Rhaenys
The room felt stifling, as if the walls themselves were closing in around her. Aegon's lips pressed against hers, warm and demanding, but all Rhaenys could feel was the hollow ache inside her. His hands roamed, pulling her closer, but her thoughts remained elsewhere—on the pendant gleaming coldly on the table, on Jon's face in the last moments she had seen him alive.
The silk shift clung to her body, and Aegon's touch was possessive, almost reverent. "You did it. You did what the Dothraki and the Golden Company could not," he murmured against her lips. His words were honeyed, heavy with adoration. "Even now, when everyone else conspires against me, I know I can trust you."
Rhaenys closed her eyes, forcing herself to respond. She returned his kiss, deepening it with practiced ease. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, pulling him closer, her body moving with a desperate rhythm she didn't feel.
She had to. She had no choice.
Aegon's breath hitched, and he tightened his grip on her waist. "You're the best sister any brother could have," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "You've proven it."
For a fleeting moment, Rhaenys thought she had succeeded. His words, his movements, all suggested he was hers to mold, just as she needed him to be. But then, without warning, he froze.
Aegon pulled back, his lips lingering near hers but no longer touching. His violet eyes bore into her, searching, calculating.
Rhaenys blinked, panic clawing at her chest. She reached for him again, her hands insistent on his chest. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound sultry. "Aegon, don't stop."
He stared at her, his gaze unreadable, and then he reached up, brushing a strand of her hair from her face. His touch was tender, almost cruel in its gentleness.
"I can't," he said, his voice soft but firm.
Rhaenys froze, her hands falling to her sides. "What do you mean you can't?" she demanded, the panic rising in her voice now impossible to hide. She forced a smile, tilting her head coyly. "I'm still as beautiful as ever. Am I not enough for you anymore?"
Aegon shook his head, and the corner of his mouth twitched into something that might have been a smile but felt closer to pity. "It's not that," he said, his fingers trailing down her cheek. "You'll always be enough. But I can't... not anymore."
Her heart thundered in her chest. "Why?" she whispered, barely able to get the word out.
He stepped back, his hand falling away from her face. "Because I'm king now. Margaery is carrying my child. And..." His eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Because Maegor left his mark on you."
The words hit her like a blow. Rhaenys felt the air leave her lungs, and she struggled to keep her face calm, to keep her hands from trembling. "Don't be foolish," she said, laughing weakly. "Jon's gone. Dead. He's nothing but ash and memory."
Aegon's gaze didn't waver. "Maegor ruins everything he touches—the Targaryen name, Blackfyre, our family, Father, Daenerys. And now, even you."
Rhaenys opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. Her mind raced for something—anything—that would convince him. But the look in his eyes told her it was already too late.
He turned, his hand reaching for the sheathed blade that rested on the table. Blackfyre. Jon's sword, once his claim, now Aegon's prize.
Aegon slung the sword over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on her one last time. "You've always been father's sun," he said, his voice quieter now, almost wistful. "But even the brightest light can be eclipsed by the touch of Maegor."
And with that, he walked away, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
Rhaenys sat motionless, staring at the empty space he had left behind. The pendant on the table gleamed in the firelight, its presence a cruel, mocking reminder of her failure. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms until the sharp pain grounded her.
He doesn't know, she told herself desperately. He can't know.
But deep inside, a cold certainty coiled, tightening like a noose.
Aegon
Aegon stood over the map of the North, his fingers tracing the shifting borders with an almost mechanical precision. The room was heavy with silence, only the crackle of the torchlight breaking it. He could feel Domeric's eyes on him, the palpable tension in the air, and he allowed it to settle around him like a cloak. Domeric was always quick to question, quick to challenge, but Aegon had no patience for it now. Not when he had more pressing matters to focus on.
"I'm to be Warden of the North," Domeric said, his voice low but carrying a hint of disbelief. "And what, exactly, do you expect me to do without Sansa Stark?"
Aegon didn't look up. He didn't need to—he could hear the frustration in Domeric's voice, the disbelief that anyone could rule the North without one of the Starks. He almost smirked at the absurdity of it. The Starks were weak now, broken, scattered. The North would fall in line eventually, as it always did.
"You'll secure the North with the lords who bent the knee," Aegon replied, his voice flat. "Those who still live will support you. The rest... they will stay here." He glanced up for a moment, locking eyes with Domeric, his voice hardening.
"They'll learn their place."
Domeric didn't respond immediately, but Aegon could feel the tension in the air thicken. He knew what was coming. He knew Domeric would question him again, would doubt his methods, but he couldn't be bothered with it now. He had bigger plans to consider.
"The lords, maybe. But what about the people?" Domeric's voice dropped, the challenge turning into something more pointed. "Without a Stark, without Sansa... how will I hold the North together?"
Aegon's fingers drummed softly against the table, but his gaze remained distant, detached. "The North will follow. They always do. They've always bent the knee to whoever has the power to make them. And as for Sansa Stark... she stays with me."
The words left his mouth with an ease he didn't expect, but it wasn't as if he had much choice. He relished the thought of having Sansa in his grasp, a piece of Jon's family to torment, to keep close.
Domeric's expression shifted, frustration flickering across his face, and Aegon saw the slight tightening of his jaw. It wasn't anger, not quite—more confusion, as if the pieces weren't fitting together. "What do you mean, 'with you'? You're just going to leave me to rule the North without one of them?" His voice was tight now, the challenge more direct. "Without a Stark, the North will never follow. They'll rise up against me the moment I show my neck north of the Neck. I killed the Young Wolf after all."
Aegon couldn't hide the slight edge of irritation creeping into his voice. "You will deal with it. I've made my decision." His eyes narrowed as he looked up at Domeric, his tone taking on an almost dismissive quality. "Sansa stays. And you'll manage."
But Domeric wasn't done. The frustration in his voice sharpened again, now laced with a hint of disbelief. "How do you expect me to hold the North, Your Grace? Without a Stark, there's no foundation. The North will crumble. They'll never accept anyone else."
Aegon felt the irritation bubble, but he kept it in check, his fingers tapping lightly on the table as if it were all a mere distraction. "Then marry a Frey," he said dismissively. "Marry a Frey and take their loyalty. It doesn't matter."
Domeric's eyes flashed with disbelief, his voice dropping lower, more deliberate now. "You want me to marry a Frey? You think that will hold the North? The North will never accept another southerner as the warden's wife."
Aegon felt a strange sense of detachment, as if Domeric's words didn't even matter. The North was a tool to be used, a piece to be controlled, and the Starks were irrelevant now. His grip on the North would be absolute, with or without their bloodline. Sansa was nothing more than leverage, a tool for his own purposes.
"You'll figure it out," Aegon said, his voice distant. He didn't care to explain further. "You have the loyalty of the Dustins and Ryswells and soon enough, the Freys, and we have a handful of captives here. I've made my decision. And if the North resists, then we'll deal with that when the time comes. I have a dragon, and it is growing larger every day."
Domeric didn't say anything for a moment, but Aegon could feel the weight of his eyes on him, the unspoken frustration in the silence. It was as if Domeric was trying to piece together something Aegon hadn't fully explained—or perhaps something Aegon had no intention of explaining.
Sansa
Sansa still heard the screams.
Alone in her chambers, a captive in every sense, the echoes refused to leave her.
Mother. Rickon. Arya. Robb. Jon.
Their names played in her mind, each one a dagger to her chest.
Mother.
Rickon.
Arya.
Robb.
Jon.
Alys.
