Summerhall

A.C 259

They had come; every cadet branch of the House of the Dragon, and many who came were the heads of their respective families (Minus Lords Aetheryon and Tully. Aenar was needed in the capitol should this meet with disaster and the Lords of Riverrun and Harrenhal sent bastards and third born sons respectively.) gathered at Summerhall in a place between storm and sand—guided by prophecy, combining the power of the Old Gods, the red faith, the Maiden of Light from Yi Ti and R'hollor. With mystics from as far away as Yi Ti and Leng, hedge wizards, Jenny's dwarf, and the blood mages captured during the last war against Volantis and the two daughters. Sorcerers, holy men, and even a Green Man from the isle of faces had come, bearing satchels of Weirwood seeds and his cloven fingers and dear-like face. Magic, faith, tradition, and heritage are all gathered here.

They had erected a great circle of stones from the ancient ruin of Oldstones around an oak. A slab from Harrenhal with Black Harren's shadow burnt into the slab itself, the markings of the ending of eras and the start of new ones. On the tree hung seven condemned criminals, two rapers, two murderers, two blood traitors, and at the center, a kinslayer. Aegon had balked at this at first. Ritual sacrifice violated the core of his being and every moral, virtue, and belief he swore to live by. Yet the Dragon dreams had never lied, even if they came late in his life. And the prophecy of Ice and Fire, that most ancient secret is hidden on the Blackfyre blade in secret runes. It was soon to come, an age of darkness to swallow the world. His ancestors understood that the fate of the world would be decided not in the east but the west. Kill the boy Egg and let the man be born. Men had to make hard decisions; all the Targaryen Dragons were dead, and what was coming loomed on the horizon, and he could not allow Aerys and his future heirs to face that evil with nothing but men and steel.

He resisted, of course, ignoring the duty, and dismissed the Dragon dreams as nonsense that had driven too many of his brothers and cousins and kindred mad. He'd hated them at first because of it, always did his mind return to Aerion. But then an art lost to time was returned, and Prince Valarr unveiled the bastard sword Brightflame its blade the onyx black of the Targaryen banner with blood-red swirls that took the form of ghostly dragons that danced in the blade. In my dreams, Aerion returned from the dead, his face red and his hands black, and he clutched a torch and beckoned.

He knew at that moment. At the feast to honor Tywin Lannister's name day and see off his precious granddaughter that it didn't matter what he believed. Some duties went beyond convictions or faith. Duty is a commitment to the realm his family forged with fire and blood, to all those who dwelt within it and all those yet born. That was how Egg rationalized it, that they were guilty men and horrible men and that the grizzly deaths of seven criminals could forever end the generational wars that the Lashare family and the Tyroshi slaving families of old who took up exile in Volantis sponsored.

Alequo Adarys, a sellsword, and Tyroshi merchant prince turned warlord, had also gained prominence in Myr. If he succeeded in convincing Volantis and Lys to join his cause, then the self-proclaimed "Emperor in the East" could bring enough power to bear to bleed the realm dry for years. Kill the boy egg; let the man be born.

Lord Commander Duncan was silent beside him, a look of disapproval on his wizened face. This may have ended nearly half a century of friendship. But if this went wrong, nothing mattered because the realm would be embroiled in endless wars in the east and ultimately be forced to abandon their holdings there at the cost of so many people and treasures. The Targaryen dynasty might not survive even when the doom came on a battered and divided realm…

No, this had to be done.

Seven souls.

Seven Dragon eggs, some so ancient they were fossilized when Aenar the Exile, progenitor of House Targaryen, brought them across the sea. Older even than Balerion.

Valar morghulis

Valar Dohaerys

Valar Botis.

Valar Glaesis

Throats were slit.

Blood was let.

Wildfire was poured.

And Aegon Targaryen, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals, the First Men, and the Valyrians tossed a torch.

….

