The Tartered Dragon - Aegon, Son of Baelon

by mootjeman7

An man from our world is reborn in the world of ASOIAF and decides to make the best out of it through adventure yet it never is that easy, even for a third prince. OC-SI - Overlaps with HOTD.

31. Chapter 30

charly22salazar - a few more chaps...until CH35.

1 - this chap answers a few questions for you and everyone i think

chandra14242002 - Nope, nope nope. They stay away.

Visual Bliss - lmao, spot on. ;)

coldblue2015 - Q1: No, he wont' add a gemstone, because the eyesocket has scarred over. Q2: Not a shadowcreature Q3: Yes, the Triarchy is pretty much dead.

ZangetsuKing1029 - unfortunately, you have to involve yourself with the supernatural if only to protect yourself, if you know about it. Otherwise, in this world, you're going to get fucked. Especially if they know that there's something about you. He already got fucked with the Children of the Forrest and he's trying hard to figure out a way out of it.

Megatronus Uchiha - Everyone wants him to be Allfather Odin haha.

Tony McNucklz - Corlys didn't go, Vaemond and Daemion along with Lord Celtigar were sent (not Bartimos, still only the heir). This chap will probably add a bit more mystery about what that thing was ;). Yes, Volantis was not on the plan but he is adding it as a possibility that he might have to take.

Everyone else, thank you for your reviews and comments, I always read them even if I don't respond to them. As always, please enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think.

Note: If you would like to read ahead, the next three chapters after this chapter are available on P. .^T.^R.^E.^O.^N./ Boombox117

---

Late 112 AC – The Black Cliffs

He let off a chuckle as he spoke, the last vestiges of his hatred of her probing about his family fading away "Aye, mayhaps your Lord does." He said, his eyes bearing on her "I suppose your Lord does more than that, with how your Lord speaks to you through your flames" he said as his eyes met hers, the rise in inner tension strangled as he moved the conversation to exactly where he wanted it the entire time, the true purpose of this visit. "How does it feel? When he speaks to you?"

It was difficult to keep the interest purely sounding as something mildly curious, and not the burning curiosity that he could not shake, a curiosity that has been sharpened and focused for years and years, and he felt triumphant in succeeding in keeping his curiosity low given the epiphanies he had come to this eve.

He cared not for the topic of Volantis.

Conflict with them, one way or another, was inevitable.

Strong neighbours, strong hostile neighbours were simply enemies waiting for an opportunity to strike, especially when they considered the other as an anathema to their way of life, and quite likely, even if secretly, an existential threat.

The only aspect that was up in the air was the manner in which conflict was to happen. Direct conflict was, he estimated, highly unlikely.

The brutality in which he dealt with the slaving families – the memories of bodies of butchered children and women forcefully dispelled from his mind – made him a subject to be feared, a man who would take everything from you should you make yourself an enemy.

After all, the false information he spread about it all being for retribution was all that everyone knew of his intentions, save for perhaps the Priests of R'hllor who were interpreting his actions through the lens of religiosity.

That, combined with the instability he was visiting upon the rest of Essos with his actions in Liberty Bay, some of it already seen flourished in Lys with Tyrosh bursting at the seams as it kept falling towards a slave rebellion – Joanna, the devious woman, had her fingers deep in Tyroshi affairs publicly and proudly – hopeful eyes on tattooed faces gazing eastward, westward, or even towards their knives in their hands or in the kitchens…

It would be insane for them to send armies his direction, a kind of decision that could only be matched by the levels of stupidity shown by the last Gardener King.

And no sellsword army would take on the contract, for none could be so arrogant enough to believe to win against him in a symmetrical war.

The sellsword armies that fought against Daemon had done so asymmetrically and even then they lost a great number. The ones hired by Myr only took on the contract with the assurances of dozens of scorpions available to their army and even then, it had been expensive.

And even then, before the Liberty Bay campaign, no doubt did they think the army that Aegon could muster would be low in numbers, the main threat of his army being his dragon. But now, with his army swelled to thirty thousand, and the potential for many thousands more, the threat level Aegon was able to bring was beyond what any group of sellswords army could countenance as acceptable risk.

No…

No they would not directly attack him, they'd do it in the shadows. Assassin after assassin they'd send, likely those who would not even know who truly hired them, in an attempt to kill the cause of instability and threat… him.

Even if their envoys – the ones he expected they'd send soon once they saw he was stopping at Tolos and Elyria – were sent back with word and assurances that he had no intentions for Volantis, he did not expect that to prohibit them from sending assassins his way.

The idea of freedom, hope, to the slaves in Volantis and all of the rest of the cities in their domain, was a threat as vivid to the Old Blood as the prospect of him coming to Volantis on dragonback was.

It could be not be tolerated by Volantis, and it would not be tolerated.

Conflict was inevitable, one way or another, and he'd have to get over his…guilt ridden reluctance lest he cause pains to himself and his people with his reluctance.

He refocused on Lessela.

Her answers about Volantis, helpful as it was to gain confirmation that the Red Faith would not oppose him, should he have to exercise that necessity, was useful but ultimately, it was unimportant in almost every way.

He'd already known that the Volantene Old Blood did not worship R'hllor – it was why he was, and is, suspicious about the Red Faith's involvement with Qavo Vhassar – and given the way that he was seen as an enabler for the Red Faith expanding into Liberty Bay, he doubted they'd oppose him greatly if he was forced to rip out the Old Blood from Volantis.

No, the topic of Volantis was not important in the grand scheme of things. No, he thought as she began to smile at him, her Qarthene obsidian eyes wide with zealotic love, eyes that reflected the red light of the flame connected to her, no, he Volantis was not important to the potentiality of the answers he sought today.

"Describing how it feels would be like describing a dawn to a child born blind."

"Then show me." He said, his eyes boring into her, the itch to manipulate, to bristle the fire connected to Lessela, kept unscratched.

"You say your Lord favours me, despite my being a heretic. Partly because my actions in the Bay benefit your Lord and your Faith, and partly because he can see that we work towards the same ends, likely also for other reason or two I cannot deign to understand." He offered a thin smile with a smidge of placation there.

"So show me." He tilted his head as he stared at her with a fixed look. "After all, you did say you came to aid in whichever way you could." There it was, the final piece he had left to realise his epiphanies fully…wholly.

She had no real reason to deny him this. To show him the 'glory' of her god.

After all, she used 'magic' in their first meeting, arriving and showing off her 'magic' like a magician seeking to awe excitable children with bright, flashy feats, to impress upon him the 'realness' of what she was, of the power her God had.

Now that she'd spoken as she had about the ways 'R'hllor' flame and light and so on felt to her, of how enlightening it was to see through the flames, to refuse to show him the 'glory' of her god at his curious request, someone she was clearly invested in and had a mission centred on, someone that would clearly have a role in laying the foundations in the war to come in the Long Night, would be greatly undermining.

"It is curious, is it not" she said as she stared at him with her disturbingly black eyes "How you hold yourself to piety, to your Gods, yet you gleam with interest and want in the thought of seeing foul sorcery and witchcraft, two of the greatest sins any followers of your faith can perform."

She gestured towards his hands, and towards the flames "Wanting to see, wanting to learn, more of the same kinds of gifts your septons would see you burn for."

' You would never know how much I desire to learn more, Priestess' Aegon thought to himself, his expression unchanged.

His craving of unravelling the mysteries of this world had never stopped, never ceased, even as he planned and plotted to reshape this part of the world into something of benefit to Elamaerys and to the people of Liberty Bay themselves.

And, the moment this Red Priestess had stepped into his life and showed him what she was capable of, was the moment that confirmed to him that his desires about ' magic' and its links to the mysteries of this world would never end, not until he learned as much as he dared to learn.

From everywhence where.

Her following of his army was like an ever-present reminder that deepened his craving, a siren's call, one that played in his mind often, even during his sleep, wanting, wishing, desiring, to learn more of ' magic'…of the nature of this world.

There were many reasons why he spilled so much about his knowledge about the Long Night and the beliefs he held, large purposeful reasons – deepening religious importance of his family, protection against the R'hllorists and their god should he exist, preparation of this world against the Long Night a great common enemy so as to unite the peoples of this world – but also small selfish reasons…

To learn more ' magic', different 'magic', and, mostly importantly of all the small selfish reasons…

To learn the Truth of this world. Or how to begin to learn to divine the Truth.

It was what led him here, days before they were due to take Tolos, this craving of his winning over his sensibilities to wait until all of the liberation was complete.

A craving that was partially vindicated when he'd stepped into this pavilion and gazed upon the oddity that was the campfire in this place, and reached the first of his epiphanies.

A fire that he now understood to be almost…no, certainly, laced with her vitality, with her essence, her energy…her soul.

He'd felt it – fire made to take a different and new aspect, concept – initially, like a cold breeze across his skin, his hairs raised and his skin craggy, and he felt it even more so when he tried to rouse control over the campfire, a similar but different resistance that he only experienced when he was manipulating dragonflame – the upmost of purification and destruction – or when he was 'binding' new dragonglass candles to himself, a process that involved manipulation of the 'captured' fire within the dragonglass candles, aligning the capture fire with that of his Self.

And, he thought to himself as he stared at the fire, the feeling he'd gotten from this fire reminded him so very much of the feeling he had when he was bonding the dragonglass candles to himself, to his fire…to his soul.

The second and most critical epiphany had come when she'd talked about 'life' and 'fire'.

He understood better now, more clearly, than he ever did about his ' magic'.

The Soul…all 'magic' stemmed from the soul.

He'd already guessed, somewhat rightly given his success, that there was something about the Self that allowed the manipulation of the world around them.

'Magic' was not a force that was thick and apparent in this world.

He had understood as subtle, like the sound of a branch snapping in an eerily silent and dark forest, and one had to listen, and, more importantly, take care to understand what the snapping sound meant.

For him, and others blessed with a heritage steeped in 'magic' – First Men, Rhoynar, Dragonlords and more – he'd believed there was an ancestral song within their bloodlines that guided their Self towards specific expressions of 'magic'.

An ancestral song that had prices of sacrifice forward paid by the ancestors.

He'd known that the humans of this world were…different than that of Earth.

Beyond simple eye-colours or odd genetic dominance and he'd previously come to the conclusion that the humans of the past had something to do with that, or, simply, it was the same difference that allowed them to use ' magic' to create these ancestral songs that included physical appearances.

Purple and Gold – not hazel or light brown but true Gold – eyes were not colours that appeared dominant in nature.

For the First Men, this specific expression was crystalised through their ancestors doing something to deeply connect with the earth and the rivers and the stones, the land, of Westeros.

Ancestors that fought for generations, most likely, against the Children of the Forest who he believed sought to expel the First Men – going as far as shattering the arm of Dorne in their desperation to stop the migration – and who could have accomplished some feat of 'magic', through accident or by purpose, that allowed them to use green dreams and the might of fauna to combat the Children of the Forest.

Or, perhaps, they were taught how to fashion their 'magic' to connect to the Lands of Westeros by the Children of the Forest as a means by the Children to make them ' like' them. Whatever and however the means was, he believed that this expression was something that led to the inherent leanings the First Men had.

He did not know when Garth Greenhand or Durran Godsgrief lived – before or after the Long Night – nor did it matter in this consideration, but given how important they were, in legend and likely patrilinear, to the First Men bloodlines that arose after them, like the Starks and likely the Blackwoods, Aegon had cause to believe that they, or those like them, were the source of the echo of ancestral song that persisted through the First Men and attuned them to Warging, Green Dreams, and likely more expressions of 'magic'.