Her lips formed the words, but no sound came. Her voice had died alongside them. Only tears remained, spilling endlessly as if her body would collapse from the weight of her mourning. Each sob left her hollowed, her heart an empty shell that still somehow ached.
The memories came unbidden, vivid as if the horrors unfolded anew.
Sansa still heard it all—the gasp of disbelief and fear from Robb, Mother's sharp inhale when Jon fell, Arya's raw scream of rage, Rickon's frantic cries, the low, uncertain mutters of Edmure and the Blackfish, and her own heart pounding as if it might burst. Even now, the memory was vivid enough to steal her breath, a living nightmare replaying endlessly.
The direwolves had been restless, snapping and prowling, their tension palpable. Ghost had snarled beside Greywind, his red eyes locked on Prince Aegon.
When Aegon placed Blackfyre under Jon's throat, Robb surged forward yelling, "He is my brother!" heedless of Mother's sharp warning or Alys's restraining hand. Sansa had wanted to cry out too, to run to Jon, but fear had paralyzed her.
Instead, she clung to hope, desperate and fragile. "In the songs, princes do not kill each other—brothers do not kill each other," she had whispered to herself, clutching Jeyne's hand so tightly it hurt. Jeyne's pale face had mirrored her own terror. "Prince Aegon will not kill his own brother," she'd repeated, willing it to be true.
She had been right, but not in the way she had hoped.
When Ghost lunged to protect Jon, chaos erupted. Shouts came from every direction, the crowd a blur of movement.
She'd seen Harrold Hardying collapse, his lifeblood pooling in the dirt, and then everything dissolved into madness.
The Red Woman's followers surged forward, their screams fevered and frenzied. Jory shouted something, but his words were lost in the cacophony. Swords clashed, and the air filled with the twang of crossbows. Men with twin towers on their tunics emerged from the crowd, bolts flying with deadly precision.
Sansa ducked instinctively, still clutching Jeyne's hand, but the sound—the sickening thuds of bolts finding flesh—was inescapable. Torrhen Karstark gurgled as a bolt pierced his throat, his hands clawing at the air. She couldn't forget the wet, grotesque pop of Jory's eye exploding as a bolt struck him.
Mother's scream cut through the chaos when a bolt buried itself in her shoulder. Bleeding and frantic, she scrambled to shield Arya and Rickon, even as Arya swung her Valyrian sword wildly, her small frame shaking with fury.
Rickon's anguished cry sent Shaggydog into a frenzy. The black wolf tore through the Freys, snapping limbs and scattering them like leaves, even as bolts riddled his massive body. His final mournful whine echoed through the Godswood, a haunting sound that seemed to stir something feral in Grey Wind and Nymeria. Their savagery became unrelenting, but it was not enough.
Sansa had been trembling, her nails digging into Jeyne's hand for strength. When she finally turned to her friend, Jeyne's eyes were open but lifeless, blood pooling from the bolt lodged in her stomach. Sansa's scream stuck in her throat, choked by the overwhelming press of bodies surging towards them.
Everywhere she looked, northern steel clashed with northern steel. Eddara Tallhart had let out a scream as a Dustin man-at-arms yanked her by the hair, the sound cutting off abruptly when the dagger sliced a cruel line across her throat. Her brother Benfred had cried out in fury and grief, tears streaking down his face, as he fought valiantly against two Boltons, desperately trying to reach her lifeless body. The smalljon Umber had been impaled by three swords by three men in the colors of House Ryswell. Eddard Karstark had roared, a whirlwind of fury as he protected Alys from the men closing in on her. She saw him fall, a Frey's pike driving through the back of his neck. Alys fought with desperation, her sword arm faltering as they swarmed her, the other hand on her belly.
And then there was Robb.
She watched, frozen in horror, as Domeric Bolton—his face chillingly calm—plunged a dagger into Robb's chest. His voice was quiet but cruel: "Aegon sends his regards."
Robb fell, and the world shattered.
Mother's scream was unlike anything Sansa had ever heard, raw and unending. She pulled Rickon into her arms, clinging to him as if sheer will could protect him. Arya was gone, Nymeria too. The Freys closed in, Black Walder grinning as he slit Mother's throat, then Rickon's.
Sansa had screamed then, her voice breaking as tears burned her eyes.
And then—blessedly—everything went black.
Now, she was here, alive when they were not, her tears the only tribute she could offer.
But it was not enough. It would never be enough.
Servants came and went, silent as ghosts, bringing trays of untouched food and drink. Sansa ignored it all. How could she eat when her mother and siblings would never have that privilege again? Days blurred together as she lay motionless in her bed, her body wasting away while the sun rose and fell, an indifferent witness to her grief.
She longed for the impossible—her mother bursting in with a worried expression, coaxing her out of bed, brushing her hair with gentle hands. She ached to hear Fat Tom's cheerful announcement that Jeyne was waiting outside, eager for a day of gossip and songs. She yearned for Arya's and Rickon's brash interruptions, a snowball smacking her awake, or the soft knock of Robb and Jon at her door, their voices warm as they asked if she fancied some lemon cakes.
But none of these things would ever happen again. They were gone. All of them.
Instead, the door creaked open, and it was not family or friends who entered.
It was King Aegon.
He strolled in with the confidence of a man who had stolen everything she held dear. Behind him, his newly appointed Kingsguard flanked him: Daemon Sand, sharp-eyed and silent, and Osmund Kettleblack, smirking as if he had won some private joke.
The room, already cold with grief, seemed to grow even colder.
Sansa's gaze lingered on Aegon's easy smile, so casual it made her stomach churn. Her eyes dropped to Blackfyre hanging at his hip—Jon's sword, stolen as cruelly as everything else he had taken from her. The stench of spoiled food filled the air, and she caught the disgusted glances Daemon Sand and Osmund Kettleblack exchanged as they eyed the rotting trays. It was a silent reproach, but Sansa didn't care.
Let it rot. Let it all rot.
Aegon strolled further into the room, his boots sinking into the soft carpet as he surveyed the disarray. His tone was idle, almost conversational, as if commenting on the weather. "The servants tell me you haven't bathed or eaten in days. A Stark tradition, perhaps?"
Sansa didn't answer, her gaze fixed on the stained tapestry across the room, refusing to meet his eyes. Her silence was her defiance.
Osmund Kettleblack's smirk twisted into a sneer. "When the king speaks, girl, you look at him," he snapped, his tone harsh enough to make a lesser woman flinch.
Sansa didn't move, didn't flinch, but inside, her thoughts burned with spite. Jon should be king, not his evil brother.
Aegon chuckled, the sound low and amused. "It doesn't surprise me. Traitors rarely know the meaning of custom." He glanced around the room, taking in the piles of untouched food and the sour stench of decay. "It seems they don't know the meaning of cleanliness either."
Sansa's hands clenched in the folds of her dress, her nails digging into her palms, but she said nothing.
Aegon turned his attention back to her, his smile sharp as a blade. "Lords of every flock have knelt to me. They love me as their rightful king. Will you do the same, Sansa?"
Her head snapped toward him, her voice breaking as she wailed, "No! I do not love you. You slit my mother's throat!"
For a moment, the room was silent, her words echoing against the stone walls.
Aegon's expression didn't waver, his stare as cold and unflinching as winter. "I did," he said evenly, his voice devoid of remorse. "And I'd do it again."
His words were a knife twisting in her chest, but he wasn't finished. He leaned closer, his gaze burning into hers. "She thought to back my traitorous brother Maegor over me. Just like you. Just like your wolf pack of a family. And I wish it had been my hand that plunged the dagger into Robb Stark's heart."
