One Ring. Seven Kingdoms. (LOTR x ASOIAF crossover)

[Warmaster_Abaddon]

And thou Melkor shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not it's uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite for he that attempteth shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful which he himself hath not imagined – Eru Illuvator (J.R.R Tolkien)

Mount Doom
​

The Ring-bearer screamed, and with the last of his ferocious will, he hurled the creature from his back. Smeagol wobbled on the edge of the cliff, his filthy toes clawing for purchase against jagged stone. Below, the fire and molten rock hissed and spat, a churning sea of fiery hunger that waited to devour them. Smeagol's wide eyes flickered between terror and devotion as he clutched the Ring to his chest.

The Ring-bearer collapsed to his knees, chest heaving. His task was incomplete. Smeagol had found footing and would surely flee deeper into the mountain. The air thickened with tension. Outside, the Nazgûl were still afar, their fell beasts shrieking in agony beneath the whip of dark sorcery, driven to a frenzy but unable to hasten their flight. Their hooded masters gnashed their rotten teeth in impotent fury as the hour was nigh and they were found wanting. Try as they might, in their dark hearts, they knew they wouldn't reach in time.

Then, all chaos ceased. A stillness fell, deep and suffocating, as though the world itself had drawn a deep breath and forgotten how to release it.

Then, reality bent, and a presence entered the cavern.

Vast, unseen, and yet undeniable. The mountain groaned under the weight of such a will. The Ring quivered in Smeagol's trembling grasp as its sharp senses felt the change that mortal hearts could not. For a heartbeat, even the flames seemed to recoil, unwilling to act according to their nature.

With a silent act, the unseen power turned its attention upon the wretch. Smeagol was lifted from the precipice and cast downward like refuse. His scream was devoured by the roar of the lava below as his body met its end.

But the Ring lingered, resting upon a charred hand that floated above the molten sea.

It did not fall. Instead, it prayed and it begged.

The burning air pulsed with its plea - not to the ethereal monarchs of the far West, but to the unknowable presence that stood beyond time, beyond space, beyond death itself. The ultimate mystery, vast and silent, yet filled with love for its creation. The One Above All.

It wasn't its fault. It had never been granted autonomy since its birth. It had never been given a true chance to be judged fairly.

The Ring prayed and pleaded for an eternity uncounted, until reality shivered once more and the threads of fate rewove themselves.

A ripple crossed the magma's surface. The cavern warped again, as though creation hesitated in its unfolding. From the inferno, a fragment of stone tore free and rose. Upon it, a blackened hand twitched and found purchase, the ring in its grasp floating to safety.

The Ring burned with a blinding light, purging the last echo of its master's malice. Somewhere, far beyond Middle-earth, a scream of defiance was silenced forever.

And in the heart of Mount Doom, what had once been a forge of evil, became a mausoleum. For now, it rested and observed the outside world through means beyond physical sight.

 

[Warmaster_Abaddon]

But the delight and pride of Aulë is in the deed of making, and in the thing made, and neither in possession nor in his own mastery. - The Silmarillion, "Ainulindalë"

A Brief History of The World

The Great Empire Of Dawn & The Long Night


​

The victorious armies of the grand alliance had long dispersed to return, triumphant, to their holds. To celebrate, make merry, be fruitful and multiply.

A long silence followed, one that stretched across centuries. The fires cooled, the mountains slept, and the world was remade in the quiet aftersong of its deliverance. The elder races' great and final migration to the eternal West was at its very end.

No longer will those of the great beyond influence the fates of the sons of man.

From the western shores to the silver fields of the East, the tongues of men whispered of peace reborn. Kingship returned in mortal form yet tempered by immortal grace of the elder races. In that age, the blood of two races, once divided by fate, flowed as one.

Nimloth the Fair bloomed again under the wise patronage of the Númenórean kings.

Under their reign, the world flowered anew. Great cities rose from ruin, not in fear but in defiance of the nightmares of the dark age. The high towers were carved from pale stone that caught the morning sun and shimmered like starlight in honor of the great white city.

The laws of men were rewritten in the spirit of mercy rather than conquest. The harvests grew heavy again, and even the long-silent forests sang beneath the touch of gentler hands.

The wise who had guided the elder world withdrew, their task complete, their blessing left behind in the form of quiet wisdom that lingered like fragrance in the air. The sea calmed. The shadows of the North receded. For a time, no blade was raised in anger. Scholars called it the Age of Renewal. Poets named it The Dawn of the Twice-born Race.

The men called it the Great Empire of Dawn.

Great voyages sailed across distant seas, carrying banners of peace and discovery. Lands once hidden from the eyes of men were charted and claimed, and for a time the world knew harmony and abundance. It was an age of grace, when wisdom tempered power and the memory of divine wisdom still lingered in mankind.

An Empire spanning an entire continent was formed.

Yet peace, like all mortal works, could not endure. As the centuries passed and the wise accepted the Gift of the Man, the hold upon higher truths began to fade. The hearts of men, ever restless and easily swayed, turned from humility to vanity. They crowned lesser men as rulers and the wisdom of Numenor slipped into legend.

A shadow crept once more across the lands. The white city, dimmed and dulled beneath the weight of pride and neglect. Trade faltered, wages fell, and corruption festered in high places. The fortresses and watchtowers of the borderlands, once steadfast and vigilant against the shadowed realms, stood empty, their beacons unlit when trouble came marching forth.

