Chapter Text
293 AC, Winterfell
Catelyn Stark sat beside the bed, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white. The room smelled of boiled herbs, sweat, and sickness. A small fire crackled in the hearth, yet the chill of winter lingered all the same. Outside, snow drifted past the shutters, soft and silent.
The boy coughed again.
He lay beneath a pile of blankets, the pox ravaging his body. Red blisters covered his face and neck. Some had burst and crusted over, while others glistened wetly in the candlelight. His lips were cracked and bleeding. Every breath came ragged and shallow, rattling in his chest as though each one might be his last. Maester Luwin had told her that if the boy survived the night, he’d live. But the Lady of Winterfell was not sure anymore. Right now, the boy looked so small.
It wasn’t the same boy who raced Robb through the yard with wooden swords. Not the same boy who looked more like her Lord husband than her trueborn sons. The memory of a shameful prayer breached her mind. One she had never spoken of.
Kill him.
She hated the boy from the moment she locked eyes on the bundle her husband brought him back from the war. Hated what he represented.
The proof of Eddard Stark's betrayal.
Even now, after all these years, the wound had never truly healed. Every time she looked upon the bastard she saw another woman standing beside her husband. A face she did not know. A woman Ned had loved enough to break his marriage vows. She heard another cough and looked at him.
His face had gone paler, the red blisters spreading like wildfire. A deep presence washed over her and she shivered, not from the cold. There was no bastard. Only a sick little boy. A motherless little boy. Never asked to carry his father's sins.
The gods were punishing her.
Why should they not? What sort of woman could not find it in her heart to love a motherless child?
“Seven above save me,” she whispered to the hearth.
The bastard stirred suddenly and a violent cough tore from his throat. His small body jerked beneath the blankets. Then came another. And another.
His breathing became a desperate choking gasp. The Lady of Winterfell shot to her feet.
“Boy?”
The boy's eyes remained shut, his chest heaving, and a wet rattling sound came from deep within his lungs.
“Jon?”
No response came and fear seized her.
“Maester!” she cried. “Maester Luwin!”
The door burst open moments later, the old master hurrying inside, grey robes and metal chains swaying around his thin frame.
“What is it, my lady? The boy—”
“He cannot breathe,” Catelyn interrupted on the verge of tears. “He cannot breathe.”
The maester crossed the room at once, placing a hand against the boy's brow, then listened to his breathing. A second passed and Luwin’s face grew grave. Too grave for the Lady of Winterfell,
“Is there anything you can do?” Catelyn whispered.
Maester Luwin reached for a vial, hidden in his robes, and carefully poured several drops of dreamwine between Jon’s lips. Most of it spilled down the boy's chin but the coughing subsided. Until there was nothing but silence.
“Is he better?”
Catelyn watched as the maester of Winterfell slowly lowered the bottle, his grey eyes meeting hers.
“My lady...”
“No,” the word escaped her before he could continue.
“He has fought bravely.”
“No!” Her voice cracked, tears filling her eyes, the cold causing them to sting across her face. “He cannot die! I refuse to watch him die!”
The maester looked away. “I am sorry, my lady. But… he is already gone.”
Jon drew another weak breath and Catelyn rushed to his bedside, seizing his hand. It felt cold. Far too cold. Colder than the wind outside.
“Jon.”
The boy did not answer.
“Please.”
His chest rose once, fell, and ceased to rise no more. The crackling fire continued on and the whisper of wind flowed beyond the walls and the Lady of Winterfell wept for the bastard she had hated with all her heart.
Maester Luwin gently reached forward and closed the boy's eyes. “The boy is dead, my lady. There is nothing more we can do.”
Catelyn stared, her bones and limbs locked up as if caught in a pillory. No breath could escape her lungs yet a word echoing through her mind.
Dead.
This is what you wanted.
An ugly sob escaped her throat, then another, and another until the Lady of Winterfell found herself on her knees, leaning over the on the boy’s bed.
“Please,” she begged but the words came out broken and the tears would not stop. Catelyn took the cold and small hand of the boy, clasping it under hers, and she began to pray. It did not matter if she was not before a sept. She just needed any of the olds—old or new—to hear her.
“I was wrong,” her voice trembled under each syllable, bowing her head. The maester watched her but the Lady of Winterfell did not care. “So wrong. I wished for this. I admit that I wanted the boy dead. That I wanted Robb to be safe.” The confession tasted like poison and her shoulders shook while the tears fell freely. “I know what I am. I know that my heart is cruel and cold.”
She pressed her forehead against the edge of the bed.
“Take years from me.” Her voice became a desperate whisper. “Take my pride. Take my joy. Take anything.” The room remained filled by the fire’s crackling. “But please.” She tightened her grip on the dead boy's hand. “Bring him back. Let him live a long life and protect those he holds close to his.”
Outside, the wind howled against Winterfell's ancient walls. And somewhere beyond the sight of gods and men, something stirred. A three-eyed raven croaked, hidden in trees, a legacy of fire and blood unbounded. Catelyn’s voice broke as she squeezed harder.