Why else, he'd reasoned, did untrained peoples, children, manifest their 'magic' in such particular and persistent and consistent ways?

The Rhoynar too, Aegon believed, must have had something similar, an ancestor or ancestors that managed to leave behind an inheritance of water-'magic' ancestral song in their bloodlines, in their distant past.

He eyed the flame with a considering look. His ancestors, the Valyrians, too had done something to themselves to embody an ancestral song in their bloodlines.

His own routes to tap into this ancestral song had begun from his fire-resistance, and from there, slowly – over years and years – did he come to an understanding of fire in this world, greatly aided by the mythologies and symbolisms of fire from his first life, and thus, subsequently, he came to understand the means to use it.

To manipulate, to guide, to mould the presence that was in fire – violence, destruction, consumption, cleansing, purification, renewal – to act in accordance to his desires, a feat that came easy thanks to the ancestral song in his blood, that came from those who called the volcanoes of Valyria home and dragons brothers.

Yet now, with all of her words of carrying a 'piece of fire' and that 'life is fire' and 'fire is creation', all words that rang similar to ideas and notions in religions of Earth, combined with what he was sensing from that campfire that was connected and bore almost certainly her essence, her soul, he was coming to the realisation that his understanding was…incomplete.

He'd been blind, missing the details that was right in front of his eyes.

A simple thought during her tirade of life and fire passed through his mind, forming into a train of thought that sparked into epiphany…changing everything.

Recontextualised everything.

Her words, this campfire, his train of thought, it all recontextualised everything when the pieces were put together…almost as if finally, he was seeing the barks that were on the surface of the mass of trees in front of him.

Blood magic, shadow binding, the Faceless Men and their glamour, Necromancy…

They did not fit in the ancestral songs theorem or notions about 'magic' he had.

Blood 'magic' was too loose, too broad, too available to everyone, whilst shadow binding, as he understood it from what he knew of Melissandre and the few texts that he collated together, was too sacrificial to be something inherent in people's ancestral song.

The First Men were tied to the rivers, the forests and stone. Land and Animals.

The Rhoynar in the rivers and sea. Water and Change.

The Valyrians in fire and crystal – stone, metal, glass. Creation and Destruction.

Nature and Element and Symbolism.

Blood 'magic' was too abstract, too different, centred around the idea of Self instead of blood, to be able to tie into an ancestral song given the context he had available.

The Faceless Men too were a form of sacrifice, a sacrifice of Self. Similarly Necromancy was a form of other Selfs manipulation.

But with the idea that Souls were the medium of the expression of 'magic', suddenly, the mechanics of how 'magic' worked, fitted.

No more was it magic, but rather, a metaphysical element, a spiritual thing, that allowed the Self, Consciousness, to shape reality by the use of this energy that is inherent and alien – meaning the outer world – to the Self.

' Magic' at large becomes spirituality in the form of energy, something that flows throughout all of existence, with the individual capable of harnessing the 'inner energy' that is part of the Self, part of the Identity, part of what constitutes as the very essence of their being.

Ancestral songs then becomes something merely inherent to blood, bloodlines, silent and sleeping, crystalised forms of inherited 'spiritual gifts' from ancestors that ties the descendant throughout existence, past, present and future, to his or her ancestors and to his or her descendants, there to be activated when the Self realises.

Blood 'magic' becomes understandable through the idea that blood, the essence of one's Self, connected to Body and Soul – spiritual energy, was used to express 'magic' through spiritual sacrifice of small 'pieces' of Self, or other Selfs, blood and life, to bring about an longer or more lasting spiritual effect on the world, an effect that could warp or exhibit something in the physical world.

Ritualistic 'magicks' would only enhance the effect of the sacrifice, where the Priest or Priestess, the castor, forcefully takes this inherent spiritual energy, consciously or unconsciously, and uses this energy to bring about the spiritual effect on the outer world that was desired, consciously or unconsciously.

Harrenhal, for example, its 'curse' could merely be through unconscious manifestation of this spiritual energy to maliciously cause unfortune to any that called Harren the Black's castle theirs.

Garin's curse, said to have manifested after Garin beseeched Mother Rhoyne to drown and curse the Dragonlords and Volantis, could have been a consequence of this same manifestation of spiritual energy, either him solely or, more likely, a combination of hundreds or thousands of people who hated the Freehold more than they cherished their lives, used or channelled their spiritual energy to cause a permanent spiritual 'black zone' around the Sorrows with Greyscale a symptom of spiritual malignity than a disease, with the Red Death of Gogossos being similar.

And the likes of the Faceless Men, who are said to give up the Self, a likely powerful thing to spiritually give up, to sacrifice, a core part of their spiritual energy – perhaps just for a period of time – manipulate their spiritual energy and the Selfs of their other victims. Mayhaps the 'faces' they wear, the taking up of the Selfs of others in the stead of their own Self, they do so by 'capturing' some of the victims' spiritual energy, a part of what constitutes as part of their essence.

He did not quite understand what the mechanics of Necromancy was, and he only had a rudimentary understanding of how shadowbinding could work in this recontextualised understanding – sacrifice of a 'piece' or 'whole' of others to hunt down others that were connected to that spiritual being and/or their blood – but he understood that it would work along similar principles of sacrifice – and symbolic – driven manipulation of spiritual energy to bring about the necromancy effect.

Gaining power, in this recontextualised meaning, would mean that you would be consuming your own spiritual energy beyond what it was naturally capable of.

Through sacrifice, power can be gained, however it would almost certainly be temporary – unless he figured out how the ancient peoples of the past crystalised ancestral songs into their bloodlines to make some means of spiritual energy manipulations of, for example elements, easier and without taxation for their descendants – and would not increase your own power, at least not without changing you fundamentally, like whatever the creature in the Toad stone had done to himself.

His own means of manipulating fire was done through using what was already there, to mould fire he understood intimately to act and direct towards somewhere other than where it was, neither using his own spiritual energy or that of others beyond the means that he had.

It was similar to how the Alchemists produced Wildfire, using ingredients, some that he considered must be containing high spiritual energy to 'foment' the change, and likely how all other kinds of powerful elixirs and strange alchemy were made.

That…that was the key…to harness power…to understand how 'magic' worked.

This recontextualised understanding fitted. It fitted with his perception that Weirwood trees contained entrapped souls and it fitted with his understanding of that eldritch thing that was the Toad stone.

It fitted with all of the strange means 'magic' manifested itself in this world.

It fitted.

It fitted.

It fits.

He was closer to understanding this world…

Hmm…it also brought a different meaning when he thought of Mīsaragorn as the other half of his soul, his dragon who gave him reason to live before he found meaning in life in Gael and their children and the dream of Elamaerys…

Yet, Aegon thought to himself, some parts did not fit the whole picture, not yet, and his intuition led him to believe that further vindication, further epiphany, may yet be found here, today, this eve, once he learnt more of how she perceived the world through the flames, he thought as he thought back on the paintings of Kaerell and the possibilities the glass candles offered yet was too cautious to try and manipulate the 'inner fires' to work as he wished.

"They would be better suited to take my head." Prince Aegon said, refocusing on driving her to show him, his words tinged with dark amusement, knowing as he did that fire could not harm him. "You would be right however" he continued "If I was Andal, if my people were Andal, perhaps the… hypocrisy would be too much bear."

She smiled at that. "You do seem to have interest in those that share some heritage with yourself."

' Interest that will likely increase to greater heights with my present understanding of the ancestral song that may be present in the Valyrian peoples' After all, he thought to himself, Dragonlords weren't the only people that employed 'magic' in Valyria.

All of the tales suggested that Valyria had burnt brightly, an eternal light beneath a darkened night, when it came to 'magic' and creation, however horrific most of it was.

Were there any specific bloodlines amongst the Valyrian people descended from those who went a different route of 'magic', spiritual energy?

Perhaps, perhaps not.

"A mere coincidence. Nonetheless, what the Andals hate, is not what the Gods hate. Else, why would it exist? Magic, or sorcery, or witchcraft, however you put it, has a presence in our world. That is undeniable."

Yes..

That was the greatest mystery he wanted, needed, to solve and hopefully, he would find clues to this mystery when he searched for the Truth of this world.

He'd gotten a good understanding of what didn't pass for divinity. That thing on Toad Isle was no god, nothing but an abomination of malignant spiritual energy, this he was certain off, the same ilk as that of the White Walkers that dwelled in the Far North.

Similarly, the captured souls of the Children of the Forest and humans in the eternal weirwoods were no gods either. The core of the question, then, becomes…

Was all 'divinity' like them?

Abominations of 'magic', or, in the instance of the weirwood trees, some kind of powerful gestalt of souls that behaved or were seen as gods?

Or were there are actual gods, Gods and beings of divinity that had some purpose, some meaning, manifested into the Order of the world?

An Order that included spirituality and the influence it had in the physical world?

An Order that imbued 'gifts' in the form of what he was understanding as 'ancestral songs' in peoples?

And, more importantly, an Order that would see humanity as no more than pawns manoeuvred like little pawns with fates tied to songs of prophecy?

His own existence in this world all but confirmed that God existed, his own or perhaps another from the universe of his Earth, or confirmed that God or Gods of this world and universe existed.

One does not reincarnate in a world that should have been fiction without the presence of something far beyond human understanding but he hoped…he hoped that there were none that dictated the Order of this world for none of the Gods, save perhaps the Seven-Who-Are-One, were completely for Humanity.

If the likes of R'hllor, the likes of most of the Essosi Gods, existed…

The Greek or Assyrian or Egyptian Gods would be as kind and forgiving as the Abrahamic God in comparison to the bloodthirsty Gods of this world.

He hoped that the Song of Ice and Fire was no more than a forced prophecy by creatures that passed themselves off as gods rather than actual Gods that forced a perpetual cycle of stagnation and played games with the world, the universe, in their games against each other and against humanity…

If it was the latter…to live in such a world…

What would be the point…?

"So to me" Aegon said, pulling himself out of his dark thoughts lest he leave himself open for her watchful eyes to pick up something. "I am not a hypocrite, nor am I a heretic to my Faith, for the Faith is not bound to the ancestral hatred the Andals hold for magic, for what saw them expelled from Essos, their homeland, were those who practiced fully…"

A put-on grimace was revealed as he spoke further. "and most foully, true." He waved his hand, absently. "I've read the Seven-Pointed Star. Many times. Not once does it hold magic responsible for the evil in the hearts of men. It warns, true, it frowns, certainly, but never does it say that magic was evil."

That was true, the parts about magic was bare, hardly present in the Seven-Pointed Star. The Seven-Pointed Star had edicts, behaviour, mythologies and doctrine, and rarely touched upon the matter of magic, and when they did, it spoke against behaviour and warning of witches and sorcerers of foul intent.

He wondered about it, if at some point the Faith of the Seven practiced some form of ritualistic sacrifice like the rest of the Essosi faiths did and still do. After all, why would a faith that supposedly ran from the dragonlords be so minimal about hating magic in their holy book?

There was some stories within the Seven-Pointed Star that did talk about explicit sacrifice though, like Ludor the Pious, who toiled and toiled in the fields until exhaustion to save his village from starvation and, on his dying breath uttered

' Oh Stranger, behold, I feel thy summon. Behold, I smile and doth depart nobly in service of mine own folk. Oh, good Stranger, taketh my life, spareth mine folk and be content with this recompense.'