The fear of death, long conquered, returned to the hearts of kings and it took priority over everything else.

The rulers of men began to curse their mortality, naming it a cruelty of the gods rather than a gift. In their despair, they sought forbidden paths. Cults of dark learning spread through the cities, reviving knowledge best left buried.

The air grew thick with whispers of necromancy and the summoning of shades that had been cast out of the world in ages past. And so, as knowledge rose and wisdom faltered, the light of that great age began to die. The monarchs turned sorcerer kings maintained blood harems and feasted on human flesh to unnaturally prolong their lives.

In the cold, lifeless places of the world, a new evil began to take root. Another song of creation perverted by the Great Evil emerged from its long slumber. The Great Others emerged from the heart of winter and descended with merciless hunger for warm blood upon the realms of man.

City after city, grown soft and spoiled by the virtue of their ancestors, fell beneath their onslaught. The slain were raised to swell the ranks of the dead, and the legions of winter marched southward, devouring the warmth of the world. Civilization collapsed beneath their advance. Entire bloodlines were wiped from history, their names surviving only as faint echoes in ruined tombs. The bustling cities of trade and life became grim mausoleums where the dead ruled in silence. Rivers froze solid beneath the tread of the Great Others, and the lands of men lay buried under endless frost. The very flame of mankind guttered, and the world stood on the brink of a night without end.

For a moment all seemed lost.

If these were the choking gasps of a species, it was a fitting end for their hubris.

Yet, it was not to be. For today was not the end of all days. On this day the sons of man decided to fight.

After all, the fate of humankind was not bound to the spheres of this world alone. As decreed by the One Above All, a fierce desire for life and liberty burned within their hearts, a flame that no shadow could ever hope to quench. The Great Enemy, the accursed Morgoth, could not hope to achieve it.

What hope could these fey of ice and darkness have?

It was this fire, older than despair, that allowed men to reshape the very skeins of fate in ways even the mightiest magi and warriors of the elder races could not.

From the ruins of fallen kingdoms, refugees who had fled the decadence and corruption of the Old Empire began to gather and organize. They turned once more to the old ways, seeking strength and courage in the wisdom of the ages.

Tomes hidden from the flames of burning libraries were opened. The ancient forges sang again, their hammers ringing with purpose. Legions rose from among the disillusioned and the dispossessed, bound by shared defiance.

At the heart of the Great Muster of Men stood one descended from the blood of Númenor. Beneath his banner, the remnants of humankind gathered, weary yet unbroken, their eyes alight with the fire of ancient oaths. The frozen silence of the world was broken by a cry older than kingdoms, a battle-shout that once sent dread through the hosts of darkness.

Aure entuluva! Day Will Come Again!

The hosts answered as one, their voices rising like peals of thunder across the plains. They fell upon the undead and their eldritch masters in a storm of honest steel, fury, and a renewed love for death.

The air rang with the song of iron, and the frost split beneath the fury of their charge. Men perished by the thousands, yet none yielded. Their courage blazed brighter than the pyres of their slain, and the long night itself seemed to tremble before that wrathful light.

Yet it was not enough. Try as they might, the undead tide slowed but did not relent. The earth groaned beneath the endless march of the dead, and even the bravest hearts began to waver.

But hope was nearer than any could have guessed. Not all ancient beings that lingered in the forgotten corners of the world were peversions of Morgoth's evil. The Ents - shepherds of the trees and eldest of the Earth's children, watched in sorrow as mankind gasped its last. When they saw the flame of courage rekindled in mortal hearts, they knew the time for silence had passed.

They came before the chosen of men, he whom the songs would declare Azhor Ahai, and spoke of visions granted by the One Above All. They told of a relic hidden deep within the bones of the world, a treasure of unmeasured knowledge and power that might turn the tide. Guided by their counsel, Azhor descended into the mountain and battled shades and unnamed horror that forever gnashed its teeth in impotent fury and frustration.

He found it there, gleaming amidst cold lava and a burnt hand.

It was the Ring, an artifact of an older age, and it beheld him with wonder.

In the noble warrior it saw both humility and wrath, a fierce love for his people and an iron will that hope against the dying of the light. And so it chose him. The Ring bound itself to his spirit, whispering the secrets it had once hoarded in silence.

Under its guidance, the knight learned to shape dragonglass and forge weapons of arcane might, tools of light and flame to drive back the darkness. For though its former master had been cruel beyond measure, he had been a smith without equal, and the Ring had learned much under his dominion.

With its aid, Azhor Ahai waged war unending, and the legions of the dead were cast down. The Great Others were driven into the farthest reaches of the night, and the living world breathed again. When at last Azhor fell, his body laid low by time and toil, the Ring did not perish with him. It sought another whose heart echoed that same spark of creation and defiance.

In the cold North it found Brandon Stark, a maker of things and a shaper of stone and steel much like its own nature. The ring was delighted beyond words to find a kindred spirit. To him it offered its counsel, and together they forged a wall beyond reckoning, a bastion that would forever stand between mankind and the returning dark.

Rise Of Valyria
​

The banishing of the Others led to the rebirth of civilization. Mankind rose again from ashes and ruin, building kingdoms and forging empires that reached farther than the dreams of their forebears. Chief among these was the Great Empire of Yi Ti.

Yet far to the west, of the continent now called Essos, another power began to stir. It was born not in courts or military legions, but among the herdsmen of the Valyrian peninsula.