Sansa's breath hitched, her heart pounding as his words landed with the weight of a death knell. She stared at him, trembling with fury and grief, her body shaking as the walls of her grief-stricken prison seemed to close in tighter.
Aegon's gaze narrowed, his lips curling into a smile that held no warmth. "The Tyrells, the Boltons, and the Martells, they all want you for themselves, Sansa. They see you as a prize to be claimed, a pawn in their own little games. But you will stay with me. You'll stay by my side, and I will remove the mark of Maegor from you." His words were laden with an unsettling calm, as though he were doing her a favor.
Sansa recoiled at his words, her eyes flashing with defiance. "What mark of Jon?" she spat, her voice bitter. "Compared to you, Aegon, whose heart is blacker than any monster in any story?"
Aegon's smile faltered, his eyes hardening, but he did not flinch. Instead, he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "Maegor was the true monster. He sought my throne, and conspired against me. I vanquished him because he deserved nothing less." His words were sharp, like the strike of a blade.
Sansa shook her head, her lips trembling with frustration. "Jon was my brother!" she shot back, her voice shaking with emotion. "He was a true prince, the one who fought for his life to save mine. The songs spoke of him—of a knight, a hero, a savior of the weak when he saved Kingslanding from the Triarchy. And you—you—are the true monster for betraying him." She clenched her fists, her voice rising. "You betrayed the prince who fought for his family! Your own brother!"
Aegon's laugh was dark, a sound that lacked any humor. He took a step toward her, his eyes never leaving hers. "A true prince, you say? You cling to your songs, your naive fantasies of what a knight should be. But Maegor was no hero. He was a threat, a bastard boy who wanted everything—my throne, my father's love, Daenerys. He tried to turn Rhaenys against me, tried to rob me of the one thing I held dear. He thought he could take it all from me. And when I saw his ambition, his treachery, I knew I had no choice but to rid myself of him. I protected what was mine, Sansa. And I'll do it again, to anyone who dares to take what belongs to me."
Sansa's breath caught in her throat as his words sank in. A part of her—deep down—knew he believed every word, that he truly saw himself as the rightful king, fighting against treachery and betrayal. But her heart screamed that Aegon was nothing more than a paranoid, cruel man who had destroyed the very person she grew up with – her brother.
"He never wanted anything except to protect those he loved. "You're not a king. You're a man who was afraid that Jon's fire was brighter than your own."
Aegon's gaze turned cold, his smile vanishing completely. "I'm not afraid of anything, Sansa. Fear is for those who are weak, those who let their enemies take from them. I am the king. I was born to rule. And Maegor… Maegor thought he could take it all away. He thought he could rise above me. But in the end, I showed him that no one, no matter how brave or noble, can take what's mine. And I'll be damned before I let anyone try again."
Sansa's voice was sharp, filled with fury. "You used to be beautiful, like in the songs. You've become a monster, Aegon. Worse than any story could ever tell. You're a dragon that destroys everything in its path. You killed Jon because he was righteous and true. I won't ever love you, Aegon. You're not my king."
Sansa stood tall, but the tension in the room was palpable. Aegon's eyes bore into her with a cold, unsettling intensity as he motioned to Osmund. Without a word, Osmund, ever loyal to his prince, stepped forward, his white cloak sweeping behind him. He raised his hand and struck Sansa across the face with a brutal force, the crack of his gauntlet against her skin echoing through the room. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth as she staggered, her cheek reddening from the blow.
Aegon's voice cut through the silence, his words heavy with malice. "Such insolence," he said, his tone dripping with disdain. "No doubt because of Maegor's influence. It is certain you will rid yourself of that, or you will rue it."
His gaze lingered on her, as though savoring the moment of her humiliation. He paced slowly, the shadows in the room seeming to lengthen with each step.
"The Riverlanders are cowed," Aegon continued, his voice growing darker with each word. "The Vale disheartened. The North broken. And the only whisper of Maegor that remains are the Silent Flames. A plague in these lands that I will rid us of."
Aegon's hand swept towards the window, as though beckoning his dragon. "I will burn them out with Mystic, and you will watch. You will witness the fire that consumes the remnants of your brother's traitorous allies. Mystic grows larger by the day, and soon, I will be able to ride him. Then, there will be nowhere for them to hide."
He let the silence linger, his eyes locked onto Sansa's, his words hanging in the air like an omen.
With a final glance, Aegon turned, his cloak swirling behind him as he motioned for Daemon and Osmund to follow. "We are done here," he said coldly, his presence still heavy in the room long after he had left.
Osmund and Daemon followed Aegon out, the door closing with a soft thud behind them, leaving Sansa alone in the aftermath of his cruel words and the sting of his physical assault. The room, once her sanctuary, now felt like a prison, the weight of Aegon's threats pressing down on her shoulders like a vice.
Arthur
Arthur Dayne sat in the darkness of his cell, alone with his head rested against the cold stone wall, his eyes shut tight as if he could banish the visions that haunted him. But they came anyway, relentless and unyielding, dragging him back to the blood-soaked memories of the past.
"Lewyn... Oswell..." he whispered, his voice raw with bitterness. "You fools."
He cursed them, even as he mourned them.
Lewyn Martell, with his easy smile and unshakable calm, now gone—cut down for a cause he should never have followed. Oswell Whent, with his dark humor, now rotted in a grave, his loyalty misplaced in the end.
"You swore oaths," Arthur growled, his voice echoing faintly in the hollow cell. "To Rhaegar. To Jon.And yet you chose...Aegon?"
His hands clenched into fists, chains rattling faintly with the movement. "Why? Why couldn't you see the truth? Rhaegar made his wishes clear. Jon was to be king—his song of ice and fire. But you... you let your doubts, your cowardice, lead you astray. You betrayed your rightful king, your oaths... your honor."
And for what? For the boy with the trappings of kingship but none of the burden? They had died for him, and for what? A dead woman's shadow?
But their faces still lingered in his mind, unbidden.
Lewyn's calm mask shattered by guilt in their last conversation, Oswell's gruff words laced with uncertainty. Arthur had fought beside them, called them brothers, trusted them with his life. Now, he cursed their names even as grief clawed at his heart.
"I should have seen it," he murmured. "I should have stopped you." But he hadn't. And now, he sat here in chains while their ashes scattered to the wind.
His thoughts were scattered, his heart a tumult of conflicting emotions. He had always believed in his oaths, in the unshakable bond that bound him to Rhaegar and, by extension, to the cause of the prophecy. But now, that belief seemed like a distant dream, buried beneath the weight of the choices he had been forced to make.
For years, he had taught Aegon how to wield a sword, had seen in the boy the potential to be a great king. Aegon had always looked up to him, and Arthur had loved him like a brother. The young prince, with his bright eyes and endless questions, had sought Arthur's guidance as though he were the only one who could understand the burdens of their family.
Arthur had been there when Aegon first held a sword in his hands, when the boy had fumbled with it clumsily, and Arthur had patiently corrected his form, showing him how to turn each movement into a fluid strike. He had trained him through the years, had witnessed the boy grow into the man who stood before them in the Great Hall, claiming the throne as his own.
Yet that same boy, now king, had never truly understood the gravity of his position. Aegon had won the trial by combat, but that victory, did not change the larger truth—the one Arthur had sworn to Rhaegar and to the vision they had shared: Jon was the true heir.