The story was marked with commentary that 'Stranger's touch' was left absent over the villagers, and then went on about talking how other 'impious' villages surrounding it were decimated by disease and starvation due to their lack of faith.

He shook away those thoughts, and he refocused before he spoke again. "Like a sword, like a dagger, it is the hand and the will, that determines fate, that determines all. Magic is no different."

And, as he said that, he stared directly into her eyes, waiting on her to bend, to accede to his desire to be shown 'R'hllor's flame and light', to be shown how it felt to perceive the world through the flames.

Green Dreams, Dragon Dreams, Glass Candles, Soul-Touched Flames…

The Old Gods of Westeros, The Old Gods of Valyria, R'hllor…

Each of these gave means to perceive the world in Time, through Time, past, present and future and perhaps… more.

Greensight and Green Dreams, Dragon Dreams and Glass Candles were all no options for him. One by choice – and means – and the other three were out of the question for him.

And even if he had some amount of First Men blood, somehow being enough to activate his ancestral song, he would still not attempt Greensight, the more advanced and directed method of Green Dreams.

His information was sparse, true, but he'd remembered enough from Game of Thrones, and learnt enough in this life, that Greensight was almost certainly tied to the memories and spiritual power of the weirwood trees…meaning that he probably would not perceive without the cooperation of the trapped souls in those trees.

Souls that would have their agenda – like the Song of Ice and Fire – and Souls that likely were the source of the dislike he'd felt all those years ago. For all he knew, he'd see made-up visions that they'd work to bring into reality, knowing as he did that Greenseers, like Bran, like the Three-Eyed-Raven, were capable of taking control over the minds of men and thus bring about death or suffering in that way.

Similarly, Glass Candles left much to be undesired.

Tying the glass candles to himself was the furthest he was willing to go, knowing that other glass candles were almost certainly in the hands of sorcerers who could use the things to spy and influence others…who may well be spying on him.

Trying to See visions of the future, or the past, through those things, when he knew not what he was exposing himself to, was the height of folly.

Especially since his understanding of spiritual energy and the capabilities of others was so…limited.

And Dragon Dreams…Dragon Dreams was not something he could control…and most likely was not gifted with as well, the greatest shame too as that would have been his preferred means to try and learn the Truth of this world as that may well be something inherent rather than 'borrowed power' as he thought that might be the case with Greensight.

So that left him with the Flames to see the future. He considered fire to be an elemental part of the world, one of the gears of the universe with its spiritual symbolism of creation and destruction within, amongst other things, a completely different prospect than all of the other means…and, he thought to himself, a means that he had the largest confidence in getting to understand the Truth of this world.

And come what may, the Fires would help answer many questions in a single, successful attempt.

If it was former, meaning eldritch creatures that pretended to be Gods, such as R'hllor who may be such a thing, then that meant the mediums through which the world was perceived, past, present and/or future, and he believed it could be more than that, was free, for he could not believe these things could have such control over what was Seen…over spiritual energy that flowed throughout existence.

The gears of the universe could not be usurped by humans or other sentient beings that changed their constitution through 'magic'…spiritual energy. It would be akin to Fire suddenly changing its own constitution and incorporate wetness into Itself.

Or, more aptly, bacteria transforming itself through spiritual energy into a human.

It was a concept that was irreconcilable with the notion of Godhood and Order.

And spiritual energy, though powerful, though capable of a great deal – Gogossos, the White Walkers, the many stories of the Emperors of the Golden Empire of Dawn, the stories about K'Dath home to monstrous beings and shrykes – no matter the amount of sacrifice, the amount of usurping of spiritual energy, should not be capable of altering the turns of the gears of physical reality to allow one to ascend into proper Godhood.

All of that would mean that Free Will did exist, that concepts like Fate was not bound to the whims of Gods – even if eldritch things like the Toad stone or Entrapped souls would make things incredibly difficult – and that this world would have hope to move past into progress and development…in the future instead of being trapped in the present.

If Gods did exist…

If the Essosi Gods existed…

The long moment of silence that captured them persisted for some time yet, their eyes latched onto the other set, and his thoughts about all that he'd learnt and all that he'd come to realise fell away as he hoped, as he willed, that she would not fight him on his quest…on his obsession to learn that hope was rightful to have about this world.

Finally, far too many moments later, she turned away her gaze and looked towards the flames, flames that flickered brighter like that of his inner triumph, and he watched closely, unblinkingly, as her hands rose, the hairs on his body rising in response to the shift of the 'magic', of the spiritual energy, in the room, and he watched as she muttered something below his hearing range.

He had no time to dwell on what she might have said, the triggering word for whatever effect she'd hoped, aimed for, for the flickering flames felt as if they'd thickened even if they appeared unchanged.

' Now' he thought as he concentrated all of his being, all of his Self, all of his Essence, his spiritual energy, his soul, into the flame, and he imagined that he pulled himself into the effect Lessela had created.

Much to his surprise and unsurprise, the reds and yellows of the flame faded away, a tug felt on his Self, and, like curtains pulled aside, flickers of flame was ripped apart to reveal shapes that coalesced into visions.

He saw the shapes of snarling dragons – a red one rising and towering over him in serpentine way and a black one lifting its massive head from the ground – he saw rats with the eyes of green burning flames nipping at tails and bellies that looked draconic, he saw more and more yet he was not interested.

He cared not to see the future. Or the Present. Or the Past.

All of what he saw, all that he was latching onto, was merely visions that pertained to him, his base desires, all that was connected to him. Spiritually, now, or in the future.

Visions, he believed and theorised, could only perceived through context, whether it was vague and symbolic, or direct and literal, and in both circumstances could only be related to you in some way or another.

Otherwise, one would never see what pertained to you, what was actually of import to you, past, present, future. Even the visions of something at the edges of the world, far from where you were, where everything was, was directly related to you because you would go to the edges of the world in the future to seek what you saw.

And that was part of why he believed he could see beyond the visions, beyond the rivers of events tied to the physical world. It's his wish, his most base desire.

' That is not my purpose here today' he thought violently, wilfully, commandingly and he crystalised all that he was, all he had, his will, his determination, his desperation and desire, into a sword-tipped focus, centred on a monumental, singular question…

What is the nature of the world…what is the Truth of existence… SHOW ME .

The words were screamed out, demanded, with the entirety of his Self, his Soul, and he pushed and pushed with everything that he was until he felt as if he was blacking out, the pavilion and the fire and Lessela fading away into blackness, into…nothingness, his entirety seized with what he could only describe as a featherlight touch that bypassed his armour, his shirt, his skin and body, pulling directly at what made him him.

The pulling grew stronger, and stronger, and stronger, the blackness, the nothingness, was dismissed with a suddenness that he did not catch, like attempting to note the moment the light switch turned darkness into light, the world of nothingness he'd been pulled into was turned into what was before him…what he was in.

And it left him breathless.

All around him, all that he felt around him, all that he saw in, was darkened grey, surrounded by pillars and lances of blues and reds and blacks and so many more, kaleidoscopes of colour, pillars and lances that screamed that would be the end of him if he dared to touch them.

His head swivelled, in panic, in alarm, the air once colourless, that felt like nothing unless it breathed on you, now turned darkened grey, viscous and clinging onto his skin like mucous, his eyes wide and awed as a feeling of terror and wonder sunk into his bones.

He was unable to move, unable to more than to jerk his arms and feet in terror-struck panic – arms and feet that appeared to be less whole than he remembered – captured in place to remain, to witness.

And witness he did.

His eyes, panicked and searching, saw the depths, the boundless depths that made him feel as if it could, would, outlive the aftermath of the death of the universe, numberless columns and rows of chandeliers of endless colours of all the hues that ever existed and would exist melting upwards, light and colour made into physical rivers of perpetuality, and, in a moment of salvation, his eyes pulled away, upward, searching for a means of escape in the skies, yet all that he saw, all that he could perceive was a skies that seemed forever-lasting, stretching into infinity, unbounded colours that appeared like threads hung from the infinite ceiling of the sky, simultaneously single and simultaneously weaved into the fabric of this place and it was driving him mad.

Weaves of filaments of colours, of light, dark and bright, dull and mellow, were concentrated into fibrous oceans of blackholes, were pulled apart and rewoven into ropes of violent red velvet lances that felt like they were the sizes of galaxies, were atomised and reformed into bulbous linen universes, creation undone and redone endlessly, ripples of breadthless colours that contain the substance of all that is, was, will be, tied and knotted and undone only to form into unknowable silken toruses with ripples that resembled surface undulations of rivers and lakes.

It was countless.

Countless, countless, countless.

Countless, the breaking and unbreaking of reality. Distortion of all that was, is, would be, was manifested in across the skies, reshaped and undone timelessly and even though he was driven to the precipice of madness at all that he was seeing, he could intrinsically understand that he had the fortune to perceive only a small, infinitesimally small essence of what was happening.

He felt as if he consumed all of the will, all of the desire he held within, to look away from the face of madness, an effort that left him tired and weak, his eyes latching to look anywhere, anywhere, that would not leave him adrift into the madness of wherever the fuck he was. He looked to his right and left, swivelling his eyes around.

For all of his attempts, he could only settle on a region of whatever this was, near him, where he saw warped and twisted and maligned lances of manifested colour of unknown source or meaning or quality moving towards destinations of endlessness or infinity, neither that he could see, or wished to see, an-

His hands laboriously moved towards his chest, his body caught in what he could describe as a web of crushing gravity, his skin radiating heat and coldness all at the same time, and he could feel – no matter how much he wished not to – objects, somethings, perceiving him, the crushing gravity seemed as if they were manifested undecipherable mass of emotions, that could only be considered to combine to radiate a pit-less hunger that wished to compress him into a digestible pebble.

His vision pulsed, pulsing between seeing blackness, nothingness, and seeing the universe of madness, yet, as his vision pulsed in between nothingness and everything, he saw… more, he saw – and he felt – the impossible.

He sees himself, a grin adorned on his face just as a sailor's hat – an old leather thing, with holes and cuts all across – sunk atop his head, and he was standing below jungle covered ruins, surrounded by those he recognised and faces he did not, feelings, of joy and wonder but also wariness and a feeling he could only describe as the sense that something was missing, hitting him hard into his Being.

He sees himself overseeing construction in craggy lands, smiling alongside Gael, feelings of simmering fulfilment and happiness and unease and anger rippling through him.

He sees more and more impossibilities, feels them all as he watches himself being atop Mīsaragorn as Caraxes burns ships, watching him sitting atop the Iron Throne amidst corpses, more and more, he sees and feels, and he tries, and tries, to wrack himself free of these impossibilities, of these unwanted apparitions.

Aegon does not know how many possibilities he'd witnessed, how long he saw and felt, and his Being was only relieved to be free in what felt like eons later.

The pulsing continued, between nothingness and everything, yet, in those moments where he saw all, back into that sea of dark greyness surrounding by the reality of madness, he saw filaments of turmoiled physical light wrap around his ankles, climbing and climbing up his body like some demented coiling worms though that was far from the worst, as in the distance, unknowable distance, he perceived and felt hordes of black drops, weaving in and out of existence in a strobe-like way, racing towards him, drops forming into balls, into the size of wrecking balls, increasing until he felt as if they were the size of planets, and Aegon's Being shuddered at the grasping decay and rot and malignance directed towards him, and he knew, he knew, he would die if those things took him.

