and minor pains that all but subsumed emotion. He knew that most of his Dothraki comrades were dead. Daario Naharis was dead. The prince, whom he had seen grow from boyhood into a man, was likely with them. But at another level, he walled all that away. I will fight for the Queen, every day. He knew he could, every day, until the life left his body.

The place in his head where his friends were dying was like a bad tooth, and by an effort of will, he didn't run his tongue over it. Nor did he think, if we win today, we're saved. He didn't think that, because he didn't really think much beyond his next stratagem, and he was now all but down to his sword and arm and the will to use them.

Ser Barristan led his knights south and raised his hand. He could feel the heat coming off the Wildfire from several yards away; it went right through his steel gauntlet and his glove. "Onwards," he called and they rode forward, formed tightly together into a wedge of steel.

The wedge negotiated the blacked grounds that had been an inferno an hour ago. Amidst the ash and death, the heat of the flames had turned the sand to glass and crossing over it carefully was wasting precious time. But as soon as they cleared the ravaged land Ser Barristan caught sight of the enemy, what was left of them, forming up in circle, fighting what was left of Rhaego's Khalasar. It was a grave image, both forces seemed drained to their barest minimum.

His eyes were old, yet his vision had not yet faded and still got a clear visual even despite the poor light and distance. His heart leapt as he saw several figures fighting alone and away from the main conflict, a flash of silver-gold hair. That was all he needed. He unsheathed his sword, pointed high and called as loudly as his old lungs could allow. "TO THE PRINCE!"

Nothing withstood their charge, and the strong band of knights scoured the ground near the prince. They rode all the way to it, killing every Yunkishman that didn't clear from their path. Some of the lesser slaves rose in brief bursts of flight or lay flat amongst the dead where they were difficult to find, the soldiers and sellswords struggled into their hastily formed defensive stance, to try and prepare themselves for one last spurt of violence.

Ser Barristan looked down into the inferno of the Yunkish lines, all the siege weapons were afire, and the battlefield crawled with figures like the damned in hells-men stripped of their skin, shrieking their lungs out, men drowning in their own blood. He looked past them all to the place Prince Rhaego was standing, or rather kneeling. The man's pale form was painted crimson and he looked half a corpse, unarmed and waiting for death. He urged his horse onwards, hacking a path through the screaming and deformed slavers.

By that point Ser Barristan's horse was doing most of the work for him, kicking and rearing and making a path, clearing the Yunkishmen away from the downed prince. He leant down-a difficult feat considering the weight of his armour-and hoisted the younger man up and over his horse. The old knight felt a pang of worry when the prince did not stir, but quickly squished it and turned his horse back, riding as hard as he could back to Meereen. Back to the Queen….

RHAEGO

He didn't wake until late afternoon. He awoke in the comfort of his own room, although it felt odd. Rhaego made to rise from his bed but a gentle hand pressed him down with an oddly firm strength. Though his eye was struggling with the light and the fog of sleep he managed to focus for a moment and see who it was that sat beside his bed.

Queen Daenerys Targaryen looked down at her son as if she had never seen such a creature before. Her eyes looked at every single aspect of his face, trying to memorize every detail. It was unnerving and irritating to the warrior.

"The Yunkishmen?" he asked.

"Fallen into a retreat," there was a smile on her face. "It seems you crippled their leader."

A grin spread across Rhaego's face, uncontrollable. He may have been defeated, his forces may have been battered beyond belief, many of his friends lost their lives, but he had looked into the face of thousands of years of cruelty and barbarism and watched as it flinched. He would have laughed if not for his broken ribs. "I would have killed him if not for his cowardice."

"You almost died yourself," she chastised softly.

He shrugged, as much as he could. "I've had worse."

"Yes," she said sadly, her purple eyes looking distant and melancholy. "You have had so much worse, and for so long you have pushed yourself into it." A lock of silvery gold hair fell over her face, concealing it as she looked down but Rhaego could tell from the slight shakes of her body that she was crying. Her voice was little more than a whisper when she spoke next. "You've wandered through this world, hurting yourself and hurting others…and I don't know why."

Suddenly he found his throat had gone desert-dry. Rhaego wondered if he had ever seen his mother in such a state before, but soon realised that what few memories he held were filtered through adolescent rebellion and years of absence. In the end he said nothing.

"Do you know what my happiest memories are?" she asked him, voice still soft and sad and so utterly unqueenly. "We lived together in an old manse just outside of Tyrosh, and for a time there was nothing else." Her lips curved into a smile. "You were only small then, little more than a babe, but you were so happy. You used to smile and laugh and by the Gods Rhaego you used to make me so happy. I don't understand…I don't understand what changed."