In time, those herdsmen uncovered secrets that should have remained buried. They found the lairs of dragons, creatures forged from Morgoth's perversion of the song of creation. Rather than fear them, they sought to master them. With blood rites and binding spells, they yoked the fire drakes to their will.

The shepards now fancied themselves kings and godlings.

The Ring beheld their ascent with dread and loathing. It saw in them a perversion of every virtue it had once known in the hands of noble men. The Valyrians raped, plundered, and killed with a bloodlust not seen in a long time. Every waking moment was spent filling their halls with blood harems to fuel their blood magic.

They reveled in cruelty and called it high culture. Whole tribes of men were chained, burned, or erased from memory on a whim because one of the fourteen flames was inconvenienced. Their cities shone like jewels above rivers of blood, and their towers scraped the heavens as if in mockery of the divine. Meanwhile, entire tribes toiled in boiling mines in utter darkness, forever denied the light of Varda.

Not even the proud kings of old Númenor, in the madness of their fall, had sunk so deep. It reminded the Ring of Ar-Pharazôn and his debauchery. And the mighty king had been made to kneel and pay dearly for his horrifying crimes.

Suddenly, an idea sparked in its mind as if by Providence. When it had been whole with its master, they had similarly humbled an Empire. If it can be done before, why can't it be done again?

The Ring would humble these usurpers as it had once humbled kings. It would whisper in their dreams and tempt their pride, until the mighty towers of Valyria crumbled into ash and silence, and the world would once more remember that all empires, no matter how terrible, must fall.

Fall Of Valyria

​

Just because it had turned over a new leaf, didn't mean it had lost its older talents.

The Ring, ever patient and cunning, bided its time. Like a siren's song, it lured an ambitious dragonrider to its snowy domain, a woman of pride and restless hunger, she immediately claimed it for himself.

To her, it whispered secrets of power and dominion, of knowledge long forbidden even to the highest of Valyria's magi. The rider, blinded by her own brilliance, believed the gift was her birthright. Together they soared until the ring found its way into the very heart of the Freehold's power base.

Yet the Ring was treacherous, as it had always been. From the grasp of one flame it slipped to another, moving from lord to lord, lady to lady, like a siren with its seductive song. Each it seduced with visions of supremacy, each it left ruined or slain. Soon the Freehold, once united in bloated arrogance, turned upon itself. Dragonlord battled dragonlord, and the skies over Valyria burned with fire.

When their wars grew wild and senseless, the Ring passed into humbler hands. A servant found it, believing it a trinket of luck, and gifted it to his daughter. She, in turn, lost it to a merchant, who sold it for coin to a smith, who bartered it to a priest. So it wandered, nameless and unseen, slipping ever downward through the cracks of empire until at last it came to rest in the black mines beneath the Fourteen Flames.

There, in the bowels of the world, the Ring found its true audience. It whispered to the miners in their dreams, teaching them to speak to the earth's blood, to shape the molten rock with rites. Blood ran in channels beside lava, and the air grew thick with dark incantations. The mountain stirred, restless and aware.

Soon, Valyria would be no more. The Ring's design neared completion, and it exulted in the ruin it had wrought. Yet before the final stroke could fall, another darkness awoke, vast and alien to its understanding. The Ring cried out in fury as unseen hands tore it from the plane of its triumph and hurled it across the continent, far from the fires it had kindled.

And thus, on the eve of Valyria's doom, the Ring vanished once again into shadow.

 

[Warmaster_Abaddon]

The Shy Maid

​

He leaned into his harp, facing pressing deeper into the mahogany wood as the boat gently swayed to the flow of the waves. He played a sad tune, owing to the tumultuous storm of emotions raging inside him.

Rhaegar sang and played it better.

A snarl came upon him and the melody shifted into a jagged, screeching wail. He did not care. The only reason he was still playing a harp was because Rhaegar Targaryen played it. As such, it was imperative that he too played it in a manner befitting a Targaryen Prince.

Had he been listening, he would have immediately relented and stopped torturing the poor strings. Yet, Young Griff could not hear it. He might as well be a continent away from here. All he could comprehend right now was Jon Connington. His so called "father" who acted anything but.

The eyes that stabbed holes into him with their unrestrained vitriol. Always disappointed in him. Always finding him wanting in ways that Aegon couldn't dream of. Always failing him before Aegon had even tried.

Rhaegar's aim was impeccable. He would not have missed. Rhaegar would have dodged it in time. Rhaegar would not have cried out in pain. Rhaegar would not have missed the trebuchet and protected his dragon. Rhaegar played the harp well. He would not have missed the correct notes.

The poison that the man's tongue spat in his darker moods was worse than any training wound he had ever endured.

He squeezed the harp and wood creaked under protest, but he did not care. He bent the strings farther, demanding anger and ruin from them. A song worthy of his foul humors in the moment.

Earlier they had sparred, Ser Duck had been dismissed for some far-off errand. Aegon had asked where Duck had gone and the question set Jon's temper ablaze. He turned on him with accusations of sloth, dishonor, lust, greed. Connington went as far as declaring him a stain upon his glorious father's legacy, his father's father's legacy – all the way back to Aegon the Conqueror himself.

Aegon had finally snapped and thrown himself at Jon with a massive overhead blow which he easily dodged. Jon had not been merciful in his retaliation and with a single, painful blow to his back – sent him sprawling to the deck floor. Jon spat over the railing before walking away, not even bothering to check up on his royal charge.