Aegon could not dwell on that thought, or on the hordes of decay that seemed to want him, or the things that felt like nothing coiling up his body, for his gaze was filled with the sight of six sets of gems the size of planets.

Jade. Tourmaline. Onyx. Topaz. Opal. Amethyst.

The moment could have stretched into something approaching infinity, or it could have been as short as milliseconds, yet, when he felt them, objects that distorted the crushing gravity until all he felt was weightlessness, they seared themselves into his Being.

He did not understand what they were, what they were doing, the only thing that he perceived, the only thing understood, before he was back in front of the flickering fire, the amethyst gems having blinked out last of all the other sets, was…

BEGONE

His breathing was shallow, his heart racing a million miles a minute, weariness seeping into his bones even if his eyes were alert as if it was the height of noon, staring at the still soul-touched flames with disbelief and awe and terror.

' What the fuck was that…?' was all that he thought, could think, his body tense and springy, ready to jump out of his skin at the moments' notice despite the weariness that he felt, the exhaustion that it was turning into.

"You saw something." It took everything he had not to stop the twitch in his hand towards his Valyrian steel dagger at the Red Priestess' words.

He turned to look at her, his face still angled so that he could it in the sights of the corner of his eyes, terror that was bone deep demanded that he do so, and, as he looked upon her, who seemed… different than he recalled but he moved passed it as he spoke "I saw no-"

The terror that he felt, terror that had been abated but still present, returned with great force and with it, came a sense of danger that moved his body before a train of thought passed through his mind.

The moment before decaying darkness filled the room, his hand had moved towards the dagger on his waist, and his leg underneath him was removed.

The moment after the flickering flames became dancing blackness with curtains of oily decay with a sheen of metastasized eeriness covering it edges, his hand had landed on the hilt of his dagger, and the moment after rotting black fingers reached out of that decay, of that rot, perceivable despite the bleakness that suffocated him, he'd drawn his dagger from the hilt and arced his arm in measured preciseness to his front, only just stopping the decay from taking a hold of him.

His right hand pushed against the edge of the dagger. " LESSELA! THE DRAGONGLASS DAGGER! ON MY WAIST! NOW! " he bellowed instinctively, his eyes affixed onto the masked decaying foulness that was before him, ignoring the hollow dread emitted by the creature and its faces, his left leg on his foot and his right leg underneath and pushing him up.

"#%#%~%%%~!"

Though he did not understand a single word of the creature's words, he understood the intent, the hunger, that it emanated, radiated, for his flesh, for his Soul, and all he could do, all that he force himself to do, was to try and stand, stand despite it feeling as if he was pushing against a mountain with how strong these dead fingers were.

He did not know how long it took Lessela to pull out the dragonglass dagger – a weapon he'd not thought he'd need for anything other than a shadow assassin – but he'd felt the moment and he grimly stood up with all of his might and pushed against the creature, pushing all that he was, all of that he had, against the creature, and, a mere moment later, when he rose to stand on both feet, his arms heavy and on the precipice of buckling, he felt one of the arms removed by Lessela, the great force that he felt, halved in the process.

He moved swiftly, pushing again, this time up, and, with a swift move, he decoupled his dagger and thrust it forward, into the masked face of this creature that gripped his terror within its hands.

The shrieks that it emanated, terrible, near ear-bleedingly awful shrieks, refocused him into full clarity, allowing him to pull the dagger from the creature, and he felt, fully, the familiar rot and decay he'd felt in his very soul earlier. He pulled himself together, the terror he felt subdued into motivation and he moved – now fully aware that there were more people in the pavilion now – and attacked the creature again, his dagger finding purchase at the centre of its body

' Too late' was the only thing that passed through his mind as he tried to move out of the way of the trailing arm, an arm with scything fingers that swept downward and sought to take his head.

It failed but only just, as he felt the trailing drippings things that barely passed for fingers sweep down the side of his face as he moved back and leaned away, catching the right side of his face, goring down a sizable chunk of his face, including reducing his sight to half.

An awful jolt of electric pain swelled up on his face yet that pain felt incomparable to the pain he felt when the fingers cut through his armour and into his body.

For a moment, he thought he was going to die, yet, as he heard the creature finally shriek out in dying roars, and with it, came the abating of the darkness it inspired, he felt something was wrong, that something was, deeply, deeply wrong.

The pain that he felt, felt beyond physical pain, beyond being a wound that could kill him, no, he felt as if the pain was wrought onto him beyond flesh, beyond bone. He felt as if his very soul was wounded.

He heard the sounds of blades leaving their sheathes and Aegon had the presence of mind remaining to cry out " No!" his voice dominating through the lingering dying shrieks, an effort that was laced with an outburst of pain, a bleeding to let out the pressured blood that threatened to burst through his veins.

Aegon touched his face, and though he saw little in the dim light of the pavilion, he felt as if he saw plenty as he peered through dazed eye at the filth that mixed with his blood…filth and wrongness made into a putrefied oil.

He did not know how he knew, why he felt as if this thinking was right, instincts, intuition, something more, but he knew that the parting gift of the creature, this liquid, was poisoning body and mind.

He was going to die.

He was going to die.

He needed to do something, he needed to get rid of it, pur-

Purify…he needed to purify himself, cleanse himself…

He needed Mīsaragorn.

His agony, his desperation, his desire, was filtered through the bond to Mīsaragorn, who he felt alarmed through their bond. ' I know…brother…it's not looking good' Aegon thought as he turned around, a sickening throbbing coursed through him that hazed his gaze, and he felt as if the world was spinning, the loss of his eye, the loss of blood, the pain, the poison, all of it was sapping at his strength.

Gasps rang around, gasps of fear. For of him, of what happened, for him.

The edges of his sight was filled with blackness, chiming blobs to him. "Don't…! She…she helped." He didn't recognise the voice that spilled through his mouth, rasped and old. He felt arms holding him aloft, alleviating an ember of the throbbing pain he felt. "She helped me. Don't…Don't harm her."

He felt arm tighten around him and he saw the stricken face of Ser Raevor through moments of clarity, moments that came less and less the more time passed. "My Prince, save your strength!" Had Aegon not been so plagued with pain, he'd have smiled wanly at the concern and sheer panic that was in the man's voice, a man of mid-twenties, a man who'd come with him from Dragonstone. "Ser Jon! Go get the healer! Now!" Ser Raevor demanded, begged.

Aegon moved forward and the men who held him guided him forward, and a moment before Aegon managed to conjure up the strength to speak, to request that the men take him to his dragon, Lessela spoke.

"They can't help."

"What do you mean, witch!" he did not know who snarled out those words, but it mattered not as he used his remaining strength to speak.

"She's….she's right." He said, stumbling forward, pushing his men to walk with him, to carry him. "This…this they can't help with…I need…I need Mīsaragorn…help…" it took almost everything to speak those words, to string along a sentence that marked even an iota of the importance of him getting to Mīsaragorn.

He pulled at his armour, frustration creeping into him with the way his arms felt so heavy, as if weights as heavy as cast iron shields were strapped to his arms.

It was tiring him, and he could get tired, not until he got to Mīsaragorn. "Get me…out…armour…" he groaned out, his words coming out more like a whisper, a prayer, than commanded. His men, good leal men they were, understood him, as they walked him out the pavilion and tore away at his armour.

' I don't deserve their faith…' he thought to himself as strings and knots were removed from his armour, as armour was dropped from his even as he walked in the open air. ' Gael…I'm sorry…' Aegon thought saddened as he felt Mīsaragorn approach, alarm now transmuted into concern and worry, the blackening of his sight increasing in numbers, in duration.

He did not have much left, he did not much time.

"Mīsaragorn….get me… Mīsaragorn"

"Yes, yes my Prince." Ser Raevor and the other men said, and he had still the presence of mind to note their fear and their desolated tone of voices in their agreement as they walked and walked him closer to the burning sight that Mīsaragorn.

' I must look a sight' he thought to himself, his eyes still latched onto Mīsaragorn, each step closer, and each step Mīsaragorn moved nearer.

The blackening outs were longer, and longer, even as Mīsaragorn grew in size, and when realised that he had no armour left, his chain mail removed, he spoke one more time to his men. "Go… Mīsaragorn…he'll save me…" the words were no more than a whisper.

" My Prince…"

Aegon moved his arms, the lack of the weight of his armour making it easier, only just enough for him to be able to signal with his arms. "Go…" Aegon croaked out and he continued to walk, his arms now let go off by his men, his sight blinking in and out of wakefulness, the poison that was in his blood, that cut into his soul, seemed as if they were seeping into the pores of all that he was.

The bond he had with Mīsaragorn was the only thing, he thought, that was preventing him from losing everything…

Aegon stumbled, the effort exerted to prevent his fall was almost everything he had left. ' I'm close now…' he was not sure if he meant death or salvation, perhaps he meant both, and he looked up, seeing in between the darkness and the light, the maw of Mīsaragorn and the low worried growl of his brother.

Aegon did not have the strength left to say anything much, it took everything he had to stand still, to not let his knees bend and kiss the harsh earth, and he poured everything that he felt, everything that he believed Mīsaragorn could do to save him – save me brother, bathe me in your purifying flames, cleanse me of the taint, you will save me brother, you can do this, you are part of me, you are me – he poured and he poured everything he believed, everything he knew of the dragon that was a part of him, the one who understood him better than any other in existence, his other half.

A sorrowful sound made out of his maw, sorrow and uncertainty and Aegon managed to conjure a smile, a smile that broke through the agony he felt, a smile that showed that he believed, that he knew that Mīsaragorn would save him, all of that was fed through their bond.

He did not know how long it took, how much time had passed, but the moment he felt determination and sheer unrelenting will from his other half, was the moment that Aegon felt as if it was a release valve, a moment that made him believe to the very bottom of his damaged his soul…

' I will survive to keep my promise to Gael'

" Dracarys…" Aegon croaked out in a whisper, his body swaying from side to side, and moments later he was bathed in blue white flame, a flame that seemed to be whiter and bluer than any flames of Mīsaragorn he'd ever seen before, flames that sunk into his bare body – metal and cloth and rot atomised out of existence – flames that sunk deeper and deeper, beyond flesh and bone, and Aegon felt as his Being was bathed by dragonfire, by cleansing fire, fires that felt as it was seeping through the two vertical wounds on his Soul.

Aegon screamed with all of his Being, pain the likes of that crushing gravity ravished through him, pain that felt as if skin and muscle and bone were torn and ripped and forcefully moulded together like clay, and he was left with a singular dominating thought and desire, a thought and desire he felt emboldened, given power, by the hope and want he felt through the bond with Mīsaragorn…

HEAL

Aegon was lost in his pain, lost in the singular desire, his body, his Being, feeling as if it was hotter than anything in existence, and Aegon lost everything when the pain began to cloud everything, lost into blackness, surrounded by an ocean of blue and white flame.

…

…

…

His eye opened, a sharp gasp of air was tunnelled into his ajar mouth, blinding light filled his gaze, and he blinked and blinked, until blinding light gave way to the silhouette of a tent ceiling.

' I'm alive…?'

Aegon heard a growl nearby and he felt Mīsaragorn through their bond, a bond that seemed stronger than before, and joy and exhilaration and heavy relief travelled to him through their bond and Aegon smiled as he closed his eye. ' I'm alive…'

"My Prince…!" he heard joyously said after the sudden sounds of clinking metal, sounds that grew in volume as steps – two men – hastened towards him.

"Go, go and tell the commanders of the Prince's waking!" one of the men said, presumably to the third man whose steps were receding.