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't! Aegon was wild-eyed as he pulled off his long scarlet robe, using it to beat the fires away from Jenny's body. It was too late to save her. I should never have disinherited Duncan. Will he survive this? When he pulled out his robes, the dragonfly princess of Oldstones' flesh came off with it—sticking to the ermine fur and velvet as though it were honey. Around him, there was nothing but screams, and he realized that the little common girl was dead on the ground, half her face not but charred bone and cooked meat. He could even smell the grease from her burnt form, and he turned towards Summerhall.

Gods!

The palace was ablaze, and Rohanne and Jaehaerys were within! As was Jacaerys Waters, his bastard nephew, and the servants…Gods, so many people! How did the palace catch fire? He could hear screaming and realized that Daemon Blackfyre had died trying to pull Cersei Sunfyre free from the blaze erupting from within Summerhall itself. Why did a fire start there?

The wind had blown the wildfire from the burnt corpses and the tree towards the lake that fed the palace baths. There was steam rising from the lake, a cloud of fury rising from the waters of the world to defy the arcane magic Aegon had so foolishly attempted to master here. Ahead, he heard Maelys billowing a roar of effort and fury, and he heard the clattering of swords, and Aegon ran, fearing interference and intrusion. The smoke was so thick now that he could smell the smoky scent of Fyreleaf and realized that the palace's stores of fyrelead and bittercane had caught ablaze and added to the unnatural heat. Rushing towards the burning palace, all Aegon could think of was Jae. His only surviving son, and his son, My grandson.

And Rohanne was with child as well, conceived the day of their wedding and near to term my great grandson may die here. That thought horrified him. All because of his folly, hubris, cowardice, and madness. In horror, he realized that was the truth of it. He'd gone mad, he'd gone mad, and everyone who mattered would die. There were no myths to fight; it was all a delusion, just like Aerion Brightflame and drunken Daeron. This was madness; he killed everyone because he was mad.

But there was no use in crying over spilled milk now. Tearing through the blaze, he saw Maelys and Ser Duncan fighting… Something. It looked like a man dressed as Maester, but it couldn't have been because no Maester could face both Maelys the strong and Duncan the Tall at once. Two more souls who'll die because of me. And Dunk…how I've failed you, Lord Commander. My champion.

My friend.

He pulled a sword from a dead man at arms, he'd left Brightflame and Dark Sister back at King's Landing, and Prince Valarr had Blackfyre, and he could see the prince using it to hack away at a collapsing door, leading Jaeharys away and Aerys had come down from the stairs, Rohane in his arms. The girl was screaming, and he could see that her stomach looked hard through the dress. My great grandson comes in this evil.

My evil.

Aerys joined the fight against the thing that might have been a man—setting down his screaming wife. The thing had looked like a Maester before, but now it seemed like Aerion had come again. Snarling and sneering, Aegon welled in fury and charged, diving through the flames the King blocked twin blades. "You're late! Your grace!" Dunk smiled at him as he used to. Aegon grinned. "I guess you'll have to give me a clout on the ear."

Maelys laughed. "We old men, here fighting."

"He has the right of it, your grace, but you must go, prince Aerys. It isn't your time; you have a family to save."

Aerys looked at the two, and Duncan roared, "GO, BOY!" Aerys ran, carrying Rohanne again. Aegon smiled, some of the guilt and pain ebbing away. "Egg," Duncan said. "you too."

"No."

"Yes, boy." Duncan smiled. "It's all right, Egg, it's all right. You've done fine…We'll meet again."

"I…"

"GO NOW!" Roared Maelys as he tackled the creature, two horrors with unnatural strength locked in a titanic duel as a castle and a dynasty died around them. Aegon dared not look back; he wanted the last image of his old friend to be that smile he seldom flashed. A smile of approval and pride, the smile of approval that, as a boy, he spent so many hours of his life striving to earn.

When the King reached outside, he saw Aerys and Valarr, each one holding those that they rescued. Aegon's son and the mother of his great-grandchild. Behind them, orange hell rose into the night sky, and head of them….