He took a ragged breath and sat up as best he could. He was too tired to feel angry anymore, and for once in his life he didn't feel the need to be distant. "As I grew up…I started watching you, and I started to listen to everything you said. You were sad," he brought his eye to hers and held it. "I could tell. You were so sad, so disappointed that you couldn't live up to what you were supposed to be. I could hear it in your voice, every time you spoke of 'Westeros' or the 'Iron Throne.' You were stuck with me and I was a burden to you." He felt his own voice catch. "I didn't want to be a burden anymore."

Daenerys drew back as if struck. "What?" her tone was incredulous. "Is that what you think? That I didn't want you? That the dreams of my mad brother and avenging some father I've never known meant more to me than you?" Her sad eyes were now looking at him concern. "Rhaego, you are my Shining Star. You're the only family I want and the only family I've ever needed. By the Gods Rhaego, you're my baby. You are what makes me happy."

Her soft and small hand reached out then, hesitantly taking his own calloused ones and giving them a squeeze. Rhaego didn't know what to say, didn't know what to think. He let a shuddering breath and pulled her close into a hug and feeling a child once again. "I'm sorry Mhysa, I'm so sorry…"

He was confined to his bed for five days before finally having the strength to rise. On that same day it was decided that the Yunkish were not an immediate threat anymore and that a feast would be thrown in celebration. So, while still battered and barely walking, Rhaego faced the challenge of trying to make himself presentable for the court of Meereen.

It was an effort to properly dress, and another to walk unaided into the throne room. The place had been transformed into the ideal of festivity, with dozens of candles blazing about in every sconce. The guests, most of them Meereenese noblemen and women who had stayed loyal to the Queen, stood along the tables as Missandei called out his name and titles. The pages who had once served as hostages escorted him down the broad central isle. A number of musicians played gently around him.

Rhaego lifted his chin, and forced himself to remain firm as he limped up in stride. He could feel their eyes on him, picking at all the scars that littered his body, at the way subtle way he winced with each step. Despite his initial reluctance, he had taken to wearing a patch over his bad eye whilst in public and found that his fears of looking weak were unfounded and that instead gave him a more threatening presence, something he silently relished. Let them stare, he thought as he walked past. If they think me weak then that is their fatal flaw.

They had seated him up on the dais right beside the Queen, signifying his position as heir of the city and member of the blood royal. Ser Barristan stood just behind them, an ominous warning to any who would harm the monarch. The old knight had seen much warfare in his life, yet still stood as straight and confident as a man a half his age. Not for the first time Rhaego found himself admiring the Queensguard.

The food was a simple affair and Rhaego ate but a little, more intent on listening to the musicians bang out a tune. One of them was playing a lute so fast and so powerfully that Rhaego was stuck in a slight trance. In the corner of his eye he thought he saw Mylessa talking with her little assistant. The music and the sight of her was enough to lull him.

He smiled when a familiar figure strode up to the dais, looking just as sore as Rhaego but with infinitely more charm. "So you're not dead yet, Jakerhro?"

"Not yet," the Dothraki grinned up at him. "Someone has to keep you out of trouble, and it seems the Great Stallion has chosen me."

Rhaego clasped his bloodrider's hand. "Then he has chosen well."

Two men stood behind the bloodrider, bearing a rolled up banner on their shoulders. Jakerhro ushered them forward. "I have brought a gift for you, blood of my blood," he announced. The two men gently unrolled the piece of cloth, stretching it out to present before Rhaego and his queen mother. The image was a great red stallion over a fiery field, woven with a degree of love and artistry. "You should have your own sigil, so we sought someone to make you one. This way wherever we go, people will know that this Khalasar fights for you, oh Khal of Khals."

He stared at the banner with awe, and felt a swell of pride. He stared at the men before him, blood-brothers whom he had ridden with since he was a boy. They were loyal to him, but more than that, they were his family. This is what I've been looking for my whole life, he realized. Everything I wanted back then, when I left…it's been right here in front of me the whole time…

Rhaego lay with his head in Mylessa's lap. She was looking at the fire in their hearth, just a few feet away from their bed, and he was looking at the line of her throat and jaw. She was considering him, and he could tell, as though he could feel her thoughts through their joined hands. Gradually, glacially slowly, she lowered her mouth over his.

Playfully, at the last moment, he licked her nose, and they both dissolved into laughter, and he shifted, grabbed her under the arms and began to tickle her until she shrieked and tried to hit him. He put her in his lap and bent to kiss her. She arched her back to reach him more quickly, and their tongues touched, their lips touched. He drank her and she drank him. Each of them could feel the contact, real, emotional, spiritual.

He broke the kiss. "Marry me."

Mylessa stopped. She froze. "What?"

"Marry me. Be my wife. Live with me until we die, old and surrounded by children and grandchildren." He grinned at her. "I don't ever want to part with you."