Aegon clawed harder at the harp, the song growing ever more discordant. His hands moved faster and harder, his breathing sharp and loud. The song was no longer a song, only rage given sound.

SNAP

The strings tore apart and the song immediately ceased. Silence followed save Aegon's harsh breath. All was deathly still for a moment.

A heartbeat later he screamed, the sound torn straight from his chest.

He brought the harp down on the table beside him with a sharp thud.

Then again. Then again. Wood splintered, strings scattered, the melody died a second death beneath his fury. By the time he stopped, all that remained in his hand was the broken handle, trembling under his fearful arm.

Bitter tears streaked his face and he snarled through clenched teeth, a prince reduced to a wounded boy.

Jon was right. He was no Rhaegar Targaryen. Aegon angrily thought. He could hardly be angry without crying. He wasn't even worth the blood of the dragons.

The angry shivers stopped as warmth wrapped around him from behind. Aegon stiffened, breath hitching.

"Calm yourself, child," Septa Lemore said. "Do not lose faith in the gods. They will guide your path, come no matter what."

The words broke something inside him. Aegon turned and buried his face against her shoulder, clutching her like a drowning man. He shook with every breath as Lemore held him close, her hands steady where his were not. This was not the first time he had embraced her as such. Lord Connington had an inkling of their bond and had strictly forbidden such formalities.

Lemore did not care. Connington was a hard man living in waking nightmares borne out of past failures. He knew not the intricacies involved in rearing children, even those to whom one day they must all bend the knee. There was only so much force that could be applied even on the hardiest of metals before they shattered. Such was true of Princes as well.

She would know it best having been witness to such truths.

Aegon sobbed again, his entire body wracking with grief. Lemore said nothing but instead responded with rubbing slow comforting circles on his back. There was no crown between them here, only a kindly lady and a boy with no mother.

.

. .

Sleep did not come easily to him that night. The fiery tempest that had gripped him refused to die down so quickly. Septa Lemore had stayed for as long as was proper, humming Mother's Mercy in a low, soothing rhythm until the sobs finally ran their course.

Aegon could feel himself drifting in and out of deep sleep's embrace. His mind was active, but his body was disobedient. Every attempt to rouse himself, move his limbs, or even yell for help was a fool's folly. Try as he might, he was unable to move. For a moment, fear gripped him, was he poisoned?

Connington had thoroughly drenched the boy in a healthy dose of skepticism and paranoia. The Usurpers blades can reach us from everywhere. Always be on your guard.

Did Lemore poison me? Aegon thought, forcing his body over the bed to no avail.

Soon he felt a weakness grip him, an emptiness deep inside him as if he he hadn't eaten for days on end. A white light emerged from the corner of his vision and engulfed him.

Aegon blinked against the light and found himself standing on polished marble. The floor shone so brightly it looked like sunlight itself had been imprisoned in it. High above him, the roof was decorated with ornate tile designs, and the sun spilled inside from high windows.

A grand manse surrounded him, every wall smooth and white, every corner trimmed in gold.

His heart slammed against his ribs. How did he get here?! A moment ago he had been in the Shy Maid. Now he was in a palace of impossible splendor.

Maids dressed in little more than silk ribbons drifted through the halls, murmuring quietly as they moved from room to room. Their presence only deepened the pit in his stomach. Connington would lose his mind if he knew Aegon had wandered into a place like this. The thought of the man's fury made him swallow hard.

A sudden murmur of voices sounded behind him. Aegon spun around in panic, eyes darting for cover but found nothing. The footsteps grew closer. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the clash.

The voices and men passed through him as if he wasn't even there.

He opened his eyes, startled. The men behind him strode forward without even glancing his way, their shoulders brushing through him as though he were nothing but air. Aegon looked down at his hands. They shimmered faintly, pale and transparent in the sunlight.

"And what makes you think the Dothraki savages will honor their deal, Ilyrio?!" A young boy snarled at another older, fat man. He blinked at that. There was something about him…. Aegon gently approached the terrace where they argued with each other.

He approached the terrace slowly, careful not to draw attention, though he suspected they could not see him.



"Sometimes calculated risks are necessary, my prince," The other man, whom Aegon assumed was Ilyrio spoke. "If you are to once again fly the Targaryen banners over Westeros…."

The man paused his considerable bulk rumbling as if he ate something wrong before speaking again, "Westeros will not bend to a crown or name alone, my prince. The Dothraki will be the wind that carries your banners home."

Wait, Aegon's eyes widened. Did he just say Targaryen?! Were they talking about conquering Westeros?!

Jon had not mentioned anything about any other Targaryen survivng the sack. Who were they? Siblings? Cousins? Were the Rhaegar's? Or Aerys's?

A thousand questions swirled in his mind, one after another, but there was no answer.

"Aegon Targaryen didn't ally himself savages to conquer Westeros. Just like him, Viseryes Targaryen," The boy pointed a thumb at himself. "Won't need any savage cavalry to re-conquer my ancestral homeland."

Aegon was dumbstruck by "Viserys's" declaration. Did he truly not see the difference between his situation and Aegon the Conqueror's? Septa Lemore had said first impressions were often last imperssions. So far, this Viserys Targaryen had failed to live upto his expectations by just one statement alone.

Ilyrio sighed, discreetly covering it with his wine goblet, but Aegon could see the frustration in his eyes.