But the heart, the heart was a treacherous thing. Arthur had loved Aegon. Loved him as a son. He had stood by him through thick and thin, had watched him struggle, had seen his anger, his passion, his ambition. Arthur had tried to guide him, but now it felt as though those years of training had all been in vain.
"How could you, Aegon?" Arthur whispered under his breath, his voice thick with a pain that twisted deep within him. "How could you... when you know what Rhaegar believed? What Jon is meant to do?"
He stood up suddenly, the chains rattling as he paced the small cell, restless and consumed by his thoughts. He had sworn to Rhaegar that he would protect Jon, that he would ensure the prophecy was fulfilled. And now, Aegon had ascended the throne, taking everything Arthur had worked for and twisting it into something unrecognizable.
Arthur stopped mid-step and closed his eyes, his mind flashing back to the countless hours he had spent with Aegon. He could see it all again—the boy, young and eager, trying to match Arthur's movements with the sword. How Aegon had looked at him with trust, with admiration. How Arthur had pushed him to be better, to strive for greatness.
And now... now the boy had become a king. A king who had taken the throne that Rhaegar had once believed Jon would sit upon.
And yet, I cannot serve him. Not as Kingsguard. Not after all that has happened.
Arthur's breath hitched as the image of Rhaegar's face flashed before him. His best friend. The man who had seen beyond the politics and the bloodlines. The man who had believed, with every fiber of his being, that Jon was the one who would save them all. The one who would unite the realm and fulfill the prophecy. Arthur had sworn an oath to him, and that oath was sacred.
But Aegon had earned his place. He had won the trial. He had defeated Jon in combat, though Arthur would never admit that Jon had faltered when the victory was within his grasp. Perhaps it was the gods themselves who had denied Jon his moment. Perhaps it was fate. But that didn't matter now.
Arthur's thoughts shifted, turning inward. He could still hear the ringing clash of steel, the echoes of that final battle in the Godswood, where his oath to Rhaegar had been tested in the fire of combat.
Jon had been a sight to behold—clad in black Valyrian steel, his armor a shadow against Aegon's shining regalia. Blackfyre had been in his grip, gleaming with a dark fire that seemed to burn through the very air. For a moment, Arthur had thought victory was within their grasp. Jon, driven by fury and grief, had pressed Aegon, forcing him back with every precise strike. The fury in Jon's eyes had been matched only by the power in his swing. Arthur doubted anyone could have defeated Jon then. Not Jaime Lannister. Not Barristan. Not Loras Tyrell. Not Lyn Corbay. Not even Arthur...
It had seemed certain then. Arthur had believed Jon would end it all. Blackfyre should have been buried in Aegon's throat, the fight over in a single, decisive blow.
But then... Jon had faltered.
Arthur's breath caught in his throat as he remembered the moment, the subtle shift in Jon's movements. His strikes grew slower, less deliberate. It was as if the very gods themselves had turned their eyes away. Arthur had seen it, too late to stop it. The opening Aegon had been waiting for.
Jon had been so close. Why? Why did he falter when victory was in his grasp? Foul play had been involved.
Arthur's chest tightened, a deep sorrow welling within him. It was as if some unseen hand had pulled Jon down from the heights of destiny, as if the very will of the gods had conspired against him. And when Jon had fallen, when Aegon's blade had caught him, it had felt like the end. Aegon had raised his sword for the killing blow. But then—Ghost.
The direwolf had appeared from the chaos, a white blur of fury, tearing through the fray and saving Jon. The chaos had erupted from there, as Aegon's supporters and the Starks clashed with the fury of a hundred storms. But it had been too late—Jon had already been beaten.
Arthur's heart sank at the memory. Even now, in the quiet of his cell, the guilt and grief weighed on him like a hundred pounds. If only he had been there sooner. If only he had seen the crack in Jon's resolve before it happened.
Arthur remembered the shifting of the crowd, the fear and anger on the Starks' faces, the betrayal in their eyes as the first blades turned against them. The direwolves, loyal to their masters, bounded through the chaos, defending their kin with savage ferocity. Arthur would never forget the sight of Grey Wind and Shaggydog falling beneath a hail of crossbow bolts, their howls of pain echoing through the Godswood.
He had seen Robb Stark, his face twisted with rage, charge forward with Theon Greyjoy and the Karstarks at his back. He had seen Catelyn's despair as Domeric Bolton drove a dagger into her son's chest, her scream cutting through the din like a knife. Blood had flowed freely, staining the roots of the weirwood tree.
Arthur had drawn Dawn then, the ancient blade of House Dayne singing in his grip. He had cut his way through the chaos, determined to reach Jon, to protect the boy who bore the burden of prophecy. But even Dawn could not turn the tide. He had seen Jaime Lannister carrying Jon's limp form from the fray, a rare moment of honor from the Kingslayer. And then in that distraction, Lyn Corbray's blade had struck his knee, and the darkness had claimed him. Gods...he didn't even know where Dawn was.
"I should have seen it," Arthur muttered, running a hand through his hair, his voice thick with pain. "I should have known. I should have—"
Arthur sank to his knees, the full weight of his conflict crashing down upon him. "I taught you, Aegon," he said quietly, his voice breaking. "I taught you to be a king. I wanted to see you take the throne with strength. But I cannot bend the knee. Not to you. Not now. Not when I know what is at stake. Not when Rhaegar's vision is still alive in me."
His heart ached, but his resolve hardened. "I cannot abandon my oaths. I cannot betray the memory of Rhaegar. I cannot betray Jon. I cannot serve you, Aegon... no matter how much I love you. You are not the king the realm needs. You are not the one Rhaegar saw on the throne."
He looked up at the stone ceiling, his eyes clouded with unshed tears. "Forgive me, my prince. But I will not break my vows. Not for the throne. Not for anyone."
And in the silence that followed, Arthur Dayne wept—not for Aegon's future, but for the loss of the path he had once believed in, for the death of the man who had been his brother and his king, and for the painful knowledge that sometimes love and duty could not exist in the same breath.
The door to the cell creaked open slowly, the heavy footsteps echoing in the quiet dungeon. Arthur's heart skipped a beat before his mind could even process the figure standing in the doorway. Aegon, his face bearing his handsome smile, stepped into the dim light of the cell. His regal bearing was undeniable, but it was the crown—Rhaegar's crown—upon his head, and the pommel of Blackfyre at his side that caused Arthur's chest to tighten painfully.
The sight of It—the crown that had once graced Rhaegar's brow—sent a sickening ache through Arthur's heart. Rhaegar had always believed Jon was the one destined to wear it. Jon had been the Prince That Was Promised, the one who would unite the realm, the one who would hold the crown with honor.
Arthur felt the weight of those memories, those unspoken promises, pressing down on him, and for a moment, he could hardly breathe. The crown, the sword... it all felt like a betrayal of what Rhaegar had truly believed in. Aegon had taken the throne, yes, but it was a throne meant for someone else.
Aegon said nothing for a moment, his eyes steady on Arthur as he walked further into the cell. The look in his eyes was quiet, but it was sharp—cutting through the air like a blade.
"Arthur," he finally spoke, his voice low, heavy with a mixture of frustration and something else—something unreadable.
"It hurts me to see you dwelling here, like this. What did you expect, by slaughtering so many in the name of Maegor?"
Arthur lifted his gaze, meeting Aegon's eyes, and his heart twisted in his chest.
His duty to Rhaegar, his duty to Jon... it all seemed so far away now. "I did what my oaths bid me to do, my prince," Arthur answered, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.