Aegon opened his eye, and grimaced slightly from the tightness he felt across his body, and turned his head around, seeing the cups of water, some brothy soup and the Seven-Pointed Star bible beside his bed with a chamber pot by his feet. He smacked his tongue against his mouth, and felt that he was watered and fed well.

' I'm grateful for having leal men' he thought as he continued to look around.

He was in a small tent, hastily made, he considered, before he turned his eye finally towards the approaching men, Ser Reavor and Ser Adrian and he blinked with surprise as he peered at him seeing… more.

It was hard to describe, what he saw.

Around them, in them, there was as if there was some kind of halo. ' Was he…was he seeing their spiritual energy…?' he did not have much time to dwell on this as the men fell to their knees in front of his sleeping cot, his bed made of feathers.

"You've awoken!" Ser Adrian said with a shaky voice, tremulous with relief and awe, much like what was on his face, Aegon thought, and Ser Raevor was no better though Aegon thought that he could see more in his face…the looks of adulation…of reverence, reminiscent of the looks he got from the liberated peoples of Liberty Bay. "You've really awoken…!" this time there was a palpable amount of awe and disbelief in his voice and Aegon perched himself on his arms, and it was then that he saw his bare chest.

Twin scars, from collarbone to bottom of his chest, the size of fingers, he saw.

Scars that looked like they'd been earned many years ago, with how old the scars looked. Aegon hand went towards his face, the right of it, and felt the scars that were from brow to top of his cheekbone, and he felt, pushing through the skin, the grooves that were made on his bones, brow and top of the cheekbone.

His hand touched where his emerald had been, the eye he inherited from his mother, and found nothing but scarred over tissue. His hand trailed further down the right of his face…towards his jaw, and he felt two more scars there as well, scars that were bare islands amidst a sea of hair on either sides of the scars, and he too felt grooves, smaller and less deep, on his bone, the right side of his jawbone.

"Do you have a mirror?" Aegon asked, worry growing within as he wondered how long it has been since he last remembered. The wounds, the scars…it could not have years, surely not?

' Gael…my children…' a wave of sadness and guilt washed over him.

The only thing that kept him from letting guilt grow too strong was that his body looked as if it had not atrophied, his chest, his arms, still looked like they did the last he'd seen them bare.

It was a small comfort though, he thought to himself. He knew that normal rules did not apply in this world, and perhaps even less to him.

"Get one for our Prince" Ser Raevor said to Ser Adrian and the man quickly got to his feet, bowing towards Aegon, his look, his face still awed, still reverent, and he lingered for a moment longer before he bowed again and quickly left.

Aegon moved to get himself to his feet, an act that was quickly intervened upon by Ser Raevor. "Please, my Prince, let me help you." Ser Raevor said as he placed his hands in the crook of Aegon's arm and helped to pull him up to his face.

Aegon felt the tightness in his body more, more so in around his chest than in his legs, the lower part of his body kept modest by a pair of braies. He lifted one of his legs, looking at his calves, and he noted that his muscles seemed the same.

' My balance is off…'

"How long has it been?" Aegon asked finally the question that he was wanting to know and feared the worst of, his foot now joining its partner on the ground, and he looked upon Ser Raevor who strangely looked more reverent, if that was even possible.

"A week, my Prince. It's been seven long days." Ser Raevor said quietly. "Some thought you would never wake." from Ser Raevor's look, a look cycling through a load of emotion, he knew there was a great deal Ser Raevor wasn't saying.

Aegon heard some movements beyond the opening of the tent, many movements.

Disarray in the army, desertion, all kinds of things he thought might have happened during his…recovery, all things that he'd have to deal with, he thought as he separated himself from Ser Raevor and his arms and his body to try and remove some of that stiffness, his eye catching a dim light through the left side of the tent, yet despite all of that, he couldn't help but be relieved that only seven days passed.

' Days passed yet those scars were years old…' he worked hard to think of how this was possible. The only thing that he could come up at this moment, was in his desire to heal, in his desperation, he might have committed an act of sacrifice to heal himself like this, using some of his spiritual energy to hasten the healing of his wounds, particularly that on his chest which he felt was thick and indicated that the wound might have been bone deep.

' Whatever I sacrificed, it is worth it. I kept my promise to Gael and their children' Aegon resolved to himself.

"But I believed, my Prince." Ser Raevor said with great conviction as Aegon touched the scars on his chest, feeling the contours of knitted skin, and pausing when he heard the flaps open to reveal one of his healers, Yoren, similarly surrounded by a halo around his body, gaping at him in disbelief, amusing Aegon.

' I know how you feel…this intuition of mine of Mīsaragorn burning out the poison had been a hail mary of all hail mary's…'

"You're awake." Yoren breathed out, shocked, and Aegon thought he probably meant you are alive. Yoren was always a more critical thinking man. No doubt he'd had trouble reconciling his survival with all that made sense in the world.

" And he will rise on the Seventh Day…"

Aegon's head swivelled towards Ser Raevor, who smiled reverently at him, unknowing of the shock that Aegon felt at what Ser Raevor said. "I believed you would wake and so did many of the men, my Prince." It was then that he saw the same glint, the same zealotic love that he'd seen in the eyes of Lessela.

' Oh fuck…' Aegon was exasperated in a kind of defeated way, unable to hide the grimace from his face. ' I should have woken a day later or earlier' Aegon groaned in thought to himself, slowly schooling his face again. He glanced at Yoren, and saw that while he was as zealous as Ser Raevor, he was indeed awed and struck dumb with the sight of his apparent recovery.

' They're all going to be like this…aren't they?'

With what he learnt about the nature of this world – something he did not understand – the derailment of his campaign, the missed call with Gael, the halos, everything else, he really couldn't deal with this religious idiocy at this time.

Unfortunately, he didn't think he'd have a choice…

' Fuck…well…it is what it is…in for a penny…in for a pound' he thought to himself. Given all of the bullshit he's come up with, this would only be another bow in his string, regarding his 'sainthood' and place in the Elamaeri Faith.

"Is the Red Priestess still alive?" Aegon asked as he moved towards the opening of the tent, walking past the still stricken Yoren though Aegon tapped his hand on Yoren's shoulder, an act that seemingly got him out of his daze.

Aegon wasn't confident that she was still alive. From what he remembered, his men were a hair's breadth away from killing her. He told them what he could, at the time, but whether or not that could have ensured her survival…

"Eh, she still lives, my Prince." There was reluctance in Ser Raevor's voice. The Red Priestess likely had a tough time of it all. At least she lived. That was…good.

"Have her brought to me later. I have wish to speak with her."

He would have to think of something to say to her. He'd have to lie, of course, and add enough truths to bend it all to his advantage, but he was used to coming up with things, he thought as he opened the flaps to the tent and he squinted to shield his eye from the brightness of the outer world.

Gasps and voices that rang with 'My Prince', and, as he turned his gaze towards the men, some hundreds of his knights – with the same dim halo-like glows – that surrounded the tent, some having fallen to their knees and others still approaching, and their gasps and voices turned into wild cheers, cheers that contained ' Aegon the Blessed', ' Aegon the Unburnt', ' Aegon, the Gods' Chosen', words that were said in prayer, in exultation, in worship…

' Yes…I am fucked indeed' Aegon thought to himself grimly, and he saw in the distance men riding towards them from the main camp. He glanced towards his right, towards the source of the burning light, Mīsaragorn, who seemed to wait on him, and Aegon turned back to face the men, his men, and raised his arm.

The cheers and the noise died sharply, and he could almost feel their anticipation in the air. ' I'll have to do this again later, I think…' he thought to himself idly as he thought about the thousands of men that were waiting on him at the main camp.

"MEN!" Aegon said loudly, his throat feeling scratchy. He couldn't bellow out like before, not yet, at least, he thought. "Men." Aegon said, loudly but more conversationally rather than the shouts he so oft did when he worked to heighten the morale of his people, and the people of Liberty Bay.

"I will speak with you all at the end of day with the rest of our people." Aegon said loudly, his eye veering towards the sun. It was hours before noon, plenty of time, to catch himself up with everything, and enough time to process what happened to him and refocus on getting the campaign back on track.

"But know, men of Elamaerys, know that you men, men who guarded me as I lay to recover, men who defended me, know that your loyalty and commitment to me is beyond appreciated." Aegon said, a grim smile forming on his face as he nodded.

"You have my gratitude." Aegon said as he inclined his head slightly to his men. He did not know what happen during his recovery, what chaos his recklessness in sating his yearning of Truth had caused to his men…his people.

He had a responsibility to them and he failed his people.

That he was protected long enough for him to wake…

He would do all he could to repay their loyalty with all of his loyalty to them.

The men began to cheer and chanted his name and all of the other epithets they assigned to him, and Aegon walked away from them and made his way towards Mīsaragorn, the burning light that was less than a hundred paces from his tent, his low growls, growls that sounded like happy purrs brought a wide smile to his face.

When he arrived by Mīsaragorn, his dragon pushed his draconic snout onto his chest, a rough feeling given the hardness of his scales, and Aegon placed his head against the top of his snout, his eye closing, deep emotions coursing out from him.

"Thank you, Mīsaragorn. Thank you, brother." Aegon said with a wavering voice, his hands now on either side of the front of Mīsaragorn's snout.

Without Mīsaragorn, Aegon would have died. Without Mīsaragorn, he would not have kept his promise to Gael. Without Mīsaragorn…

Mīsaragorn made a rumbling sound, a rumbling sound that sounded to Aegon as if it was akin to a dog's whimper, anxious, distressed, and Aegon felt his eye water.

"I'm sorry…I won't be reckless like that anymore." Mīsaragorn pushed his snout against Aegon's chest, a low growl accompanied a feeling of anger through the bond and Aegon smiled wanly. "I promise…I won't…" Aegon's smile grew a little "At least I won't do it without you." Aegon said, his smile deepening and he let of a little laugh at the feeling of satisfaction he felt from Mīsaragorn.

"Thank you…brother…" Aegon said one more time, whispered really, and his eye closed as he clenched his hands around either side of Mīsaragorn.

It wasn't long before the party of riding men, containing Ser Uthrik, Ser Aethan, Ser Galaenys and Ser Trytas, arrived and broke up his reunion with Mīsaragorn.

It was…somewhat uncomfortable to see such grown men grow so emotional at simply the sight of him, and the spontaneous hug from Ser Galaenys – a hug through which Ser Galaenys almost bawled through – was even more so uncomfortable, but he was deeply heartened to see how much they cared.

They were not the only ones, it seemed, as they debriefed him. Word had spread across the main camp of his recovery, and Ser Maerro and Rhaegar were tasked to ensure that the men did not break orders to see Aegon.

He was more interested though, to hear what had happened these seven days and he'd grimly listened to what they had to say.

His commanders told him about news spreading about the 'demon' – a word as good as any for whatever that creature was – that attacked him, spread by the guards who had managed to see some of the creature and its foulness, along with word that Aegon had been gravely wounded and had been burnt alive by Mīsaragorn, which Aegon was said to have survived whole and his wounds healed.

There had been chaos, as he feared, during the first days. There had been a few murders, some six people, and a few deserters caught, no more than a half hundred, but generally speaking, the fact Aegon was seen to live and his wounds scarred over that should have taken years, had quelled much of the chaos.

Though they did not say it, he knew that his commanders had done much to quell the chaos his recklessness had caused. Ser Galaenys, Ser Trytas and Ser Maerro were all incredibly respected men for their deeds and their leadership.

