King's Landing drowned in riot and flame. Amid the crimson madness, a ragged prophet who called himself the Shepherd led tens of thousands of starving, desperate smallfolk up the Hill of Rhaenys and into the Dragonpit.
There, the chained dragons died screaming.
Shrykos, Morghul, Tyraxes, and Dreamfyre.
Steel, stones, and fire tore them apart, and when Syrax came raging from the sky, she too was dragged down and slain. Thousands of smallfolk perished alongside them, crushed beneath falling masonry or burned alive in the inferno. At last, the great dome of the Dragonpit collapsed, leaving nothing but a smoldering ruin, a tomb for dragons and men alike.
Yet the cruelest wound dealt that day was not the loss of dragons.
It was the death of an heir.
Prince Joffrey Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, brave, reckless, and far too young, mounted Syrax in defiance of his mother's command. He fell screaming from the sky, broken upon the stones below.
With the city risen against her, Rhaenyra Targaryen fled King's Landing in terror and disgrace, arriving at last at Duskendale, exhausted, hunted, and hollow-eyed.
"I am your queen!" she cried within Dun Fort. "You swore fealty to me!"
She spoke to Lady Meredyth Darklyn, but the woman before her was no longer the Realm's Delight of old. Ash clung to her spirit as it did to her clothes. She had no ships. No coin. Half her guards were gone. She had fled her own capital like a beggar, driven by fear at every turn.
Nowhere would receive her.
The gates of Rosby had been shut in her face. At Stokeworth, the castellan granted only a single night's shelter. Along the road, half the gold cloaks deserted. Their commander, Balon, and Ser Leonor of the Queensguard were cut down in a brutal ambush.
Only the desperate entreaties of Ser Harrold Darklyn had won her entry to Dun Fort, and even then, on harsh terms.
"You are not welcome here," Lady Darklyn said coldly. "Anyone who must shout I am the king is no true king. You should have remained in King's Landing. Faced the mob. Reclaimed your crown. Shown the realm your strength."
Rhaenyra's lips trembled. She did not dare answer harshly.
Her kingdom. Her throne. All shattered in the riots of King's Landing, broken like a dream at dawn.
Prince Joffrey was dead. Her dragon was dead.
"Lady Darklyn," Rhaenyra pleaded, her voice cracking, "for the sake of your late husband, Lord Gormon, grant me a few days more. My son Aegon has fallen ill upon the road, burning with fever, terrified. I cannot travel. I cannot."
"I am sorry," Lady Darklyn replied, unmoved. "A Braavosi ship lies in the harbor. You may sail wherever you please."
Her voice hardened further.
"And do not speak my husband's name. House Darklyn once stood among your staunchest supporters. My husband Gormon and his uncle, Ser Steffon, died for your cause. Duskendale was drowned in blood by Criston Cole. And where were you then? You did not protect us. You could not even hold the Iron Throne."
She turned away.
"This place is not for you. When I look upon you, I see only those dark years."
"Your Grace!" a voice cried suddenly. "Prince Aegon has awakened!"
The words burst into the chamber like a fragile ray of light, the first true mercy of the entire flight.
Rhaenyra could endure the argument no longer. She rushed at once to the sickroom, to the bedside of her last surviving son and heir in the eyes of the realm, Aegon Targaryen.
The boy lay pale and thin. For days he had not left his mother's side, watching her weep until tears became habit. Rhaenyra refused to let this only remaining child out of her sight. Courtiers whispered that the prince had become a mirror of the queen herself, fragile, hollow, and worn thin by grief.
I was just cursing the idiot showrunners for butchering the plot… how did it come to this?
Aegon opened his eyes.
The child who had lain here, fevered, terrified, his soul ground down by suffering, was gone.
What awakened now was a soul from another world, a watcher born beneath blue skies, inheriting every memory of young Aegon's life.
Reborn.
Yes, but reborn as Aegon the Dragonbane. The Broken King.
This is bad, he thought grimly. Very bad. This is Duskendale… which means Dragonstone comes next.
And waiting there was a dragon that could no longer fly.
Cold terror crept through him. The crisis was already upon him.