Aegon's lip curled in amusement, the corners of his mouth twisting. "You mean king?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, and for a moment, Arthur wanted nothing more than to turn away from him.
Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat, fighting the burn in his chest. "Maegor is the rightful king," he said quietly, as though the words themselves could bring some semblance of peace to his soul.
Aegon's eyes flashed with anger, the temperature in the room seeming to drop in an instant. He stepped closer to Arthur, his gaze fierce. "I am your rightful king," he spat. "You have served my father, my house, for many years. What honor is there in rotting here in defiance of your king?"
Arthur felt a coldness settle over him, but he forced himself to look Aegon in the eye. "The House of the Dragon has a long memory," he said, his voice low and unyielding. "But its flames burn short. I do not serve flames that flicker in the wind—I serve the fire that does not go out."
Aegon's eyes narrowed, his expression darkening with fury. "Maegor is dead," he hissed, his words sharp and final. "You clutch at ashes."
"Rhaegar believed in the prophecy," Arthur replied, his voice steady but firm. "Maegor is the Prince That Was Promised, and fire does not die so easily."
Aegon let out a cold, hollow laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls like the cry of a broken man. "Oh?" he said, amusement lacing his voice. "You don't believe in me anymore?" His words were thick with venom, and the question hung in the air like a challenge.
Arthur's heart ached as he stood, his knees buckling slightly beneath him as the weight of the truth settled in. He had once believed in Aegon, had stood by him as his mentor and protector. But Rhaegar's words had never been clearer to him than they were now. Jon, not Aegon, was the one destined to wear the crown.
"I believe in the fire that does not go out," Arthur said, his voice low but resolute. "You wear a crown forged by the flames of your father's ambition. I wear my oath, bound in honor, to a king who has passed. But that flame still burns, Aegon. It will burn brighter than all the crowns in the world."
Aegon's gaze darkened, his lips trembling with the edge of rage. "You have no faith in me," he whispered, his voice a growl. "You think I am just another flicker of flame. You think you can just throw me aside."
I'm sorry, Aegon...
Arthur met his gaze, unflinching. "You are not the king Rhaegar believed in. And you never will be. I taught you the way of the sword for years, and I know for a fact you did not defeat Maegor by yourself."
Arthur's heart twisted as he glanced at Aegon—so young, wearing the crown of his father, with Blackfyre at his side. And yet, what had he truly become? A king by blood, yes, but in his path, he had burned everything Arthur held dear.
"You have made this personal, Aegon," Arthur murmured, his voice low," with the slaughter of the Starks and other lords in the Godswood, and I cannot—will not—serve a man who commands such violence in the name of kingship."
The silence between them was thick, like a storm that had not yet broken. Aegon turned away first, his footsteps echoing as he left the cell, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts once again. But in that silence, Arthur knew there was no turning back. No matter how much he loved Aegon, no matter how many years he had spent at his side, his oath had been sworn to another king—one whose fire would never fade, even in death.
Rhaenys
Rhaenys moved through the towering, smoke-stained corridors of Harrenhal with an air of authority, her Targaryen red-and-black gown rippling behind her like the wings of a dragon. The cold stone walls seemed to echo every footstep, their oppressive presence a constant reminder of the castle's grim history. Beside her walked Mya Baratheon, the newly legitimized heir to Storm's End, her leather boots silent on the uneven floor.
Mya, though carrying herself with quiet confidence, kept her head lowered slightly, her sharp blue eyes darting to and fro, always alert. Harrenhal was no Red Keep, but its halls were no less riddled with intrigue and shadowed whispers. Mya, freshly thrust into this political storm, had already learned to tread carefully.
It wasn't until they neared Rhaella's chambers, where the din of courtly life faded into a solemn hush, that Mya dared to speak. She leaned closer to Rhaenys, her voice barely a whisper.
"Princess," Mya began, her tone cautious but urgent. "There's unrest stirring in House Tyrell."
Rhaenys arched a brow but didn't slow her stride. "Speak plainly."
Mya glanced around once more before continuing. "Some of the lords aren't pleased with the Tyrells' unwavering support for Aegon... after what befell the Riverlands and the North. They say his actions tarnish the honor of the Reach."
Rhaenys's lips tightened, but she said nothing, prompting Mya to elaborate.
"House Oakheart is at odds with the Tyrells," Mya said, her voice lowering even further. "They haven't forgotten Arys Oakheart's loyalty to Myrcella Targaryen. They claim that their honor compels them to question Aegon's methods."
Rhaenys's face remained unreadable, though her eyes flashed with interest. "The Oakhearts are a proud house, but not one of great power. What of the others?"
Mya hesitated before replying. "The Florents are speaking more openly. They claim Aegon's war in the Riverlands and the looming war against the West cast a shadow over the entire Reach. They say it's their lands and people who bear the brunt of the crown's demands for food and soldiers."
A muscle in Rhaenys's jaw twitched. The Florents' discontent was troubling; they were a large and influential house, and their whispers could quickly turn to rebellion.
"And the Tyrells?" she asked. "How do they respond?"
"They've kept their composure so far," Mya admitted, her tone growing darker. "But tensions are mounting. The Oakhearts' dissatisfaction is turning into quiet defiance, and the Florents... they're gathering sympathizers. Some say this unrest could spread to lesser houses if left unchecked."
Rhaenys stopped in her tracks, turning to face Mya fully. The flickering torchlight cast sharp shadows on her face, emphasizing the weight of her Targaryen features. "You're certain of this?"
Mya nodded, her expression resolute. "Some of the Dornish lords are becoming restless as well."
Rhaenys said nothing, prompting Mya to press on.
"They're not happy with how the Daynes are being treated," Mya whispered, her voice a mix of concern and calculated precision. "Even with Ashara Dayne, Edric, and Arthur Dayne having supported Jon... they are a beloved house. Too many in Dorne hold them in high regard to ignore their disgrace – that Aegon's actions are unnecessary since the threat of Jon Is gone."
Rhaenys's expression softened at the mention of Jon's supporters, but she kept her voice steady. "What are they saying, exactly?"
"Their whispers have grown louder, Princess," Mya continued. "They are saying that Allyria Dayne—Ashara's sister—should not be held prisoner. That she is no traitor to the crown. Even the neutral lords who've kept their silence about Jon's unnatural death are beginning to question the treatment of his allies."
"Thank you, Mya," Rhaenys said at last, her voice firm but measured. "You've done well to bring this to me." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "But tread carefully. These are dangerous times, and words, even true ones, can be deadly."
The fire crackled softly in the hearth of Rhaella's chambers, the flames casting flickering shadows against the stone walls of the room. The air smelled faintly of burning wood, mixed with the subtle scent of incense that always lingered in Rhaella's quarters. The princess sat in a high-backed chair, her fingers tracing the edge of her goblet, her thoughts distant.
Rhaenys entered, her face a mask of weary determination. She moved swiftly, her gait purposeful, though there was a slight tension in her posture, an unmistakable unease that had become more apparent with each passing day.
Rhaella looked up at the sound of her entrance, her sharp eyes narrowing with interest. "You seem... troubled, Rhaenys," she observed, her voice laced with quiet amusement, as though she had already guessed the source of her granddaughter's disquiet.
Rhaenys did not immediately speak, her gaze shifting towards the fire. She took a breath and then, with an almost imperceptible glance at her grandmother, finally spoke.
"I tried to sleep with him," Rhaenys confessed, her voice low and tinged with a bitterness she did not care to conceal.