Ser Uthrik did not mince his words and said that some of the men, known to be pious and taken with the new Sect of the Faith of the Seven, had spread that Aegon would recover on the Seventh day, something that had taken hold amongst the Elamaeri men, the Unsullied and some of the Liberty Bay soldiers.

The fact that Aegon woke on the Seventh day, Ser Uthrik said – Aegon grimly noted the wonder in his voice – had only solidified the belief that many of the men had about Aegon.

Aegon had no reason to doubt this.

Even on Aethan's face, the one Aegon who knew to be the amongst the most sceptical and wary, was looking upon him with disbelief and wonder throughout much of the debrief, as if he could not believe Aegon was really present.

Aegon did what he could to move passed the uncomfortable subject and moved onto the state of the army and if they could march in the next day.

Ser Aethan informed him about the army being able to be ready within the day and Aegon waved away at their concerns for him. He'd informed that he would remain atop Mīsaragorn for the duration of the city's taking, and he felt no shame to admit that it would take time for him to recover fully.

His body was still tight, the fluidity of his movements were hindered and most critically, the loss of his eye was seriously going to impede him until he learnt to adjust for it. To be truthful, he did not trust his body or himself. His body felt off, and he felt…he felt as if he was trying to hold onto something but it was slipping.

No…to go into battle like this, unconfident in his body, it would only get him killed. He needed to train, and feel strength in his body once again before he could trust himself not to get himself killed.

Those words relieved his men, and they quickly began to talk about getting the campaign back on track. The fleet, which shadowed their army on the march to Tolos, did not know of the events that transpired over the past seven days. His commanders did not want to let anyone go from the camp to try and make contact with the fleet and risk them being captured and let know of what happened to him.

Tolos did not have a standing army, hired or native, to be able to resist their army, even with him and Mīsaragorn out of play. But, they could have sneaked in an assassin – the reason why there were so many of his knights protecting him like Mīsaragorn had been doing – and they didn't want to risk it.

A good decision, Aegon had thought, but he was concerned that something might have gone awry – the captains of the fleet should have realised something considering they were only a few days' march from Tolos now – and he decided that he'd fly in search of the fleet come the next day whilst the army marched.

With the decision to force the men to remain at camp, their intel was not good, even if they knew Tolos could not conjure up an army in the week that they lost.

Scouts would be sent after Aegon had spoken with the army, it was decided. Previously, they'd learnt that some of the Tolosi were leaving the city, towards Mantarys or via ship, and he'd wondered if more had left since.

They were not pursuing these people, a wasted effort for little return. More than likely, their disappearance would have zero impact on what is planned for Liberty Bay.

Their conversation continued, rehashing of battle plans and locations to secure, and finally, hours later, they came to an end of the discussions.

Though, before they disembarked and made way back to the main camp, Ser Aethan had taken the opportunity to speak, to ask. "Prince Aegon…" there was hesitation in his voice but there was also a need for something, a need, he realised, for answers. "What was that…demon?" Ser Aethan asked, and Aegon noticed that the rest of his commanders were keen to learn of what transpired.

"Some say that it was the witch's fault." Ser Trytas grunted, a dark look passing across his face. "Trying to kill you through some foul magic, something called shadow binding."

"It was not the Red Priestess." Aegon informed them. "It wasn't a shadow assassin either, no…" Aegon trailed off. He did not know what it was. What that creature of decay and rot really was. The terror that thing inspired in him though…

In that moment, Aegon realised that it was the same kind of abominable terror that he experienced on Toad Isle, just magnitudes more concentrated against him and only him, and Aegon resisted the urge to shudder at the phantom terror that electrified through him.

' How did it get into the physical world' Aegon wondered and he knew that it'd be one of the first things he'd have to understand when the liberation was finished.

"It was a demon." Aegon continued, his eye meeting the gaze of Aethan. "A demon most foul, the kinds that dwell within the pits of hell." Aegon said, a grim look passing across his face as he remembered all that he saw in that… realm.

A realm, a reality of madness. He had an idea of how his Being got there, and the means, but what it actually represented…

"Why…? How…?" Ser Uthrik was the one to ask.

"I asked to see the enemies of men." Aegon said, his eyes bearing down on Ser Uthrik. Whatever those things were, they were undoubtedly enemies of man. If those things walked on Planetos...

"The Gods…the Gods let me peer into the window of what lays beyond, good Sers, and I fear that I have seen too much." Aegon smiled grimly. "Yet I do not regret it." Aegon waved towards his face, his lost eye.

"Though I was made to pay for my curiosity, I have learnt that we, the men of this earth, have enemies that would devour us all if they are given the chance." Aegon said, truthfulness ringing out of from him.

This world…

He seen enough throughout his experiences, this new one to crown them all, to instinctively know that this world was an exceedingly dangerous one, one that fought with sword and blood and with the very soul itself.

And it would not take much for this world to descend into extinction, or near enough to it, he knew this now.

The White Walkers, the Great Other, all of the other creatures that dwelled in the dark, those hordes, waiting for a moment in the light, all of them were salivating to sweep across the world.

"And it will be up to us, my commanders, and those who come after us" Aegon said as he swept his singular eye across their faces, his body slightly "To ensure that the realm of men is protected against the foulest of creation."

His words of 'Bring the Dawn' had been a seed that he wished to plant for when the time came, a time long after him, the world wouldn't hinge on the prophecy of Ice and Fire, on Azor Ahai, but through the collective effort of men and women from all around the world.

What he experienced in that realm of madness…

The White Walkers, the Great Other…

They were only the tip of the iceberg and this world…

These things were not gods, he felt this instinctively, but it didn't mean much, in the grand scheme of things, given their power compared to humans.

This world may well have an impossible task at hand to survive long enough to progress past the medieval era to get to the modern era, may it be a thousand years or two thousand, and set boots on the moon with all of the things that existed just about off-kilter from the physical world.

Elamaerys, the engine he wished it to be, the nation that'd drive progress and advancement, needed to be able to protect itself – and the world – against these things, beyond simply against the White Walkers and the Great Other.

Flashes of gigantic gemstones passed through his mind.

And, Aegon thought as phantom feelings of how insurmountable the presence of those gemstone emperors passed through him, he knew where to drive his research towards, where he'd find clues to help find a way to protect the legacy of his children and his people.

"You have my sword and my life, my Prince." Ser Galaenys vowed vehemently, a vow that was quickly joined by the rest of his commanders.

Aegon smiled gratefully at his men. He had an itch to say that he only had need for their sword and not their lives but thought better of it. Instead, he only nodded to his men, communicating that way that he valued them greatly.

Aegon set his eye on Ser Trytas. "Before we leave, Ser Trytas, I wish to have a word with you." They had plans for Tolos…their most guilty families.

They still needed to go, that was unavoidable for the success of this region, starting anew without insidious actors around to use their experiences to return to power but…there could be ways to…lessen the bloodletting.

Killing all of the influential and powerful families, root and stem, could be avoided, especially now given the reputation and the uprooting he engineered in Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen, the three chief regions that were responsible for some of the most heinous human abuse and chattel slavery.

Those regions were black holes, now, when it came to surviving lesser nobilities that held any power, with most having no male members above the age of ten alive.

Aegon wearily sighed internally at the memories that haunted him.

Enough…

Enough.

' There is enough innocent blood on my hands' Aegon thought to himself as he remembered the sight of the bodies of boys too old to be spared and far, far to young to have deserved to die for the sins of their families and he knew all too well, that hundreds of children, young and babe, had died in dragonflame.

It was time to stop.

There were ways and means available to him now that wouldn't jeopardise the formation of free nations in Liberty Bay, not when there were less than a hundred of families left in Tolos and Elyria that qualified to be removed root and stem.

He knew enough from Trytas that many of the 'butcher-men' were feeling the weight on their souls too, the heinous acts that he had no doubt would be giving them a form of PTSD, and it was time to lessen the burden on the souls of his men.

It was time for it all to be enough.

Ser Trytas took his seat, and eyed Aegon with a laser-like focus and when they were alone, Aegon began.

-Break-

Early 113 AC – Kings Landing

Viserys POV

A sharp and deep pain rifled through his body, it shocking him wake, so much so, his entire body violently shook as pained gasps escaped through his mouth, the corners of his eyes crinkling moment before the rest of his face contorted in agony.

"Viserys?" he heard called out distantly, a touch on his arm, yet to Viserys it was no more than a distant chime amidst the roaring storm that was his pain.

Pain that was akin to jagged aflame arrowheads sunk deep in his lower back bring dragged out of his body, cutting and burning him open all at the same time.

"The Grandmaester…call…call for him." Viserys said weakly as his eyes reopened, revealing that Alicent was by his side of the bed, her face awash with concern.

"He's on his way. The servants have been sent to collect him and his acolytes" Alicent said before she brought a cup to him, and he was strong enough to pull himself up, the pain that set his body in misery subsiding, if only a little.

"Thank you Alicent." Viserys sighed tiredly, his face still wracked with face as he took the cup from her, yesterday's cup that he had not finished.

It was honeywine with a few drops of Milk of the Poppy, only meant to aid his sleep with the dulling of the pain. He tried, hard, not to overindulge in the drink, wary as he was that too much reliance on the elixir would not only strengthen his tolerance to the few drops of the Poppy but also make him crave the relief of all pain, even the tolerable phantom pains.

It was far too long before the Archmaester arrived with his acolytes, and longer still was their treatment as they perused his body for new welling, bruises or infections.

He winced as he felt a smallknife scraping on his lower back, the source of where the new pain had come from, his hands tightening on the cushioned sides of the treatment chair.

"The balm we tried to treat the skin, Your Grace, has failed to prevent the outbreak of infection." Grandmaester Mellos said.

"It worked on my arm before." Viserys said displeased as he looked his shoulder, his expression marking his unhappiness at the situation.

This new balm had promise, he thought miserably. The bruise that had surrounded the cut to his left arm had lessened greatly in less than three nights, and the wound itself had shown that it wouldn't form into an infection.

Yet now, it seemed that the balm only had false promise. Like all of the other balms and remedies and swill that passed for medicine.

Would he always be destined to butcher his body to stave off this Seven's damned illness?

"No new treatment has certain success, Your Grace" Grandmaester said before he continued, though his words were not for him, not directly at least.

"Can we cauterise this one?" Mellos asked the acolyte with the blade.

"No, Grandmaester. The infection is too large and too close to His Grace's lower spine. I'm afraid we have to clean the infection and dress the wound with balms."

"Why is it a problem the damned infection is close to my spine?" Viserys asked with a heavy frown. He's had outbreaks all around his body, even one not far from his heart.

"The lower spine is important for mobility, Your Grace. There are muscles and nerves there are that of great import to the body's ability to work together."

Viserys was many things but dull of mind, he was not. "You mean you fear you will cripple me."

Grandmaester Mellos shook his head, rather vigorously. "No, Your Grace. For that to happen, we would have to jab a dagger in your spine. We are more concerned that we may…inadvertently damage the nerves there and cause you to lose sensitivity." Mellos met Viserys' gaze.

"That you felt a pain so sharp there, is concerning, Your Grace, and we would rather avoid exacerbating the issue and hope that it will heal of its own accord."

' Hope…' Viserys prevented himself from snapping and instead, nodded stoically. ' It seems that even maesters could only hope when it came to this seven-damned illness'. "Well, get on with it." Viserys said before he looked towards the front. "And get a cup with a few drops of Milk of the Poppy before we start."