"You'd say that to any woman underneath you," she said.

"Yes, but this time I mean it," he said and she swatted him.

Mylessa smiled, licked her lips, and then rolled out from under him, as swift as a dancer. Or a warrior. "I'm going to the stables, and I'm going to ride out and start a bonfire by the beach. If you want to follow me…." Her blue eyes held a spark of something that made his heart leap. "Then you may follow."

The night was dark, and Mylessa had gotten a head start, but Rhaego managed to catch up to her with little effort and soon enough they were building a bonfire on one of the beaches of Slaver's Bay. It amazed him how peaceful the place looked when a bloody massacre had taken place less than a league away, even as Mylessa lit her fire and began her usual prayer, everything seemed to be exactly as it should be.

"One of these days you'll have to teach me the tongue of Asshai," he told her with a teasing grin. "I'll not have you say lewd things about me without my knowing."

Her blue eyes flickered over to him, shining gold with the reflection of the flames. In that moment it was as if she was something else, a wraith from another world, such was her glow. He felt desire swell within him, like a man in the desert who has seen a clear spring of water. How could I give her up for some Dornish princess?

As she stepped forward, Mylessa's eyes burnt like those a lioness in the dark as she tore off her garments and cast them at his feet. In a trance he removed his leather vest, undid his breeches and the blind flood of the warrior's desire swept all else away as he crushed her panting form to his bare chest.

It was the screaming that woke him.

His mind was floating, trapped in a sea of darkness and confusion. With a savage effort he broke the unseen bonds which held him to his dreams, and started upright. For some reason his head felt as though it was going to split in half, his gaze was unfocused, his limbs ached. Only in his worst bouts of drinking had ever caused such a state of illness, and Rhaego knew he had hardly touched any wine that night.

Rhaego looked about. His fire had burned low, down to a small flicker. The camp was empty.

He yelled for Mylessa, yet a primordial silence brooded around him, the washing of the tide, and the slap of the wind. He called out again, but his voice sounded like a brittle and hollow mockery. His one remaining eye scanned all about him, trying desperately to pierce the darkness that looked ready to consume him and his tiny fire. He suddenly understood why the Red Priests lit their nightfires.

There was a scream, identical to the one that stabbed through the fever of his dreaming. He turned around and caught sight of a faint glow emanating from over the top of a nearby sand dune. Climbing it, he discovered the source of the glow.

Meereen was burning.

A panic rose in him at the thought that his friends and family were inside the inferno, and he hastily followed the tracks of the way he had come, his horse long gone. With every step he took the screams grew louder, the smell of sulphur more suffocating and the more his terror grew. He was drenched with sweat and coughing up a storm as he finally made it to the city gates.

Meereen had become a place where flame and shadow ruled. Not even in his worst nightmares had Rhaego ever seen such a horrid vision of hell. Disembodied screams called out into the night, begging in a thousand different tongues for salvation, ghostly shapes running around in the smoke filled haze. Buildings loomed, gutted and charred shells, flames leaking out and fighting the darkness in a horrific war of colour. Crooked towers of smoke stretched upwards into the black skies, glowing with the light of the fires that had given birth to them and raining down a black snow of ash upon all.

Rhaego passed through it all in a mad haze, struggling to keep his wits as he hurried towards the Great Pyramid. Several screaming citizens ran past him, headless and faithless. It grew worse the closer he got to the Pyramid. The fires rose up in terrible magnificence , creaking and roaring, tower devils, gnawing at the night. They burned Rhaego's eye and made him weep, or perhaps he wept anyway, to see the waste of it all. The top half of the Great Pyramid was missing, the ancient stones sheared off jagged in a fresh, shiny edge. Dead men were scattered
around the courtyard. Charred black and partially devoured, their blood stained the ground.

A boy sat alive in the midst of the bodies and the chunks of rock, bloodied, blinking at a severed head that lay between his knees, glassy eyes looking up lifelessly. Rhaego vaguely recognized him as one of his mother's cupbearers and felt his heart beat nearly burst from his chest with fear. He saw someone bent over a man, helping him. He glanced up, sooty faced at Rhaego. He wasn't helping, he had been trying to steal the shoes from a dead man. As Rhaego came close he startled and dashed away into the strange gloom.

There were bodies all about. There were parts of bodies, strangely robbed of meaning. Bits of meat. He pressed on, his one eye scanning the debris for any sign of life, picking his way through one ruined shell to another, coughing, eye watering, tearing at bricks with his hands, turning over bodies.

Something groaned amongst the rubble.

And there was Jakerhro. He did not seem badly injured at a first glance. His face was streaked with blood, but when Rhaego put a hand near his mouth he felt breath. However, when he made to lift the man up from the rubble something felt wrong. His eye widened when he saw that his friend's back was charred black from shoulder to buttock.