Then the world held its breath, and far away. Beneath a warmer sky and different time, a king was dying.
37 AC – Dragonstone
The afternoon sun bathed the yard in warmth as Aegon Targaryen sat beneath a stone arch overlooking the sea. Far below, waves crashed against Dragonstone's black cliffs. His grandsons sat before him.
Young Aegon listened with wide eyes while Viserys perched atop a low wall, kicking his legs idly.
“And then Balerion landed upon Harrenhal,” Aegon said, “I told King Harren the Black it would be wise of him to surrender.”
Viserys frowned, silver-gold hair blowing in the wind. “Did he?”
“Half of Westeros saw them burn ," the old king laughed, "the fool told me that stone does not burn.”
The boys grinned. Children always loved dragon stories. They wanted tales of battles and burning castles, of mighty kings and great victories. But they never wished to hear of the long years afterward. The endless petitions, the disputes, the burdens, the deaths, and the loneliness that occupied ruling.
It was true, he had conquered the seven kingdoms but keeping them united had proven far more difficult. Especially the Dornish. The Conqueror felt his hands instinctively curl, the motion was only stopped by his grandson’s voice
"Will I ride Balerion one day?" young Aegon asked.
“No.”
The boy’s face fell and Aegon smiled faintly. “Because Balerion belongs to me.”
Viserys laughed. “You are old, grandfather.”
“Old enough to know insolence when I hear it. Haven’t you boys been listening to me at all?”
The boys erupted into laughter. For a brief moment, the king found himself smiling with them. Then his smile faded when he saw a shadow stretch across the yard. His youngest son, Prince Maegor, stood nearby, hand resting upon the pommel of the practice sword at his hip.
He was always watching and waiting. Even as a child, there was something hard about him. A stubbornness. An anger. Deep down, Aegon felt as if he were to blame. He had never loved Visenya and only married her out of duty to Valyrian tradition. And after the death of Rhaenys, he kept Aenys close by.
Both boys were each every bit their mother’s.
The old king’s gaze drifted toward the sea. It had seemed so simple when they were young. He was nothing but a dragonlord with his sisters. The three heads of the dragon, the blood of Old Valyria. Yet somewhere along the road, things had gone wrong. He wished he knew when.
Aenys had inherited kindness, mercy, and patience. All the qualities of a good king yet he lacked steel. Meanwhile, Maegor possessed steel enough for ten men. But kindness? Mercy? Patience?
The gods had neglected to grant him either.
Aegon had once dreamed they might rule together. The warrior and the king. The strong and the wise. They would push back the terrible winter from the north, that carried an absolute darkness which rode the winds. Now he knew better. Dragonflame and a dream of spring could never burn the world into order.
The old king sighed as the wind carried the scent of salt across Dragonstone. But then his chest tightened and a pain exploded through him. A sharp agony speared through his heart. His breath caught and yard lurched sideways.
The boys rose at once. “Grandfather?”
More voices shouted by they sounded distant while the pain worsened. Aegon staggered to his feet. He knew that he was going to die. But that’s not what he was considered with. He only wished that his family did not have to watch him die. The world blurred. He saw Maegor rushing toward him, calling his name. He heard shouting. He smelled the Narrow sea. He felt the rushing wind. Then he was falling.
As the ground rushed up to meet him, his thoughts turned not toward kingdoms or crowns or dragons or conquest or prophecy. But toward Rhaenys.
He remembered her laughter. The warmth of her hand. The way she smiled as though the world belonged to them. Then his mind flashed the image of the dead white she-dragon Meraxes. A broken body in Dorne, blood upon the sand, and a letter he had never shown another living soul.
Regret settled over him like a funeral shroud. Forgive me, Rhaenys. Aegon closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness.
The First King of Westeros had not known what to expect from death. Death was the great equalizer. Lowborn and highborn could not run from it. Maybe that’s why the Gods allowed death to exist. To remind man of the fragility. He had always known that. The Dragon had conquered six kingdoms and forged a seventh beneath his banners, but no throne had ever been built high enough to escape the grave.
Then he heard a voice.
“How much do you love them?”
Aegon’s eyes opened.
The black walls of Dragonstone were gone. He stood in a place without horizon or sky, surrounded by darkness broken only by distant points of pale light. They hung motionless above him like forgotten stars. Before him stood a figure cloaked in a hooded robe. Its face remained hidden within shadow, yet Aegon knew at once who stood before him.
The last aspect of God—The Stranger.
For the first time in many years, Aegon Targaryen found himself uncertain. “Well, I guess the gods are real,” he mused half-heartedly. He was as pious as the realm believed him to be. “I’m guessing this the end.”
The Stranger did not move. “This is the gap between life and death.”
The answer did little to satisfy him. “I’m sure I died,” the Conqueror remarked, looking around the endless abyss. “I was hoping to Rhaenys or maybe the Old Gods of Valyria.”