The journey to the dining hall had taken longer than usual, the stiffness in his back, wrapped and slick with balm, impeding his movement significantly.

Though, by the time he walked through the doors stationed by the Cargyll twins, he could hear a bauble of conversation which brought a smile to his face, even more so when he was pleasantly surprised to see Alicent with their eldest, young Aegon and sweet Helaena on raised chairings, with Heleana next to Alicent who was speaking to their only daughter together.

' Where is Rhaenyra? She should be here at this time' he thought to himself though, he thought, perhaps she had finished their meal and left, given that Alicent, young Aegon and Helaena were almost finished with their own meals.

"Husband" Alicent said with a loving smile that turned apologetic, and, after a glance to their children she spoke further "Had I known you would not be long, I would have had the children break their fast in their rooms."

Viserys waved it off. "It's fine." Viserys said with a smile "They seem to be behaving well, it's no concern." Viserys said to her.

It wasn't oft that they'd break meals together, with how busy he was and how young they were. Young Aegon was a ball of spirit, as a boy five namedays ought to be and Viserys was not so inclined to be able to handle such a spirited boy, no, not that early in the morn. He remembered Rhaenyra all too well at that age, and young Aegon was much of that ilk.

Alicent nodded to him as he took his seat at the head of the table and he saw her brows creasing as she watched him over with a hint of worry. "Is all well?" she asked him and he smiled reassuringly at her.

"A slight inflammation on my back." He assured her as he sat back and the servants place his morn meal of boiled goose eggs, blood sausages and boiled beans, accompanied by a cup of watered spiced wine. He grabbed the fork and knife and, as he cut into a blood sausage he spoke further "I think I might just slept wrongly. It's nothing to worry about" he told her with a dismissive air.

He needn't to worry her any further.

She was aware of his troubles with his health, of course, troubles that started a few years into their marriage, but she did not need to know that the extent of how painful and how…invasive the illness seemed to be getting.

The grandmaester and his acolytes, for all of their flowery words of evasion and hesitancy, all but confirmed to him that it would only get worse with time.

He knew Alicent. Her sweet heart. She'd worry needlessly about him once she knew how badly he was affected and how badly it would get.

There'd be a time when he could not shield her of the extent of his ailment, he knew this, but for now…

For now, he'd keep her ignorant and let her live without worrying about him.

"I'm glad, Viserys." Alicent said with a small smile, her hand reaching to him, Jaehaerys babbling away in her lap. "I was worried. You looked so pained."

He smiled at her warmly, glad that he had such a caring woman for a wife. She shared that with his dear Aemma. "I'm much better now."

"Father!" Young Aegon called out to him, and he saw a look of exasperation pass across Alicent's face, and he wondered why that was.

"Aegon!" Alicent said the boy's name with a scolding tone of voice "I said no!" Aegon collapsed into himself a little, though despite that there was a look of mild defiance.

"Yes, my dear boy? What is that you wish to ask?" Viserys asked curiously and he smiled at Alicent when she looked at him and he waved her off, beseeching her to let the poor boy say what he wished to say.

It was not oft they spoke, something he regretted.

With Aegon still so young and Viserys so busy ruling the realm and dealing with the problems his youngest brother was causing him, including the recent mess of Tyroshi slave rebellion, he rarely had time in the eve to spend much time with Aegon or other younger children with Alicent.

So he was curious what the boy had to ask of him that Alicent had rejected herself.

"Can I go see Dreamfyre today?" his firstborn son asked hopefully, during which he'd sent shifty boyish eyes over to Alicent, wary yet brave enough to speak what he wanted and Viserys was a little amused at the sight of it.

He looked towards Alicent. "Has he not behaved himself as befitting of a Prince?"

Alicent's lips formed into a thin line for a few moments before she spoke "Aegon is doing better in his studies." Viserys was a little exasperated with Alicent.

She'd pressed so hard for Aegon to bond with a riderless dragons despite his tender age and refused to be patient until Aegon was older.

She had been difficult to reason with, reminding him that Aegon was only a few years younger than when Rhaenyra had bonded with Silverwing so his young age shouldn't be a problem, she'd argued.

He'd been hesitant to agree, Daemon having mirrored the same concern in his own brash and uncouth way, but finally he relented when Lord Strong advocated that the move would be well received by the people if young Aegon became bonded to a dragon.

And it wasn't as if Aegon would ride the dragon. He wouldn't not until he was much older like Rhaenyra had been when she first bonded with Silverwing.

"Then let him spend some time with Dreamfyre." Viserys ignored the noise of delight that came from Aegon.

To say he was surprised that Aegon bonded with Dreamfyre who was of mild disposition yet its bouts of headstrongness and irritability, a grown dragon only outsized by Vermithor, Caraxes and of course Vhagar, was putting it lightly.

Viserys had thought the boy would bond with blue hatchling dragon that'd hatched from the same clutch that Jaehaerys' milky-yellow dragon hatched from, a dragon yet unnamed till the boy was old enough to do so himself, but it seemed fate had a different dragon in mind for his firstborn son.

"It would do both of them well to get to familiarise with one another."

Alicent looked as if she swallowed a lemon before she nodded slightly "Very well, husband." Alicent turned to look at Aegon "This is only because you did well according to grandmaester Mellos. If you stop, you will stop seeing Dreamfyre."

"Yes mother!" Aegon said quickly his head bobbing up and down and Viserys chuckled lightly before he continued to eat his meal.

"Where is Rhaenyra?" Viserys asked a little while later as he paused from eating his goose eggs.

"I do not know." Alicent told him. "She came to the dining hall but she left shortly after." Alicent gave him a look that rang with disappointment.

"She did not dine with you?" Viserys said with a frown.

"She did not." Alicent told him.

"I'll have a word with her. A shame that I did not see all of my eldest children together. We do not break meals together enough." Viserys said with a sigh.

"I agree." Alicent said with a small smile "We can dine in the eve?"

Viserys winced before he shook his head. "Not this eve."

"Another time then." Alicent said.

"Another time." Viserys returned with a smile that promised it true.

…

Hours later…

Viserys wanted to groan at the news of rising piracy in the Stepstones that Corlys was bringing, news that his Lord Hand confirmed was true and that there was scope for greater instability around the Stepstones with Tyrosh in such disarray.

"How certain are we Myr will likely to dispatch a fleet to aid the Tyroshi conclave?" Lord Wylde, his Master of Laws, asked of Lord Corlys.

"I would stake my fortune on it." Corlys said stoically. "With the assassination of Archon Roro Qaenar, Tyrosh will fall into complete chaos." Corlys smiled, and Viserys saw the bloodlust in that smile.

It was rare to see the man without one these days. The rebellion of Lys – and its shockingly quick resolution ending with a Swann woman in charge of all people – had heralded the fall of the Triarchy and now with Tyrosh in complete civil war…

The Triarchy was almost at an end and Corlys delighted in that.

Even if it survived, it would take years for the Triarchy to reform and Viserys wasn't so sure they could, not without bringing Lys to heel who had assuredly removed the shackles of foul slavery from their islands.

Permanently, perhaps even. The news of Lys his Small Council brought him was startling to say the least. Joanna Swann, a girl that had been captured and sold into slavery years ago was rumoured to be the one who spearheaded it all.

It was astounding and it left him in disbelief.

Yet that was not the only… accomplishment she was rumoured to have spearheaded. According to the rumours his Master of Whispers was bringing him, Joanna Swann was claiming responsibility for the assassination of the High Council by way of wildfyre, a shockingly heinous and dishonourable means.

Truly, a woman's weapon, assassination, yet Viserys was greatly disturbed to learn of the kinds of damage that vile concoction wildfyre was capable of. He remembered rumours Otto had brought to him about Aegon possibly using the same weapon on his ships and he'd idly wondered if Aegon had some connection to it…

His Lord Hand did not believe that it was possible. There was no connection between Aegon and Joanna, and the families that Aegon had bought his slaves from were likely suffering greatly in this new 'Free Lys'.

In any case, only the assurances that the Guild responsible for that alchemy was destroyed and its members all dead, had left him at ease.

The woman must have had some of the last of the concoction in the world.

The world was better for it.

"The slave rebellion will grow out of control without the aid of the Myrish" Corlys continued as he played with the marble stone of the Master of Ships "Qaenar was one of the few men who could keep the quarrelling families of the Conclave a united front and push back against the rebelling slaves."

It was chaos in Tyrosh. Slave warbands, opportunistic freedmen and merchants and all kinds of ilk were cornering parts and pieces of Tyrosh in the wake of the loss of leadership. The families in the conclave too were caught up in this disaster with wealthy families using the opportunity to settle age old feuds with each other.

That, combined with Joanna Swann supplying forces to Tyrosh and calling for Tyroshi slaves to rise up against their oppressors…

It would only be a matter of time before the entire situation would devolve into a true civil war of great bloodletting instead of the skirmishes and fights that was breaking out.

"With his demise, the hold on the Tyroshi captains is greatly lessened, as we all witness this day." Corlys said with a darkening look. Viserys withheld a sigh. Corlys was demanding that they be more involved in this… mess.

He wasn't the only one.

"For now, we will support the merchants with our fleet, Lord Corlys." Viserys said firmly "The situation in Tyrosh and the immediate region is too volatile for us to act hastily." Viserys' words did not please Corlys. Viserys could not find it within himself to care.

"Lord Beesbury." Viserys called to his Master of Coin "Can the realm afford to release more coin to increase the number of ships on order?"

Both the yards on Dragonstone and Driftmark were building ships, three score planned to be completed in the next six months. With the looming fall of the Triarchy, they feared it all but certain that the Stepstones would house dens of corsairs and slavers, unshackled and opportunistic of the chaos that was befalling much of Essos.

With Slaver's Bay falling at the hands of his brother, the shock of the disruption to the slave trade was going to be severe.

The whole market would collapse.

Lord Beesbury and Lord Strong were certain of this and with its collapse, would come desperation and opportunists. His Small Council was not certain how long it would take, for the slave market to recover. One main source, they believed, that would aid in the recovery of the market, was the Disputed Lands.

They thought that the slave estates of the Disputed Lands would likely soon fall to all kinds of factions and sellsword armies that would plunder the estates to feed the hungry Free Cities.

After that, unless the Dothraki could be reasoned with, his Small Council believed that the Stepstones and the coasts of Westeros would be the next region that would be beset by opportunistic slavers, an unacceptable premise.

The Lords of the Stormlands would not have, and neither would Viserys have his lands beset by slavers to such a great degree.

And so, he was forced to expand the Royal navy to ensure that they could protect their coasts.

"We do, Your Grace." Beesbury said and Viserys was given a scrutinising look by his Master of Coin. "You would wish to use the Arsenal option, Your Grace?"

"Perhaps." Viserys said before he looked to Corlys. "We would be able to bolster our fleets quicker and protect our coasts and create a safe corridor through the Stepstones." It was a shame that Dorne demanded too much to gain the same privileges Aegon had gotten from them.

He could not believe Aegon was willing to pay the Dornish that much coin for such a short of period time…

"I will not refuse more ships, Your Grace." Corlys said with a grunt. "But it will not solve the problem." Corlys pointed out.

"A problem that may solve itself should Myr bring order back to Tyrosh." Lord Wylde reminded and Corlys snorted at that.

"Yes, that is one way. Letting the slavers back into full control." Corlys said disdainfully before he turned to look to the grandmaester "I wonder if the High Septon would be pleased to learn that we, the Small Council, prefer the slavers over the slaves because it would be convenient and allow us to sit here and do nothing." Corlys said with a disgusted shake of the head.