"Your Grace, I have no doubt about your martial might. I have no doubts that the blood of ancient Valyria flows through you along with that of the Conqueror's," Ilyrio started. "But, it should not be forgotten that the Conqueror had the luxury of thee wholly grown dragons. Alongside capable riders who were loyal to him – his sister wives."

The man knows his history well, Aegon thought.

Viserys laughed sharply. "And you would have me marry my own sister off to a Dothraki savage instead of taking her as my own, just as the Conqueror did?"

"Princess Daenerys is no dragon rider, Your Grace," Ilyrio replied, voice patient but strained. "The dragons have been gone for centuries. What we lack in dragons, we can make up for in shock and fury with the Dothraki. And once the Golden Company sees you at the head of a Dothraki horde, they will not dare dismiss you as they once did. You will have the world's most fearsome cavalry matched with the finest infantry."

"And what if their savage lord rejects Danaerys?" Viserys demanded.

Ilyria barked a laugh at that. "Trust me, my prince. There is not a horse lord born on this world that will ever be able ot resist Danaerys Targaryen."

The man concluded with a leecherous grin that left him deeply unsettled.

An uncomfortable feeling gripped Aegon. He had not meet this Danaerys, but seeing her being weighed and judged like meat on a butcher's hook left him with a bad taste. No doubt Jon Connington would have lauded Ilyrio's plan. After all, Old Gryff believed in making hard choices for the greater good.

But still, hesitation gripped him like a hook inside a fish's body. Would he be willing to proceed with this? All the long hours spent sitting on the Shy Maid' deck, looking at starry night sky wishing to be around kids his age. To play the games that they did and embrace each other and share secrets that all children his age did.

Yet all he had gotten in return was bruises, sermons, and lectures on war, killing, and rule.

What kind of a ruler bartered his kin on meat hooks? Was this all there it was to kingship?

In the darker moments of the night, Aegon had often dreamt of slipping loose of his minders when they docked at a port. The cities were massive. He could shave his head and puncture holes in clothes to look like one of the thousands of bastards and orphans that dotted port cities and hide amongst them.

It would most certainly be a better fate than what Jon had planned for him. An eternity of war and the purisuit of power.

Before he could ponder further, his vision swam again and the world tilted.

Aegon groggily rubbed his eyes as they recovered from the blinding light. He blinked rapidly and could make out a slim figure morosely sitting on a large chair. The blindspots cleared and his breath caught in throat.

He had seen Ser Duck make drunken passes at Septa Lemore, leering with the clumsy hunger of a sailor too long at sea. He had even endured Duck's whispered perversions, the times he dragged Aegon along to spy on Lemore when she bathed.

Aegon had felt disgust then at himself, a hot shame in his chest at being morbidly curious and even aroused.

But all of that paled compared to the sight of the woman sitting before him now.

White-blonde hair fell like silk down her shoulders, catching the light like a halo spun from frost. Her eyes were a deep violet, clear and sharp even as trouble sat heavy on her face. She carried her beauty like a burden, and that made it more striking still.

Aegon stood frozen, staring at her as if the very air had been stolen from his lungs.

Even with taking hints, Aegon knew in his heart of hearts this was Danaerys Targaryen.

The vision shuddered and broke apart like glass under a hammer. The terrace dissolved, the sunlight faded, and darkness bled in from every corner. Aegon's breath turned shallow as the world reshaped itself around him.

The young woman was still there, but now the light in her eyes was gone. The vision forced him to watch as shadows closed in. Rough hands dragged her through the dirt. Screams filled the air. He saw her thrown to the ground beneath the burning sky of some distant plain, saw the shapes of men circling her like wolves.

He tried to look away, but the vision held him fast.

Her trials spilled out one after another. The endless heat of the desert baking her skin. The wild laughter of the Dothraki as she stumbled through their camps, a broken prize passed from one hand to another. Bald sorcerers with blue lips wrapped her in chains of smoke and shadow, peeling pieces from her like carrion birds.

Faces blurred together, men and women both, each clawing something from her, feasting on her, draining her.

Aegon's scream tore through the blackness. Enough was enough! He charged at them, fists swinging, but the phantoms only laughed as his blows slid through empty air. Rage and helplessness gripped like an eagle's embrace.

His body convulsed, rattling in the grip of the vision.

Then a sharp gasp wrenched from his throat. He shot upright, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. Rough hands gripped his shoulders.

Yandry's voice cut through the dark, "Easy, lad. It's all right. Just a nightmare."

Aegon's heart still pounded like war drums, but the shadows were gone. Only the creak of the Shy Maid remained, and Yandry's worried face hovering above him.

Aegon immediately tries to sit up but winces as his gut flares in a piercing pain.

"Easy, now son," Yandry said as he hooked his arms underneath his pits and sat him against the bedside.

He placed a wrinkle hand against his forehead and asked, "You allright there, lad?"

Aegon let out a shaky breath, the sound almost lost to the creak of the hull. Lad. Not prince. Not my lord. Just lad. He was grateful for that. When Jon was away, they sometimes forgot who he was supposed to be and treated him like one of their own. Like part of the crew. Like family. It never lasted long. Jon's temper burned hot when he caught wind of it, so they had learned to be careful. But in the quiet hours, when the Shy Maid belonged to its crew alone, Aegon could almost pretend he was theirs and not Rhaegar Targaryen's shadow.

Yandry uncorked a wineskin and pressed it to his lips. It was only water.

Aegon tried to push it away, mumbling something about being fine, but Yandry didn't budge. "Drink. It'll steady you."