"Aegon. I tried to pass off my child with Jon as his – to prevent him from killing what remains of Jon."
Rhaella's eyebrows arched at this admission, but there was no surprise in her expression—only the faintest flicker of a smile. She took a sip from her goblet, eyes never leaving Rhaenys. "Of course it didn't work, you foolish child," she snapped. "Aegon, at this moment, is not at ease putting his cock into anyone, not even his dear sister," she said bitterly.
Rhaenys flinched, but Rhaella's words, though blunt and crude, held a certain sharpness, a truth that cut through the situation more than any kindness could. Rhaenys looked down, her hands clenched at her sides. "I thought I could make him believe it. After Jon's death... I thought it might work. He's vulnerable. He doesn't trust anyone. Not after what happened."
Rhaella chuckled softly, a sound that was almost more of an exhale than a true laugh. "He's always been something else, hasn't he? Even before Jon's death, Aegon could never see past his own paranoia." She set her goblet down, leaning back in her chair, her eyes gleaming with something far darker than amusement. "But now? Even with Jon gone, Aegon sees his enemies in every shadow. He's convinced that Jon is still watching him, waiting to take the throne back."
Rhaenys's lips parted, but she could not find the words to speak immediately. She had long known that Aegon was a man haunted by doubt, by the specter of a dead brother who had once been his rival. But hearing it from Rhaella, so bluntly, was another matter entirely.
Rhaella continued, her voice steady, unyielding. "You think he would so easily fall for your charms now? He sees Jon's shadow in every corner of this castle, in every face that looks at him. He cannot put it to rest, not even after all that's happened. And you, my dear – the woman Jon was supposed to marry - are the last person he would seek solace in."
Rhaenys's lips thinned, her breath caught in her chest."Then I am better off running away."
Rhaella sighed, her tone sharp with exasperation."Knights of the Reach are harassing Myrcella's retreat as we speak. Tywin Lannister has called his banners. Riverrun is mobilizing a force of levies—what will come out of that, I don't know. Don't be surprised if the Blackfish has a hand in the Silent Flames. Their attacks are growing bolder by the day. That's why the lords remain here until Aegon flushes them out. It's not safe for anyone to travel the roads. And there's word the Ironborn are stirring – Theon Greyjoy's whereabouts are unknown. "
Rhaenys shook her head, her eyes brimming with desperation."But I can't remain here."
"Could you have thought before betraying Jon? You poisoned Jon, Rhaenys. You killed him with your own hands, and now you come to me, asking for help. Don't think I don't know exactly what you've done." Rhaella's voice was cold, cutting. "You put us all in this position, and now you want my protection for the child you're carrying. You want me to help you hide the truth, but I will not forget what you've done. Don't tell me what you shouldn't do—you already did it."
Rhaenys forced the heat of rage down her throat, but the words tasted like ash."Yes, grandmother."
Rhaella paused for a beat, her eyes narrowed in thought. "But I agree. You cannot stay. The signs of your pregnancy will begin to show soon. The child's fate will be doomed, and there is nothing we can do to change that."
"The only person whose sword might protect you now is locked away in the cells beneath this castle. Arthur Dayne. He's been defiant in his imprisonment, clinging to the memory of Jon." Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes were calm, almost resigned. "He may not be able to save you, child. But he's the only one whose blade would even dare to."
The air in the dungeon was thick with dampness and silence, only broken by the soft echoes of Rhaenys's footsteps as she approached the cell. Her heart pounded in her chest, but it wasn't fear that made it race—it was the weight of what she had come to do, what she had come to face. She placed a hand on the cold iron door, her fingers tightening around the handle as if she could feel the pulse of her own guilt throbbing through the stone.
The door creaked open, and she stepped inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim, flickering light of a single torch that cast shadows across the walls. There, in the far corner of the cell, sat Arthur Dayne. His figure was hunched, his once-proud demeanor now broken by days of captivity, but his violet eyes—they still burned with the fire of a warrior, of a man who had never truly surrendered.
Arthur didn't move at first, but his gaze locked onto hers as she entered. It was an odd kind of silence between them—charged, heavy with everything they had lost. His face was gaunt, weary, but those eyes—they had seen more than any man should. They had seen the betrayal.
Rhaenys couldn't breathe for a moment. The walls seemed to close in on her, and she felt the ghost of Jon's presence in every inch of the stone. She closed her eyes, pushing down the rising tide of regret, of anger.
Her hand instinctively went to the pendant around her neck, Jon's pendant, the one she had tried so hard to forget. The weight of it was unbearable now. She gripped it tight, as if it could anchor her to something that was no longer real.
Her other hand settled on her stomach, where the child inside her—a child created out of love and betrayal—dwelt. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she could have sworn that the child, somehow, could sense the tension between them.
Arthur's eyes remained fixed on her, unreadable.
Rhaenys stood there for a long moment, feeling the weight of his gaze. Then a smile appeared on her lips, bitter. She rubbed her stomach.
"Arthur...I'm afraid Dawn is still on the horizon."
The Wild Dragon
The green light of dawn filtered through the misty woods as Cannibal lay coiled protectively around the lifeless form of his other half. The human's body—small and fragile compared to the massive bulk of the dragon—was cradled between Cannibal's claws, shielded from the world. To Cannibal, it was not merely a corpse; it was the other half of his soul, a piece of himself now cruelly taken. The deep rumble in his chest echoed with anguish, vibrating through the ground as if the earth shared his grief.
Flashes of memory invaded the haze of his grief, fragments of a shared life. He remembered the times his other half had raised his voice—not to command destruction but to temper it. Cannibal had obeyed, not because he understood mercy, but because he trusted his other half's judgment that was earned back in the old city where shadow and fire danced together.
Their enemies had seen his mercy as weakness, and that weakness had killed him.
Cannibal's body burned—not with the fury of his flames but with the venom coursing through his veins. The poison had clung to him like a parasite, weighing down his mighty wings and sapping the strength from his bones. It had dulled his senses, slowed his reactions. He had not been there in time. His claws scraped against the earth, gouging deep trenches as he fought against the searing pain inside him. His fire—the heart of his being—blazed against the corruption, but the battle was slow, agonizing.
He lowered his snout to his other half's body, nudging it gently, hoping for a flicker of life. But there was only stillness. A mournful growl rumbled in his throat, rising into a keening roar that split the silence of the forest. The sound carried for miles, a raw, primal declaration of loss.
Cannibal's mind, vast and ancient, churned with emotions too complex for his draconic nature to fully grasp. His other half was gone. Betrayed. He could smell it in the faint traces of poison on the human's skin, in the scent of unfamiliar blood that clung to his body. Who had dared to do this? Who had stolen his other half from him?
The land around him seemed to mock his loss. The rivers whispered, their currents babbling indifferently as they wound through the lush greenery. Birds sang in the trees, their melodies oblivious to the shadow of sorrow beneath them. Cannibal hated it all—the stillness, the life, the audacity of the world to continue without his other half.
His claws flexed, his tail lashed, and his breath came in short, fiery bursts. The fire in his soul grew hotter, not with the battle against the poison but with the anger swelling within him. His other half was gone, and the world would pay for it.
Cannibal surged to his feet, his massive form towering over the forest. The ground trembled beneath his weight as he unfolded his wings, dark as the void and marked by the scars of countless battles. He threw his head back and roared again, this time with rage. Trees bent and cracked under the force of his voice, their leaves scattering like ash in the wind.