"Lord Corlys." Viserys carried a stern warning in his voice and Corlys gave an apologetic, if hesitantly, bow of the head. "We are not letting slavers get back into control. We are mandated to protect the Realm, not to plunge it into a foreign war."

"Though Lord Corlys' words were uncalled for" Lord Darklyn, his Master of Whispers, said with a nod to the mentioned Lord, "There are some truths in his words. The public are abuzz with the news that they hear across the Realm." Lord Darklyn paused in his words for a moment. "If we were to act…directly, it would not be opposed by the Realm, especially given that we'd do so in the name of liberation."

Viserys narrowed his eyes slightly. Liberation…

He knew what Darklyn intended with that word. The meaning behind it.

It was a word associated with his rebellious younger brother. The public loved his brother for the 'c ause' that he was fighting, a cause of slave liberation.

"We could send supplies." Grandmaester Mellos advised. "The Faith has supported righteous causes before, Your Grace, and as the Defender of the Faith, you have some authority to do act in the name of the Faith and send supplies to the rebels and mayhaps even pious warriors too. Your name would cheered with such an act."

"Lord Strong?" Viserys called out after a moment of silence. He did not favour even doing this. It would grant a negative impression of the Kingdom in the eyes of the other Free Cities.

"It would anger Myr and many in Tyrosh, Your Grace." Lord Strong said. "It would be seen as direct violation of their territory and they may retaliate."

"Let them!" Corlys said with a scoff. "They are breaking, Lord Strong, their anger has no bite." Corlys said before he leaned forward. "Your Grace." He began, his eyes set on Viserys. "This is an opportunity to get rid of almost all of our ails in the Narrow Sea. Should Tyrosh fall to the slave rebels or to whomever else that is not the Conclave that dared to oppose the Realm, we will significantly reduce the dangers in the Narrow Sea. Trade will flourish, the Kingdom will grow richer. We should act, Your Grace." Corlys looked towards Darklyn. "Even if it not as much as I'd like." Corlys said unhappily.

"Though Lord Corlys is not unbiased in his reasons in wanting Your Grace to act" Lord Strong said and Corlys sent a glare at his Hand but there was little in it. "He is right in saying that should Tyrosh fall to a more…friendlier leadership, the Realm would be all the better for it."

Sets of eyes fell upon Viserys and he disliked it greatly.

Viserys would not be pushed into acting hastily.

"I will consider it." Viserys said firmly in a tone that brook no further argument and he received bowed heads from most of his Small Council, excepting Corlys who looked displeased but did not oppose with any words.

Hours Later…

Viserys leaned over the edge of the model of Valyria, his eyes peering over the smallest of details of one of the towers, the home of the Singers, an order of Priesthood that were rumoured to be all sorceresses that communed with the Gods and held great power in the Valyrian Faith and the people.

It hadn't looked right, the details of the tower, the roads and the steps that led to the entry of the tower…the Temple. It was amongst the few buildings of Old Valyria that he had enough descriptions from the texts to build whole. "It'll be difficult…" he said to himself as he eyed it all. He wouldn't be able to rework it, he thought to himself. He may need to start from scratch, he thought with displeasure.

He straightened himself and walked around the almost finished model and made his way towards his workstation that held all of his tools and materials and begun to work on recreating that section of his model.

Some time later, the doors to his chamber opened, drawing his attentions. Ser Rickard Thorne, his Lord Commander who took over from Ser Westerling when he'd passed a moon ago, escorted in his brother, Daemon.

"Brother." Daemon greeted, a customary smirk on his face. "You're playing with your stones at this time of eve?"

"You may go, Ser Thorne." Viserys said to his Lord Commander, and, after a glance towards his brother, he looked back at his carving and continued to make the impressions.

"Your Grace." He heard the man say before his steps receded, the steps of Daemon drawing near.

"How's Baelon?" Viserys asked when the steps of Daemon stopped by him.

"He's well." Daemon said with a dismissive tone of voice. If one did not know Daemon, you would think that he cared little from the tone of voice.

Daemon stepped away from him and soon returned back to him, the clunking noise of the stool's feet echoing his chamber, and Daemon sat next to him.

"Vermithor found a cave nearby the castle to nest in." Daemon said.

"So there was no space to be found for our grandsire's dragon, in the end?" Viserys asked with a side glance.

"No" Daemon said with a growl in his voice. "My lady wife does not want to repurpose the only yard large enough to house Vermithor." Daemon scoffed "Apparently it's beyond the pale to rip out stones with thousands of years of history" Daemon mocked but Viserys knew his brother too well not to notice the offended anger in his voice. "As if fucking crumbling stones should be reason enough to be an impediment. Shortsighted fool of a woman."

"Daemon, do not speak of your wife in such a manner." Viserys said disapprovingly as he met his brother's gaze. He did not understand his brother when it came to his wife, a woman who carried and brought into the world his one and only child. His son…his heir.

He could never speak of Alicent in such a way, let alone Aemma.

Daemon carried a growl at the back of his throat before he scoffed. "No matter, Vermithor's new abode is no farther than the dragonpit is to us."

"Good." Viserys said with a nod, his eyes still set on his work in front of him. "I'll be curious to see how Vermithor acclimatises to his new surroundings." Not since Meleys has a dragon been absent from Dragonstone and Kings Landing.

Well, Viserys thought darkly, excepting of course Aegon's branch of their family.

"The old beast will be fine." Daemon dismissed and as he spoke further, he'd spoken with a mocking in his voice "There is plenty of sheep in the sheep-valley for him to grow into a strong boy, never mind all of that." Daemon paused. "You're angry." Daemon stated matter-of-factly.

Viserys was startled by the accusation and he looked towards Daemon with some hint of irritation. Daemon spoke up before Viserys did however. "You always play with your toys for too long when you're angry. You were always like this when you kept on losing training spars against me despite being years older." Daemon said with a smirk, a smirk that he lost as he spoke further, his eyes more intense.

"And recently too, thanks our wayward and irritating little brother though I expect that this time it is more of a Tyroshi problem, isn't it?"

Viserys narrowed his eyes at him. "Tyrosh is not a problem, Daemon." Viserys's voice was hard. "Yet some of you would persist to make it mine. The Realm's." Viserys eyes narrowed almost to slits. "Did you speak with Lord Darklyn? With Corlys?" He kept the accusation from his voice but he doubted he was so successful given the anger that flashed across Daemon's voice.

"I am not always the source of reason, brother. Others may well reach it without my aid." Daemon's retort came sharp and cold and Viserys scoffed before he shook his head and refocused on his modelling.

The stool's feet scrapped against the floor, forcing Viserys to glance at his brother. "Everyone can see that the trouble we can save the Realm, Viserys, if we just act!" Daemon was forceful in his tone of voice.

"Even the coin counters can tell that we could do everyone a great favour if we made sure whomever took control of Tyrosh was friendly to the Kingdoms!"

"And you would accomplish this by raining dragonfire down on Tyrosh as you want to do?" Viserys' own retort and accusation was just as fierce as that of Daemon's. "Or would you accomplish this by making Tyrosh your crown jewel in your Kingdom of the Stepstones?"

Daemon growled, his top lip jerking to its right yet Daemon kept enough of his temper at bay. "I have no interest in re-establishing my kingdom. It's far too much of a hassle to manage those damned rocks." Daemon said in a dismissive scoff and Viserys felt himself caught in amusement at the accusations that Otto often brought against Daemon, that his brother wished to be King.

' He does not have the patience for it' Viserys thought. Daemon was many things, but a King he was not.

"Though I will not deny that taking Tyrosh for the Realm would be even better." Daemon said seriously, surprising Viserys.

"You want to take Tyrosh?" Viserys said in disbelief.

"Why not?"

Viserys did not like the flippant tone Daemon took. It masked how serious he was about the idea.

"We cannot. The rest of the Free Cities would not stand for it."

Daemon scoffed and his eyes burnt with conviction as he spoke. "You overestimate the importance of the opinions those coin peddlers have. What can they do against us, rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, riders of the last dragons on this world?"

"Yet for all of our might, we can easily fall to misfortune like our uncle Aemon or to a blade in the dark, Daemon." Viserys said with a hint of anger in his voice. "Or worse, they can send a Faceless Man to deal with you or I, Daemon. The Essosi hold no compunction to use dishonourable means to attain victory."

"I would burn Braavos down to the ground if they dared."

"It would not mean the danger would end, brother." Viserys said with a sigh.

To this, Daemon had little to say even if he snarled slightly. Despite everything, despite his hot-headedness and quest for glory, his brother was not stupid.

Though Daemon had not been privy to the lessons his grandsire had given him in the last years before their grandsire was starting to lose his mind, Daemon knew that the House of Black and White was a formidable weapon the Braavosi held.

His grandsire once told him that he'd seriously considered flying over to Braavos and demand the return of the three dragon-eggs yet he'd been made to stop when he'd received a letter in his solar, brought without knowledge or even a hint of an intruder, that warned that such an act would be considered an act of war and that Men without Faces would be called in to defend Braavos.

For all that the Braavosi were considered to be a Merchant City, they were a ruthless enemy to have with those Faceless Men.

To deal with Braavos, one had to do so carefully.

"No." Viserys said finally. "We will not annex Tyrosh into the Realm." As wonderful such a thing would be to add to his legacy, he would not expose the Realm to such a risk.

"Then let me push the advantage into the hands of one of the factions." Daemon said greatly displeased. He continued. "Fine, we won't annex Tyrosh but we can do the next best thing and at least ensure that friends take control of Tyrosh."

"And what about the Myrish?" Viserys asked with a hard look to his brother.

"If Myr lands their army on Tyrosh, it will be lost to us and the Triarchy would simply be replaced by a resurgent Myr. They would be in the ilk of Volantis when they ruled over South of Essos." Daemon's eyes darkened. "Their next step would be Lys and after that…who knows, they may well grow strong enough to pose a threat greater than the Triarchy had been."

Viserys looked away from Daemon and worked on one of the pieces of the model. To his surprise, Daemon said nothing as Viserys simply worked.

Finally, Viserys spoke up. "In the morn, we will sit down with my Hand, Lord Corlys and Lord Darklyn and talk about this."

"Talk?" Daemon's voice was full of anger.

Viserys turned to look sharply at Daemon. " Talk. I will not let us embroil ourselves into Tyroshi affairs without a plan." At this, Daemon's eyes widened with surprise before a triumphant look appeared on his face.

"Do not look so pleased, Daemon." Viserys' voice was curt and sharp. "Before I agree to any plan, you will give me your word on the pains of exile that you will obey my orders…is that clear?"

"Yes, brother." Daemon said with a smile that Viserys did not trust and a look of displeasure cut across his face. Daemon lost the smile and rolled his eyes.

"Do not look so regretful, Viserys. I will behave and be a good little brother unlike dear old Aegon."

Viserys sighed and shook his head. He was already regretting giving an inch to Daemon but he understood that he had limited options. Daemon was right about one thing. Ensuring Tyrosh fell into friendly hands would solve the majority of the issues plaguing his rule.

He'd take a visible stance against slavery, he'd end the threat of the Triarchy once and for all, and the Narrow Sea Houses would be indebted to him for his acting.

Yes…

The Tyrosh problem being resolved would solve a great deal of his issues.

The only thing that remained was bringing his younger brother Aegon to heel.