The seven hells themselves.

A curtain wall of wildfire, blazing out of control and trapping the party of survivors between two annihilations. We'll suffocate before we're scorched, at least. It was so hard to breathe now, and he looked at his son, his grandson, and Rohanne and felt the tears evaporate on his cheeks. "I am sorry…I am so sorry…I failed you. I've failed everyone.."

No, you haven't.

What a queer voice. Old and strong and deep as roots, smooth as the babbling of a brook, and clear as the sea in the summer isles. And he saw a shape form between the fires, forming into an image of a…Stark? Bran the Builder…What an odd form for the Stranger to take. The shade of Brandon laughed, "Do not blame me; it is your mind that associates us with Brandon. We of the green."

Weirwoods… the Old Gods?

A shadow of a smile appeared on the shadow of a man. "Aye." Beside him, the two columns of flames bent, revealing a man's shape. "You called to us! Aegon King. You called for us and bid us grant your line Dragons. Bid us help you turn back the night." Another figure formed, seemingly made of rainbow light, in the shape of a maiden.

"But it is not in our power to grant what you have the power to grant yourself." It spoke, a voice sweet and terrible yet gentle. "We have laid the foundations for you…Only you can lay the first column."

"So, then House Targaryen can prevail? We will lead the realms of men against the night?"

"The time of your house as kings are at an end…for now." Whispered the being made of flame.

"For now?"

"Sometimes, you must take a step backward to go forward." Answered the shade of the man who built the wall.

"And go east, to come west." Whispered the maiden made of many-colored light.

"Is this… Am I mad? Is this delusion?"

Soft laughter from the flames. "You are mad and delusional with grief, but you are not blind, Aegon Targaryen."

Determination welled in his heart, resolve. "Will the Dragon at least endure?"

"When the black dragons rule, they will need the red at their right hand and the Direwolf at their left. And behind them, the Hightower, the rose, the falcon, the Stag and the trout, but that is not your song Aegon King; your song is ending now, and with you, an era begins to die." Answered the flame. "But take heart, an era of beauty and wonder and magic and..horrors that must be vanquished awaits."

"There can be no glory without suffering, joy, and peace without sorrow and war. No birth without death and a life unwillingly given cannot volunteer to bring forth life."

The criminals… I was such a fool.

"Yes." Said the shade of the builder. "You grew up; you lost sight of the nature of miracles when you did."

"As far as foolishness goes, it is not so terrible a sin," spoke the maiden.

"What must I do?"

Kill the man egg, kill the man, and let the boy be born.

Aegon Targaryen saw clearly for the first time in years; for the first time in years, he knew his duty. Turning, he gently pushed passed Aerys and his son, removing his crown and gifting it to the sickly Jae. "I shall tell your mother about you."

He walked towards the wildfire and was vaguely aware of the screams of Rohanne Blackfyre and the cries of alarm from Jae, but he ignored them and walked into the curtain of wildfire. The blood of the dragon roared in his veins, and the magic of old Valyria awoke, like the breaking of a damn, and Aegon stepped towards the gathered eggs in the ruin of the tree and knelt and set a hand upon them.

He was lying across a branch in the warm summer sun. His floppy straw hat was covering his face with a reed in his mouth. Ser Dunk pulled on his foot "what are you doing, you lazy boy?"

"Dreaming ser, I had the strangest dream. I dreamt that I was old."

The Wildfire, the blaze within Summerhall, the shade that had slain Maelys and his friend of all his years. The death, the heat, the smoke. It was all drawn towards the King, pulled harmlessly away from everyone, passing through their legs and around them like the waves on a summer island beach. Aegon Targaryen died in the two hundred and fifty-ninth year after his namesake's conquest. All that was left were his blackened bones, but he did not die in sadness or despair.

And when he passed into legend.

The night sky was silent.

But for the wails of an infant.

And the cries of something not heard in the world of men for nearly a century.