"Jakerhro…" his voice was a croak. What do I do? He wondered, I don't know how to help this, I don't think anyone knows how to help this…

The Bloodrider's eyes shot open, wide and glassy. His almond eyes locked onto Rhaego's, a sense of confusion clouding his expression. He opened his mouth to talk, his jaw working desperately to form words, but in the end only blood oozes out and he soon fell silent and still.

Rhaego stared down at the body of his friend, feeling cold despite the blaze around him. He was a better man than I, yet he dies and I live. His throat constricted at that and his body shook with near silent sobs. This isn't right, this isn't fair….

He got to his feet and went through the rubble, more desperate than ever to find others. His hands soon bled and he was covered in dust and dried blood. Something white sat underneath the broken half of a stone pillar and when Rhaego overturned it he found the shattered remains of Ser Barristan Selmy, arms and legs and neck folded in unnatural angles. Despite his broken state, the old man still clasped onto a sword, a knight even in death.

Grey Worm was little more than a charred skeleton when Rhaego found him. His cap was the only thing that even remotely hinted at the eunuch's identity. From the inner gardens to the outer courtyards, among the crumbled pillars and along the broken walls they lay, torn and mangled and half devoured, chewed travesties of men.

Rhaego caught sight of something up ahead, a touch of silver in the overbearing darkness of the half collapsed throne room. He came silently into the dark room, terror gripping his heart and his sword clenched tightly in his hand. Something was suspended upon the dais, a wooden cross planted where his mother's throne used to sit. Speechless, Rhaego looked on the Mother of Dragons as she hung nailed to the structure. Her throat opened.

Footsteps moved from behind him, hurried and threatening and on instinct he spun on his heel and drove his sword through the attacker.

"Ah," said Mylessa, blinking down at the sword in her abdomen. "Ah…" and she fell down just like that, his blade still stuck within her. The pool of blood leaking from her body, he noticed, was only a shade darker than her dress.

"Mylessa?" he gasped, hurrying to her and pulling the blade free as gently as he could. "By the Gods, by the Gods, by the….don't worry, I'm going to get you help." He struggled to breathe, heart feeling like it had swollen up into the bottom of his throat. "I am so sorry love; I didn't see...I didn't see…"

Her hand reached up, gently stroking his face, a queer smile on her blood-red lips. "But you see now don't you?" her eyes were unmoving, as though she was dead already. "The Lord has plans for you, and he sent me to make them happen…"

"Please love," he whispered, tears rolling down his cheek. "You don't know what you're saying, just…save your strength."

"Oh, but don't you understand?" she murmured. "I did all this. I brought fire to this place. I had to." Her breathing begun to speed up then and her blue eyes went wild. "I poisoned them all, drugged the wine…from the feast….I set off my stores of Wildfire…."She grabbed hold of Rhaego's hand with a devil's strength then. "I killed Daenerys…"

Rhaego felt his stomach churn, his head throbbing. "What….Mylessa…N-no, that's not….you couldn't have you were with me-"

"-I drugged you too," she whispered. "I took you out of the city, and then I started the fires. I did the Lord's work….your mother…she had to die. All of them had to die."

"No…please…please tell me this isn't true," he clutched her more tightly than he should have. "Tell me that you didn't do this to me!"

Her smile was serene, much like it was only hours previous when they lay in each other's arms. "I had to kill them. Your mother had the blood of kings, and I needed to bind a dragon to you. You must have a dragon Rhaego, it's the only way you can stop the darkness. A great gift….requires a great sacrifice."

"Why?" he screamed, voice hoarse and sore from crying. "I thought you loved me, by the Gods I actually thought we loved each other!"

"Oh," she said, taking his hand and giving it a kiss. "I love you more than anything else in the world. I've loved you ever since I first saw you in the House of the Undying; why else would I save you? You…are the Lord's chosen, Azor Ahai reborn," she gestured to her wound. "And even he sacrificed his own love to forge Lightbringer. I had to do this to give you your weapon."

A roar cut through the air, rattling the very stone itself. The even beats of a pair of massive wings filled the night air, somehow overpowering the sounds of thousands burning alive. Rhaego felt like he was going to be sick. Mylessa smiled again, the blood around them forming a larger puddle than it should have. Too much blood for one person, he thought absently, a feeling of numbness consuming him.

"He's waiting for you my love," her eyes began to falter. Their sapphire gaze was becoming unfocused. "You should go….embrace….t-the…light…"

Rhaego stared at her lifeless form. He felt nothing. He thought of nothing. He left the dead where they were and walked out into the courtyard and sat grimly on the pyramid, waiting for what was to come. The black fury in his soul drove out all fear. What shapes would emerge from the blackness he knew not, nor did he care.

Two red eyes rose up before him.