Aegon didn't need to be told twice and he gulped entire mouthfuls of the refreshing drink before Yandry gently tugged the wineskin away from him.

"You'll choke yourself if you're too greedy. Breathe a bit. Then we'll see if you want more."

Yandry spoke about other things, telling him what Jon had told them the day would involve but all Aegon could hear were hear were her screams.

I have to save her.

He didn't know how he would do it. He recalled from his lessons that the Dothraki were located near a patch of land called "The Dothraki Sea."

An endless sea of grass to graze, chase, raze, and enslave.

Aegon winced at the last thought. He didn't even know if and when Daenerys would be near the Dothraki sea. What if the horse lords travlled to Ilyrio's manse? He had no knowledge of where Ilyrio was with his kin. Aegon's jaw locked and teeth grit in anger. He had never left this useless before. Not even in the times when Jon and Ser Duck had sent him below duck while they battled the occassional desperate raider hungry enough to board their rickety boat.

Still he swore to himself on all that he found good and holy in this world.

I will save you, Daenerys. Just hold on.

Afternoon




​

"The boy is troubled," Yandry grunted as he chopped the onions.


Septa Lemore tutted, as she sauted something over low flame. "The Prince, Yandry. The Prince," Lemore said and Yandry scowled.

"Wasn't it the Young Gryff?" Ysolda rasped, skinng a rabbit to cook for dinner later.

All three worked in awkard silence, embarassed over their breach of protocol.

"Prince, Young Gryff, boy – it matters not," Yandry declared after a few moments. "What matters is, he is unwell. And I be willing to wager a thousand honors its not of the body but of the spirit."

" 'Tis the swamp and the constant slow water. The miasma makes for an ill temperment." Ysila said. "A young man should be out in the open under the sun. Frolicking with boys and girls his age. Not locked on a barge and kept secret from the world."

Lemore said nothing and both of them looked at her expectedly.

"Jon Connington is a hard man with a with harsh past. I am not sure what you expect me to accomplish here, friends," Septa Lemore said. "

Ysila snorted softly, not unkindly. "Then I'll say it plain. Too much pressure on the boy will break him long before he plants his pompous arse on any throne and finally makes Jon happy." She slammed the lid down on the pot with a decisive clatter. "He's young. A sapling bends easy, but press too hard and it snaps."

Yandry nodded. "The Old Griff might not listen to the likes of us, but he listens to you. For better or worse, he respects your counsel, Lady Lemore. If anyone can make him ease the reins, it's you."

Lemore's hands stilled on the spoon. The firelight caught the lines on her face, softening nothing.

"He does not trust me. I doubt the Old Gryff even trusts himself," she admitted quietly. "He will not welcome such counsel kindly."

Ysila folded her arms. "Then make him hear it anyway. Better his pride be bruised than the boy broken."

Yandry gave a slow grunt of agreement, turning back to the onions. "A prince with a shattered spine won't sit any throne. Best he learns to breathe before he learns to bleed."

"When will Jon return?" Lemore asked.

"In a day's time," Ysila said.

"Has Ser Duck returned from his errands?" Lemore said and she nodded.

"I will see what I can do," Lemore said. "Meanwhile, I will get Ser Duck to practice archery with him. That usually tempers the Prince's humors."

Archery

​

The arrow went loose with a soft twang and sliced clean through the fish's belly, pinning it to the waterbed with a muted splash.

"Well shot, my prince!" Yandry toothily grinned as he tossed the net overboard to haul in the carcass.

Ser Duck let out a booming laugh and clapped Aegon hard on the back. "Seven hells, lad, you're a better shot than I ever was at your age. Better than some of those wet-behind-the-ears scouts in the Golden Company too. Hells, what I wouldn't give to have you tutored by them."

Aegon said nothing. A grunt slipped past his lips, but there no usual smile. He notched another arrow, drew, and let it fly. The second fish died as cleanly as the first.

Ser Duck's laughter turned into a sigh. "What's gnawing at you, Young Gryff? Any other day you'd be shouting to the heavens about being a better shot than Bloodraven himself. Now? You like a maiden whose lord father told her that she will be marrying a man ten times her age."

Aegon ignored the jab, but Duc could see he had crossed some invisible line. The bow creaked as Aegon pulled it back harder. This time he didn't loose and instead kept looking into the river. Duck leaned over the railing to get a better look at Gryff's target all the while muttering about being old.

"Ser Duck," he said quietly, still aiming, "do you know anyone by the name of Ilyrio Mopatis?"

The knight froze, then spun toward him. "How do you know that name?"

Aegon tilted his head.

"Funny," he said softly, "you didn't deny it. You only want to know how I know…. That tends to make a man suspicious."

Then he turned, still holding the bow steady, and lowered the arrow until its point hovered over Duck's gut. The air between them grew still.

"Gryff," Duck said quietly, all jovialty forgotten. "Lower the bow. Please. I know you are frustrated , but this isn't the way."

"Tell me," Aegon said again, "do you know who Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen are?"

Evening


Jon Connington

​

Ser Duck hailed him with a wave as Jon's small boat slowly rowed towards their river barge.

With a grunt, the younger knight easily pulled him aboard. Jon took a few moments to take in his surroundings, as if his eyes could pierce through the darkness of the twilight and identify ambushers. Finding nothing outside of the ordinary, he turned to see Ser Duck's stern visage. The usual joviality missing from it.

"What happened?" Jon demanded, bracing himself for the worst possible news.