His vengeance began with the woods around him. His jaws opened, and a torrent of green flame erupted, consuming everything in its path. Trees burst into fiery blossoms, their trunks charring to blackened husks in seconds. Animals fled in panic, their screeches and howls swallowed by the roar of the flames. Cannibal's claws tore through the underbrush, crushing burrows and nests, leaving nothing untouched.
The forest, once alive with the hum of nature, became a wasteland of ash and smoldering ruins. But it was not enough. The fire in Cannibal's soul demanded more.
He turned his attention to the nearest signs of human life—a small village nestled by a river. The villagers, oblivious to the approaching storm, went about their morning routines. Children played by the water's edge, their laughter carrying on the breeze.
Cannibal's shadow fell over them, blotting out the sun. The screams began as his form descended. His talons crushed the first houses he landed on, splintering wood and stone as if they were nothing. His tail swept through the village square, scattering market stalls and sending people flying like leaves in a storm.
Then came the fire. It spewed from his jaws in relentless waves, engulfing homes, livestock, and people alike. The thatched roofs ignited instantly, flames spreading from one building to the next in a chain of destruction. Cannibal relished the scent of burning flesh and wood, a grim testament to his wrath.
The villagers ran, but there was no escape. Cannibal's claws caught those who fled, dragging them back and crushing them beneath his weight. His jaws snapped shut around others, their screams silenced in an instant.
Further east lay a holdfast, its stone walls standing as a defiant barrier against the chaos beyond. Cannibal saw it and felt a surge of fury. The humans thought their stones could protect them?
He circled above, his shadow casting fear into those below. Archers loosed arrows, their tiny shafts bouncing harmlessly off his scales. Cannibal roared in contempt and descended, his claws raking across the walls. Stone crumbled under his strength, towers toppling like children's toys.
He unleashed his flame upon the keep, the green fire melting stone and turning it to slag. The defenders inside had no chance; they burned where they stood, their screams echoing in the collapsing halls.
Cannibal tore through the remnants, his jaws ripping through stone and mortar to find the soft flesh within. He devoured the survivors, their blood staining his teeth. When nothing remained but rubble and ash, he took to the skies again, his other half's body still clutched protectively in his claws.
Cannibal's rampage continued, each act of destruction feeding the inferno of his grief and rage. He leveled another village, then another, leaving a trail of devastation across the land of rivers and greenery. Fields were reduced to barren, smoking plains. Rivers boiled where his flames touched them, their waters evaporating in great clouds of steam.
In one castle, a lord tried to rally his men to defend their home. Cannibal landed on the battlements, his weight crushing the stone beneath him. He roared, the sound shattering windows and sending soldiers to their knees in terror. The green fire consumed them all, their charred bodies crumbling to ash in its wake.
Cannibal tore the castle apart piece by piece, savoring the destruction. He left no survivors, no mercy.
The next target was already in sight—a holdfast built near the river, its stone walls rising against the horizon.
The holdfast was a small thing. It had no dragon, no power to protect itself. The men inside were soldiers, hardened by years of fighting. But against Cannibal, they were nothing.
The green flame erupted again, searing through the air and smashing against the stone walls of the holdfast. The men inside had no time to react. Cannibal's fire burst through the gates, incinerating the guards on the walls. They fell like ragdolls, their bodies burned beyond recognition before they even had time to scream. The rest of the soldiers in the courtyard attempted to form a defensive line, their shields raised against the coming doom, but it was futile.
Cannibal roared again, the sound of it reverberating through the stone walls, a warning to anyone who might still be alive. The fire erupted once more, this time in a wide arc, sweeping through the courtyard like a living thing. The men who had tried to defend their home were no longer men. They were mere ash, caught in the fiery storm that Cannibal had unleashed. Their armor melted under the heat, their flesh crisped and burned in an instant. Those who tried to flee were caught by the flames, their screams echoing as their bodies disintegrated into nothingness.
Inside the holdfast, the women and children were no safer. Cannibal's fire cut through the buildings, tearing apart the wooden structures that had once offered a semblance of shelter. The walls of the holdfast burned, the flames curling and twisting as they consumed the walls and the roof. Women, some of them mothers, screamed in terror as they tried to escape, but the fire chased them down, reducing them to nothing but smoke and ash.
Cannibal stood at the center of the ruin, his massive form casting a long shadow over the destruction he had wrought. The fire continued to burn, and as the last of the holdfast crumbled into a heap of charred stone and rubble, Cannibal turned, his tail lashing with anger. His breath was heavy, his chest heaving as he swallowed the smoke-filled air. But it was not enough. There would be no peace, not until he had made the world pay.
Hours and days passed, and while the poison wanned, his rage did not. Further East, his emerald eyes turned to a new target, his biggest yet.
A roar split the heavens, a sound so deafening it seemed to shake the very stars. The shadow swept over the world below, vast wings blotting out the sun, casting the earth in a darkness that felt eternal. It came from the west, a storm of scales and fury, carrying the weight of grief turned into wrath. The air burned with its heat long before it touched the ground, a harbinger of what was to come.
Below, a sprawling city sprawled by the waters, its spires and towers clawing at the heavens in defiance. It was the largest mark on the dragon's path yet—a fetid stain of stone, wood, and steel. The stench of it reached his nostrils even before he descended, a rancid mix of sweat, refuse, and the faint, sickly-sweet tang of fear. Cannibal's pupils contracted as he looked upon it, hatred and pain coiling within his chest like a thousand writhing serpents.
This place. This place reeked of them—the two-legged creatures who had taken his other half. It was not the place of their greatest sin, but it was one of their nests. And that was enough.
The ringing of bells erupted, loud and frantic, like the screams of an iron throat. They echoed across the city, a warning that came too late. Cannibal descended with a speed that defied his size, the air howling as he plummeted toward his prey. The first burst of flame came before his claws touched the earth.
The fire was his greeting, an announcement of his arrival. It consumed rooftops, spiraling upward like molten serpents as it devoured wooden beams and shingled roofs. The flames moved faster than the terrified people below, who ran without direction, their voices a cacophony of despair. Cannibal did not roar this time. He needed no words. His fire spoke for him.
As the fire swept through a row of tenements, it reached something buried deep—a forgotten cache of volatile substance. A muffled, green-tinted explosion erupted from the ground, its light unnatural, its heat searing. Cannibal reared back, momentarily startled, as a chain reaction began. One explosion followed another, a series of blossoms in the night, each painting the horizon with a sickly green hue.
Cannibal roared, his voice shaking the ground, and descended further, his claws raking through a towering structure. It fell with a groan, its stones crumbling like sand beneath his fury. Ships anchored in the harbor were not spared. His flame danced across the water's surface, igniting the tar and pitch used to seal their hulls. Sailors leapt into the waves, only to be consumed by fire or dragged under by the chaos.
The dragon moved with relentless purpose, his flames carving through the docks, the marketplaces, the open squares where people once gathered. He struck at the towers that rose high into the air, tearing them down, his blackened scales glinting with the fires of his destruction.
The bellows of fear rose louder, mixed with the screams of those who still lived. Some threw themselves to the ground, begging unseen gods for mercy. Others ran for the city gates, a stampede of desperation. Cannibal ignored them all. He was not here to end individuals; he was here to erase, to burn, to make the world feel his loss.
Above him, the great bells continued their clamor, their ringing a mocking reminder of order in the face of chaos. With a single beat of his wings, Cannibal ascended, his vast form a shadow against the sky. He turned toward the source of the sound and unleashed a torrent of fire so powerful it melted stone and steel alike. The bell tower toppled with a groan, its massive bronze bell plummeting into the inferno below, silencing the last vestiges of hope.
