Halga breathed in deeply and smiled, feeling the warmth of Jason's magic wash over her like a gentle wave. Once again, the golden lights of his spell enveloped her, purging the creeping sickness from her body, banishing it as if it were nothing more than a shadow chased away by the sun. She watched as her pale skin regained its vibrant hue, the black veins that had marred her form slowly receding beneath the surface. Her breath, which had been ragged and shallow just moments before, became steady and warm again, her chest rising and falling with newfound ease. For now, she was whole once more, but she knew it wouldn't last.

The sickness came quicker now. Once, it had moved slowly, slithering through her veins like a patient snake, taking weeks to fully tighten its grip. Now, it was different. The days were drawing shorter, and the illness struck faster, taking hold of her within a matter of days. It clawed at her from the inside, relentless and unforgiving, like a dark force that had no intention of letting her slip away easily.

Death was coming for her.

And only Jason's magic was keeping it at bay.

As the last of the golden light faded from her skin, Halga turned her head toward him. Jason sat nearby, leaning against a chair opposite her bed, his face troubled, his eyes distant. It was just the two of them in this quiet room, the flickering light of a nearby lantern casting shadows on the walls. Here, in the privacy of her chambers, Jason didn't wear the mask he showed the world – the mask of confidence, certainty, and invulnerability that made him seem untouchable, godlike. He was still all of those things in the eyes of everyone else, of course. But here, with her, Jason didn't have to pretend.

He didn't have to be the God-Emperor, or the Gravelord, or any of his other grand titles.

Here, with Halga, he could just be himself.

And in that moment, she saw the man behind the power—the man who was her friend.

"Why not just let me die and then bring me back to life?" Halga asked softly, breaking the silence that had settled between them like a thick fog. Her voice was calm, almost casual, as though she were asking about something as mundane as the weather. Jason looked up from his thoughts, his expression flickering with something she couldn't quite read – concern, perhaps, or maybe frustration. It was hard to tell.

He exhaled slowly and shook his head.

"Yeah, I've thought about that," he admitted, his voice quiet. "But the thing is, this sickness of yours... it's not normal. It's magical in nature. And I'm pretty sure it came from me."

He leaned forward, rubbing the back of his neck, as if the weight of his own words pressed down on him. "There's no real guarantee that killing you and bringing you back would get rid of it."

Halga nodded, absorbing his words, but she was undeterred. It was true that Jason's power over life and death was unparalleled. She had seen him work miracles – raising the dead, curing the incurable, restoring people to their physical prime, hale and hearty, as though they had never suffered in the first place. But even miracles had their limits, and it seemed that the sickness inside her was one such limitation. Still, that didn't stop her from thinking there might be another way.

"But we haven't tried it yet," she pointed out, her tone gentle but firm. "This healing you're doing – it works for now. But we both know you won't be around to take care of me forever. You've got bigger things to deal with, and this sickness is only getting worse."

She gave a small shrug, a hint of a smile on her lips. "So let's try it. If I die, then I die."

Jason's brow furrowed, and he leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing at her.

"You're oddly nonchalant about dying," he said, his voice tinged with mild irritation. But Halga could see the worry in his gaze. For all his power, for all his grandiosity, he cared about her in a way that was rare for someone who was essentially a living god.

Halga chuckled softly, a sound that carried a note of resignation.

"I've never cared too much for my life, Jason," she replied, her words light but carrying the weight of truth. It wasn't that she wanted to die – far from it. She enjoyed living, and she reveled in the small joys that life offered. She liked new experiences, exciting things, the unpredictability of it all. But death? Death didn't frighten her. It never had. It was something she had always accepted, long before the sickness had taken hold of her.

"I'm not in a hurry to die," she continued, her voice steady. "But I've made peace with it. I've always figured that when my time comes, it comes. That's life, right? Everything that lives has to die at some point. Trees, plants, flowers – they all wither. Men grow old. Animals fall asleep and never wake up. Death is just a part of the cycle."

Jason's expression softened slightly, though the worry didn't completely leave his eyes. He was listening, but Halga knew that a part of him still couldn't accept the idea of her dying – of not being able to save her.

"My mother used to say," Halga went on, her voice quieter now, recalling a distant memory, one she'd not thought of in a long time. "that death is the most peaceful thing that can happen to us. Once you're dead, there's nothing left to worry about. No pain, no sickness, no fear. You just... rest."

She looked down at her hands, now healthy and vibrant once more, though the memory of the black veins creeping across her skin still haunted her. Halga smiled. "And that's why the gods envy us, you know. Because we get to live knowing that every day could be our last. That's what makes life meaningful. It's why we cherish every moment."

Jason was silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on her. He was contemplating, thinking deeply about what she had said. Halga knew him well enough to recognize when he was wrestling with a decision. Despite all his power, despite everything he had achieved, Jason Lee was still a man who struggled with the idea of loss. Perhaps that was the price of being a god – the fear that, despite everything, there were still some things even he couldn't control.

"I don't want to lose my only friend," Jason finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. It was the most vulnerable she had ever heard him sound.

Halga smiled softly, reaching out to take his hand.

"You won't," she said, squeezing his fingers gently. Funny, she said the same thing to her mother, right before she died. "Not really. I'll still be here. In one way or another."

And with that, a heavy silence fell between them, not uncomfortable, but filled with the weight of unspoken words and unacknowledged fears. Jason stared at the ground for a long time, his face set in a deep frown, while Halga simply waited. After a moment, Jason sighed and nodded to himself. "Fine. Fine. Fuck it. We might as well try and see what happens."

Halga smiled and stood up, already having grabbed the knife she kept strapped to her belt – a backup weapon or for killing herself when Jason finally agreed to try his revivification trick on her. Now, it was for the latter. Before she could slit open her own throat, however, Jason reached out and stopped her. She turned to him, a brow raised. "Calm down. I'll do it myself. Slitting open your own throat would be way too messy."