"The boy knows," Ser Duck said as if that would have immediately illuminated him.

"Knows what?" Jon snapped. He had left a maester incase the boy got sick. Lady Lemore and Maester Haldon had been left with strict instructions to keep the boy engaged with mental exercises and lessons. Ser Duck after his mission was incharge to run the boy physically with swordwork.

They were to ensure Prince Aegon would not have a moment's idle time to indulge in childish mischief.

Ser Duck looked taken aback by Gryff's attitude and straightened himself. "He asked me if I knew who Ilyrio Mopatis was and what was our relationship with him."

That made Jon pause.

He had expected some leecherous grope towards Lemore, a nasty prank on Yandry, or another shouting match with Haldon followed by a temper tantrum. Jon had always resolved to crush such temper tantrums in their budding. He of all people knew better than anyone else what happened when sharp measures weren't executed to foil a rebellion in its infancy.

This, however, was completely beyond him. How could Aegon who had no possible means to contact anyone had learned of this?

"What did you say?" Jon asked.

"I tried doding and delaying to the best of my-"

"What. Did. You. Say?" Jon interrupted.

"I said that he was a wealthy beneficiary of ours who was tired of the Baratheon's degeneracy and corruption and wished to restore the true monarchs," Duck said.

"Why would you ever think that was a good idea? You should have plead ignorance!" Jon shouted.

"He had a bow pointed at me! Your boy threatened to kill me!" Duck shouted back and that once again knocked the wind from Jon Connington's sails.

Had Aegon done that? Did he really threaten to kill a man over a piece of information?

Burn them! Burn them all!

Jon angrily shook his head. No, he won't tolerate this. Aegon must be made to learn there are limits to priviledge. Even a king's priviledge should have limits lest they end up causing…. Unfortunate circumstances.

"That's not all," Ser Duck and Jon groaned internally.

"He shot somebody?" Jon asked miserably.

"Nay, he asked about somebody…." Duck repeteadly snapped his fingers to remember the name. "Somebody called Danaerys and Viserys Targaryens?'

Mother's mercy. Jon thought.

Confrontation

​

Jon stepped through the door and into the dark. The room was pitch black, the only sound the soft creak of the Shy Maid beneath them. Aegon lay on his cot, still as a corpse. Too still infact.

Jon paused at the threshold.

He had seen that stillness before, years ago. Prince Rhaegar used to feign sleep when he wished to avoid petitioners, his father's wrath, or even his mother's devotion. Jon had learned to tell the difference between his prince at rest and his prince in turmoil. Not even Ser Arthur Dayne nor Ser Barristan could tell that. He prided himself on having such knowledge.

He could see the same in the prince's son now.

He used a candle to turn on an oil lamp hanging near him. The shadows vanished.

"I know you're awake," Jon said, loud enough.

Jon turned around and nearly did a double take. Aegon was already up, the blanket pooled around his knees. His face was hard, jaw clenched tight, and his purple eyes fixed on Jon. Jon felt something cold stir in his chest. The boy's eyes seemed brighter in the low light, almost glowing.

Were they glowing? he wondered.

Jon forced himself to speak before his temper could match the boy's silence.

"The Young Griff's behavior toward those who risk their lives for his well-being has left much to be desired," Jon began, his voice calm but cutting. "Yandry, Ysila, Lemore, Duck—they serve without complaint, yet you repay them with suspicion, threats. Laziness, and insolence."

Aegon said nothing.

"Threatening Ser Duck with some nonsense rumor? Pointing a bow at the man? Have you lost all sense?" He stepped closer, the anger now spilling freely. "You owe him your life more times than you can count, and this is how you repay him?"

Aegon's expression didn't change. His silence was deliberate, and that only made Jon's blood boil.

"I'll have an answer," Jon demanded. "Who told you of Ilyrio Mopatis?"

Still Aegon said nothing, only shadows danced across his face as the lantern swayed to the waves' motion outside.

"Is this any way to speak to a prince, lord Connington?" Aegon demanded. "Have you forgotten your proper place in the scheme of things? You will address me by my title, as the Prince of Westeros, the only son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen!"

Jon's jaw clenched. He felt the heat rising behind his eyes.

He took a step forward, his voice low but trembling with anger. "Careful, Gryff. You may have Rhaegar's blood, but you've yet to earn a single drop of his dignity."

"I will not be taught about dignity by a man who barters my kin like fish," Aegon snarled, tossing aside the blankets and rising to face his regent. Aegon was a tall boy, his Valyrian heritage clear in every line of his face, but Jon was a man grown and stared him down without flinching.

"You make demands and throw accusations when you know nothing of the matter, Young Griff," Jon shot back.

"I am the Prince!" Aegon barked. "I command you to tell me about your dealings with this Ilyrio Mopatis!"

"The Mad King thought he could make all the demands he wished, and courtiers would flock to cover it," Jon said. "Did Maester Haldon ever tell you what happened to him? What became of the greatest dynasty this world has ever seen?"

"You will not keep me in the dark any longer, Jon," Aegon shouted. "I demand to know why a woman of my house is being sold off as a broodmare to a Dothraki savage."

Jon was taken aback again. He wondered how many more times the boy would manage to do that. Was this Aegon growing up, pushing boundaries as all children did before they became men? And with how loud he was, Septa Lemore would no doubt come knocking soon, ready to demand answers for the noise.

Jon swallowed hard. "How do you know all this? Was it Lady Lemore? Haldon? Duck?"