The city was in full conflagration now. Streets once bustling with life were now rivers of fire. The heat was unbearable, the air choked with smoke so thick it blotted out the stars. Cannibal's senses were alive with the chaos, his eyes scanning for any remnants of the life that had betrayed him.
And then, beneath the roar of the flames, he heard it: a hymn, soft and trembling, rising from one of the remaining structures.
A group of people huddled together, clutching each other as they sang, their voices weak but defiant. Cannibal turned toward the sound, his massive head tilting as he regarded them. For a moment, his flames paused. The hymn rose louder, filling the void of his hesitation.
It was not mercy that stopped him. It was memory.
He remembered his other half—how he had pleaded for peace, for mercy, time and again. How his voice had tempered the dragon's fury, how his hand had stayed the fire. That same hand that was now cold, lifeless in Cannibal's grasp.
The memory burned worse than any fire.
With a final roar, Cannibal let loose his flames, consuming the singers and their song. This time, there was no pause, no hesitation. He moved through the city like a storm, his fire reducing everything to ash. Great green explosions erupted in his wake, a chain reaction of destruction as something hidden beneath the city ignited. The ground buckled, stone walls crumbled, and the inferno reached heights that rivaled the tallest towers.
By the time the dragon finally ascended, the city was unrecognizable. Smoke billowed into the sky, blotting out the sun, turning the world a sickly orange. The once-mighty spires were nothing more than jagged silhouettes against the flames. The stench of burning flesh and stone filled the air, mingling with the dragon's own sulfurous scent.
Cannibal hovered for a moment, his wings beating slow and deliberate. His glowing eyes surveyed the ruins below, his wrath sated for now.
Then he spread his wings and took to the clouds. His flight was steady, determined. He carried his other half eastward, away from the ashes and ruins. He will return to the world that took his other half away from him. There was still so much to burn.
But he has to do something first – to take his other half away... To where he can honor him one last time.
Sansa
The small hall in Harrenhal was filled with the low hum of voices, the clink of cutlery against fine porcelain, and the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. The table was set with an extravagant feast—roasted pheasant glazed with honey, buttery vegetables, pastries filled with cream, and bowls of rich stews. But Sansa Stark, seated among the very people responsible for the deaths of her family, had little interest in the food before her.
Around the table sat the faces of the guilty, each dressed in their finery. Aegon sat at the head, his purple cloak flowing behind him, the Targaryen dragon pin gleaming on his chest. Elia Martell, ever regal, was draped in a gown of soft desert gold, her presence commanding as she exchanged quiet words with her family. Arianne Martell, sharp-eyed and composed, responded with the same calm detachment. The Sand Snakes, too, were scattered across the table, each one giving Sansa glances that ranged from amusement to open smugness.
The Tyrells were present as well, Margaery in a pale green gown, her beauty as delicate and unassuming as ever, her gaze occasionally flickering over Sansa with an expression of fake pity.
Margaery leaned toward Arianne, murmuring words of condolence that were lost in the din of idle conversation. "I am sorry for your loss, Princess. Prince Quentyn was a good man," she said, her tone sincere, yet hollow in its familiarity.
Arianne gave her only the slightest nod, her lips curving into a tight, distant smile. "Thank you," she said, though the words were no more than an echo, an empty gesture.
Tyene Sand, ever the provocateur, spoke up from the far end of the table, her voice syrupy sweet. "But it is certain. Quentyn's death was avenged," she said, her gaze flicking to Sansa, her words meant to sting like venom, though delivered with an almost too-perfect sweetness.
Oberyn Martell, who sat opposite his daughter, raised his goblet in mock celebration. "It indeed has been," he called, his voice loud and confident, a devilish grin playing at the corners of his mouth.
Sansa felt the weight of their words, of their eyes, all trained on her as she kept her head low. She didn't look up, didn't engage. The room, full of people she could never trust, felt suffocating. She could almost feel the presence of her family, as though their laughter, their warmth, might be just around the corner—if she could only reach out. But it was gone, like a dream slipping away with the dawn.
The silence stretched between them, and the food before Sansa seemed to blur, her appetite all but lost. Then, the door creaked open. Daemon Sand entered, his pale face drawn with tension. His armor gleamed under the soft light of the candles, but his presence seemed to sap the warmth from the room. He stumbled slightly as he walked in, his hands clenching the hilt of his sword, his steps uncertain.
Nymeria Sand, seated across from him, smirked playfully. "Daemon," she said, her voice tinged with amusement, "the armor looks very good on you."
Elia Martell nodded slightly, though her gaze was far more calculating. "It does indeed," she murmured in approval, though her eyes seemed to weigh Daemon as if judging him.
Daemon, clearly rattled, fidgeted nervously with the clasp of his armor. He opened his mouth to speak but faltered, his words caught somewhere deep in his throat. Aegon's frown deepened as he glared at the Kingsguard. "Has the cat got your tongue, Daemon?"
Daemon swallowed hard, his voice faltering. "There… there's been a report," he said slowly. "Cannibal…"
But before he could continue, the door to the hall flew open once again, and a flood of nobles rushed in, their faces pale and their eyes wide with terror. A woman stumbled inside, sobbing uncontrollably, her hands pressed to her face.
"They're all gone!" she cried, her voice cracking with grief.
A lord followed her, his face ashen. "Maegar's vengeance," he whispered, his voice barely audible, as though speaking the words alone might summon doom.
Another lady entered, wailing. "They're all dead!" she cried, her voice raw with disbelief.
Sansa's heart lurched, her mind scrambling to make sense of the madness unfolding before her. The room seemed to tilt, her breath catching in her throat. The air grew thick with fear and confusion as more and more nobles swarmed in, panicked, almost overwhelming the Kingsguard and Targaryen Houseguard.
Aegon's voice rang out, demanding answers. "What is the meaning of this?" he growled, his temper rising.
Daemon, still pale and visibly shaken, tried again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Cannibal has burned a path through the east," he said, his words slow, every syllable weighed down with dread. "Untold destruction."
Aegon's patience snapped. "And?" he demanded, his voice rising in fury.
Daemon's eyes flicked nervously toward Aegon before he spoke again, his voice shaking. "Kingslanding… is gone."
The room fell utterly still. Sansa's stomach lurched, and a chill swept over her. The words hung in the air, heavy and ominous. It was as if the world had shifted beneath her feet.
Aegon's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "What do you mean, gone?" he growled, his voice low, barely contained.
Daemon's hands trembled as he swallowed hard. "There is nothing left. Cannibal… burned the city to ash."
The words struck like lightning, and Sansa's heart skipped a beat. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. The capital, the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, had been reduced to nothing. The city of power, of wealth, of influence—gone. Ashes.
And the storm was only just beginning.
As Sansa lay in bed that night, her mind still reeling from the chaos, a bitter smile curved on her lips. For the first time in a long while, she felt a fleeting sense of relief. The fear and despair that had haunted her were no longer hers alone to carry. The world was changing, and with it, the power that had once crushed her seemed to crumble as well.
But sleep was a long time coming. Just as her eyes began to close, another report arrived—more devastating to Aegon than the last.
Westeros was under invasion. Through the smoldering remnants of the Crownlands, a shadow stirred—an army of sellswords, thousands upon thousands, marching under a golden banner that had not been seen in the Seven Kingdoms since the time of Maelys the Monstrous.
Viserys Targaryen has returned.