Before his eyes, unseen by any other, dark red-black flame slowly gathered, forming a circular sigil like a tabletop of fate.
A nine-pointed star, each point marked by a different aspect.
[ The Ninefold Mandate of Destiny.
Clockwise:
The Demon Dragon. Flame. The Father. The Warrior. The Maiden. The Stranger. The Crone. The Smith. The Mother. ]
Brightest of all were the Demon Dragon and Flame, a three-headed red dragon entwined with black-crimson fire.
Shimmering text appeared beside each sigil:
[ Aegon Targaryen
Bond (Dragon): None
Magic (Flame): Dragon Dreamer
Fortune (Father): Weak
Strength (Warrior): Average
Charm (Maiden): Weak
Peril (Stranger): Strong
Wisdom (Crone): Strong
Craft (Smith): Weak
Vitality (Mother): Weak ]
The brighter the sigil, the stronger the trait.
A final line pulsed faintly beneath the rest.
[ Note: Aspect intensity corresponds to blood resonance. ]
Aegon understood without being told. It was inheritance.
He carried both Andal blood and that of the ancient Valyrian dragonlords. His grandmother, Aemma Arryn, had come of the purest Andal stock, faithful to the Seven.
The Demon Dragon and Flame were his true essence, Targaryen alone.
The Seven were not gods here, he realized, but reflections of human hopes and fears. And so they too were written into his fate.
Valyrian glyphs came to him as naturally as breath.
His sharpest gift was wisdom. He had always been quick of mind.
His strength, however, was only average, paltry in a house that had birthed conquerors and legends.
How miserable, he thought.
His fortune was wretched. Danger pressed close; the Stranger loomed heavy and oppressive.
He knew the future.
His father dead. Three brothers dead. Soon his mother. Then his young wife. Then those who stood beside him.
One thing mattered above all else now.
He must survive the dragon's jaws. He must stop Rhaenyra from returning to Dragonstone.
Aegon surveyed the chamber.
Two ladies-in-waiting. One Queensguard. A maester of Duskendale tending him.
Ser Harrold Darklyn and the remaining Queensguard stood watch elsewhere, guarding the queen.
"Water," Aegon croaked.
His throat burned, but strength slowly returned. The women hurried to bring warm water. The maester examined his eyes and tongue, then helped him sit up, lying abed too long was dangerous.
The fever had burned him for hours. To wake now was nothing short of a miracle.
"What is that?" Aegon asked, nodding toward a basin of writhing leeches and a keen blade beside it.
"If necessary, Your Grace, I intended bloodletting," the maester said solemnly. "By the Mother's mercy, you recovered. They will not be needed."
"Take them away," Aegon said at once.
He had no desire to be cured into a grave.
"Your mother is here, my prince," Ser Harrold said.
Aegon offered a polite smile. The knight frowned slightly, this child had once been withdrawn and sullen. The fever had changed him.
"Aegon, my sweet boy, are you feeling better?" Rhaenyra rushed in.
She stared as though afraid to blink. He was all she had left.
The Realm's Delight was gone. In her place stood a worn, heavy woman, her beauty buried beneath exhaustion. Childbearing had ravaged her body; flight and grief had ravaged her soul. She wept daily upon Dun Fort's walls. Gray threaded her hair. Her face was hollow and strained.
"I'm better, Mother," Aegon said softly.
Gods, he thought bleakly, she looks nothing like the songs.
"My precious child… the Seven be praised. I have only you left."
And it was true.
Of House Targaryen, almost all lay dead, save for one prince held hostage in Lys. In the eyes of the realm, Aegon alone remained.
"The prince's fever has broken," the maester reported. "No sign of relapse. He is weak, but no longer in danger. Begin with thin broths... but nothing heavy."
Relief washed through the room.
Had this heir died as well, the Black cause would have collapsed entirely.
"Thank the Seven," Rhaenyra sobbed, ordering food prepared at once.
She was obstinate now, harsh, reckless, and sharp-edged, but she was still his mother.
And at least, Aegon thought wryly, she was nothing like Orwyle, the wretched man who would one day torment him… and meddle in his marriage.
For now, he was safe.
But until when?
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A/N:
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