Jason placed his pointer finger on her forehead and breathed in. Halga beamed. "Oh yeah! That thing you do when you-"

The world turned dark.

Huh... was she dead?

Everything was black... or was it? She didn't know. It was dark though. But it wasn't... cold. It was warm, in fact, like a hug... like when her mother used to hug her when she was just a child. It was like that. It was comfortable. She felt safe... like nothing could ever hurt her.

Halga

Someone was calling her name. But the voice seemed distant, like an echo of an echo – too far away for her to hear clearly.

Halga! Wake up you little shit!

What?

Her eyes snapped open, revealing the same ceiling she'd seen just moments ago. Halga blinked several times, before pushing herself off the bed. Jason was on a single knee at the side of her bed, a single brow raised. "Welcome back to the world of the living. You know, you could've just opened your eyes immediately, instead of sleeping."

Halga smiled as she glanced around her, searching for blood. She found none. Jason killed her without spilling blood. Definitely one of his spells. "But it was a good dream."

Her friend shook his head. "How do you feel?"

Halga shrugged. "Like I just woke up from a good nap."

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see if the sickness comes back or not." Jason sighed.

Halga nodded and turned to the potted flower that stood at the right side of her bed, near the window. She reached out to touch it and, as her fingers brushed against the red petal, the flower withered and died. She felt something there, an odd feeling – a flicker of something warm, but faint within her. Jason whistled. "Well... shit."

"Brother," Daeron called, his voice echoing softly through the stone halls of the Red Keep as he stepped forward to greet his half-brother, his hands extended in a gesture of unity. His smile was carefully crafted, practiced over years of courtly life, yet it bore the slightest hint of sincerity as he took in Daemon's family. He acknowledged his nieces and nephews with nods, a softer smile for each of them, and even a courteous nod for Rohanne of Tyrosh, Daemon's wife, who observed him with her own enigmatic expression.

"Welcome," he said, his gaze settling on Daemon.

Daemon Blackfyre stood before him, embodying the fierce nobility of a Targaryen dragonlord. He had the sharp, imposing features of their Valyrian bloodline, silver-gold hair cascading to his shoulders, and he wore his height and youth like armor – an image that seemed to encapsulate all that a king of Westeros ought to be. Strapped to his hip was the famed Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror himself, glinting ominously in the dim light as if to remind all who saw it of its bloody legacy. Rumors whispered among the distant lords claimed that Daemon Blackfyre deserved the Iron Throne more than Daeron ever would. Daeron allowed his lords to voice their opinions, so long as they stayed whispers, and for now, they did. He was the king, and as much as the lords murmured in their halls, it was Daemon who knelt before him today.

"It has been quite some time since we last met," Daeron said, extending a hand for Daemon to rise. "Please, stand. Are you well, brother?"

Daemon rose gracefully, his face lit by a practiced smile that mirrored Daeron's own. Both men knew that behind the words, there was little warmth between them; their brotherhood was built on the thin thread of blood, not on any true bond. Daeron's care for Daemon was distant, abstract – he cared for him because they shared the same father, not because they shared any real kinship. In another life, without this link of blood, he might never have thought of Daemon at all.

"It has been quite some time indeed, brother," Daemon replied smoothly, his voice carrying the strength and confidence that had won him the favor of many in the realm. "I and my family are quite well."

Daeron nodded, and with a wave of his hand, summoned the servants to his side. "Your wife and children will be escorted to their quarters. There is much to be discussed, just you and I."

Daemon turned to his family with a brief, warm glance, kissing Rohanne goodbye as the servants ushered her and their children down the hall. As she disappeared, Daeron noted the gentle way Daemon's hand lingered on her arm. Though Daemon might not feel any love for his half-brother, he clearly cared deeply for his family. There was no doubt in Daeron's mind that, despite the tensions between them, neither of them would harm the other while under the same roof, bound by family ties stronger than words alone. And, of course, bound by guest rights.

The two men walked down the dim corridor, their footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls as a pair of Kingsguard followed silently behind. The Red Keep was quieter than usual, and Daeron had dismissed most of his courtiers, ensuring that there would be no interruptions. As they reached the council chamber, Daemon broke the silence, his voice as level and controlled as ever.

"What ails you, my king?"

Daeron sighed, his gaze darkening as he turned to face his half-brother fully.

"War," he said flatly, his tone heavy. "Though not all in the realm are aware, it seems the North has decided to secede from the Seven Kingdoms."

Daemon's eyes narrowed slightly, though his demeanor remained composed. "The North? Secede? For what reason would they believe this a wise course?"

"That, I do not know," Daeron replied, a hint of frustration slipping into his voice. "Perhaps they grow restless with the distant rule of King's Landing, or perhaps they feel emboldened by whispers of northern gods and old blood. But whatever their reasons, they will be brought to heel. I cannot allow the realm to be divided."

The bitterness in Daeron's voice was unmistakable. Though the North was far and cold, and many in King's Landing cared little for its remote people, Daeron took the threat personally. To him, the defiance of the North was not only a matter of sovereignty but a slight against his authority, his rule. The Seven Kingdoms had been united for generations – by fire and blood, under the iron rule of Targaryen kings – and he would not be the one to watch them splinter.

He stopped, turning to Daemon with a firm gaze. "I will call the banners soon. And when the time comes, I want you, my brother, to lead the assembled armies and reconquer that cold and desolate land in the name of your king."

Daemon tilted his head, studying Daeron with an expression that was both appraising and curious. And then, he knelt. "I will do as you command, my king."

AN: Chapter 48 is out on (Pat)reon!