Aegon lifted his chin, his voice almost solemn. "I am of Daenys the Dreamer's lineage. When the gods will it, they send visions to our blood. Visions of calamities that will shape the world. Clearly they think this match is one such calamity, and they have shown me what is to come so that I may save her."

Lemore it is then, Jon concluded. How SHE came to know of this was a separate matter entirely.

Jon almost laughed outright, but smothered it with a cough.

So the boy fancied himself a prophet now. It would have been comical if it were not so dangerous.

"At the very least, you listen to Maester Haldon's stories," Jon said dryly. "As for your… information…" He let the word hang. "Know this, there are many with deep pockets and sharper blades who want Targaryen rule restored, and even more who would see the usurpers fall."

Jon stepped forward. "Winning such a war means gaining the loyalty of such dangerous men. That is the cost of power. Women of noble houses have long carried that burden. They endure childbirth and do not flinch when told whom to marry, no matter how wretched their lord husband is. They do their duty. A man dons his armor, marches to war, and gets his flesh torn. That is how the realm is held together, through shared burdens and duty."

Aegon's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Jon placed a hand on his cheek and forced his head up.

"If you are to be king of the Seven Kingdoms one day," Jon said evenly, "you will learn to heed this lesson, Young Griff."

"We have to save her," Aegon said at last, his voice almost whining. Please, I know how much she will suffer. We have to help her! He bit back the words before they could leave his mouth. He did not know how Jon would react if he spoke of the visions.

Jon finally laughed. "You are not even ten and two, and you think to charge a Dothraki camp," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Put such foolish notions away, my prince. The realm has had enough of adventurers."

He turned to the oil lamp and blew out the flame. The room sank into darkness.

"Go to sleep," Jon ordered.

Septa Lemore

​

Lemore watched from the corner of the cabin as Jon and Ser Duck spoke in low tones. She tried not to wring her hands, but the tension in the air felt heavy enough to crush bone. Things had grown darker over the past few days, ever since she had heard shouting from Young Griff's room. Neither the boy nor Jon had spoken much since. They passed one another like men carrying the plague, careful to keep their distance.

She had tried to offer her help, thinking to smooth things over. Life on a river barge demanded harmony, or at the very least civility. But when she had approached Jon, he had turned on her. Jon accused her of everything. From being soft on the boy, to feeding him lies and foolish hopes. The words still stung. For a moment, he had even told her to pack her things and prepare to be set ashore at the next port. He had returned later to mutter an apology.

Yet none of it eased her unease.

Young Griff had changed in ways that unsettled her. His portions had grown larger, and he had taken to eating alone in his room without calling for company. Even Duck, with his endless jokes and coarse humor, had failed to coax a smile or even a snarl from him. Worse still, Maester Haldon had quietly mentioned that Aegon had taken an unusual interest in astronomy, tides, and navigation. That alone was odd enough to make the hairs on her neck stand.

A cold dread crept into her chest as the pieces began to fit together in her mind.

Without another word, she stood from her chair. Duck frowned, and Ysila followed her movement with narrowed eyes as she hurried down the passage. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she reached Young Griff's door and pushed it open. The room was dark and still.

He was lying in bed. Or so it seemed.

Lemore rushed to the bedside, yanking back the blankets. The shape beneath them collapsed like a poorly built wall.

Lemore screamed for Jon, but it was too late.

Aegon had vanished.

Aegon

​

Aegon thanked the Gods and his lucky stars that it had been an unusually long and warm summer. He didn't think he would have been able to survive otherwise if the water had been chill. Another stroke of luck was that the tide was not against him.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Aegon adopted a rhythm between each stroke of his arm as he swam through the water. He suppose credit must be given to Jon for insisting that he learn to swim in case they needed to abandon the boat immediately. The rational part of his mind told him that this was a folly, but he was tired of caution and planning. It was time for action!



Then, without warning, a strong current seized him and dragged him under. Water filled his ears and the world spun. Panic surged like wildfire in his chest as he kicked and clawed at the pull. He held his breath as long as he could.

The pressure mercileslsy built in his lungs.

The riverbed was beneath him, muddy and filled with underwater growth. Something glinted in the dark. Instinct pushed him to reach for it. His fingers closed around a fistful of wet dirt, clutching whatever it concealed just as the current heaved and spat him back toward the surface.

He burst into the air with a choking gasp.

Aegon spotted a riverbank low enough for him to easily climb. With a defiant roar and with the last bits of his strength, he rowed towards it till his hands found purchase on wet mud.

He dragged himself up, breath coming in harsh bursts, crawling on hands and knees until solid ground held beneath him. He stayed like this for a precious few moments until his lungs stopped burning.

Trembling, he opened his fist, wet earth spilled away, revealing a simple golden ring threaded through a slender silver chain. It gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Without a second thought, he slipped it over his head.

He pulled the sealed pack from his shoulder and fumbled as he tried to open the knot. He pulled out several pieces of dry cloth.

All the while, a prickling sensation crept along his back. It felt as if someone was watching. He glanced around. Nothing but reeds and trees met his gaze. Just nerves, he told himself. The start of any great adventure must feel like this.

He pressed the ring to his chest, closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer to the gods to keep Daenerys safe.

Hold on, he thought. I'm coming.

.

. .

Slightly away from him, hooded figures observed the young Targaryen prince from the shadows and gave the signal.

Daggers were drawn and traps tightened; they would not lose their quarry.