“They wait.”
The voice seemed neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It echoed through the darkness like the distant tolling of a bell.
“Then, what am I doing here?” Aegon asked.
Again the Stranger spoke. “You are between. Conqueror. How much do you love them?”
Aegon frowned. “My family?”
For a moment, the old king said nothing. His thoughts drifted to Dragonstone. To Aenys. To his grandsons. Even to Maegor, angry and proud and so much like his mother that it often troubled him. Then his thoughts wandered further still, to a woman with dark hair and laughing eyes who had been taken from him beneath the red mountains of Dorne.
Rhaenys.
Always Rhaenys.
"With all my heart," Aegon answered.
The Stranger regarded him in silence before finally nodding.
"Very well."
The darkness stirred.
Images unfolded before Aegon as though some unseen hand had drawn back a curtain. He saw dragons falling from the sky, their roars turning to screams as they crashed upon the earth. Castles burned. Armies clashed beneath banners he did not recognize. The Iron Throne stood stained with blood while silver-haired kings and princes died around it.
The visions came faster. Brother fought brother. Dragon fought dragon. A great red castle burned against the night. The realm he had forged through fire and blood cracked apart beneath the weight of generations.
“No,” Aegon said, his voice sounded small. “This cannot be.”
The images continued. He saw his descendants scattered. Some died by sword. Some by poison. Some by treachery. He saw exile. Defeat. Madness. Prophecy. Then came the cruelest vision of all.
The skies of Westeros were empty.
No dragons soared above mountain or castle. No shadows passed over fields. No fire fell from the heavens. Then, he saw the Wall, a weirwood tree growing around a man with milk-white skin, long white hair, and red eyes. There was a red winestain birthmark going from his throat up to his right check. Aegon saw the hilt of Dark Sister.
The red-eyed man looked up directly at Aegon and spoke in Valyrian. “Ñuha dārys. Se Bantāzma approaches.”
My king. The Long Night approaches.
The vision faded and Aegon found himself back in the endless gap of life and death. “My fears were true," he said quietly. “The Song of Ice and Fire. It has begun to play.”
The Stranger's voice answered him. “Yes.”
For the first time since the Conquest, Aegon felt something close to despair. Throughout his life he had feared many things. Rebellion. Failure. The collapse of the realm after his death. But this? This was worse. The dragons had been more than weapons or mindlessly beast as the small folk believed.
They had been the heart of House Targaryen. They were the weapon to combat the cold and harsh night. Without them, what remained?
The Stranger watched him carefully, stepping closer. “Conqueror. You have an opportunity to restore what was lost.”
Aegon's eyes narrowed. “What opportunity?”
“To end the song.”
The words hung in the darkness and the old king studied the hooded figure.
“You would send me back? I am an old man and my family appears to be reduced to nothing if these visions speak true.”
The Stranger did not answer directly.
“You may restore your family. You may build the lasting dynasty you once envisioned. And beyond that lies another task. One greater than crowns and kingdoms. Westeros must be saved," said the Stranger.
Aegon remained silent.
Duty.
The word had ruled much of his life. It had carried him across the Narrow Sea. It had placed a crown upon his head and the weight of seven kingdoms upon his shoulders. Yet as he considered the offer, his thoughts did not first turn toward kingdoms.
They turned toward family.
Toward Aenys. Toward his grandsons. Toward Visenya. Even Maegor. And finally, as they always did, toward Rhaenys. He remembered the terrible emptiness she had left behind. Aegon drew a slow breath.
“This does not sound easy.”
“No,” said the Stranger. “But we are not cruel, child of Valyria. Your road will be long and winding.”
Despite his old age, Aegon smirked. “Nothing worth doing ever is.”
For the first time, the Stranger seemed almost pleased.
Aegon straightened. He was no longer the old man who had collapsed upon Dragonstone. He was Aegon Targaryen, son of Aerion, rider of Balerion, the conqueror of kingdoms and founder of dynasties.
“It is my duty.”
The Stranger raised a hand and beckoned. Light appeared in the darkness ahead. Not the harsh blaze of dragonfire, but something warmer. Older. As Aegon stepped forward, other figures emerged from the light.
The Father stood in judgment. The Mother watched with endless compassion. The Warrior stood armored and resolute. The Smith, the Maiden, the Crone. And beside them stood the Old Gods of Valyria.
The Seven and the Fourteen Flames.
“Go on, conqueror,” the Seven declared.
“Valyria is with you,” the Fourteen responded.
Aegon looked upon the road before him. Long and winding, stretching beyond sight. A harder road than the one he had first walked when he crossed the Blackwater with his sisters and three dragons.
Yet he had never feared difficult roads.
And so Aegon of House Targaryen, First of His Name, Lord of Dragonstone, King of All Westeros, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, and Shield of His People, took his first step forward. For his family, for his kingdom, and for Rhaenys.
Then the light swallowed him whole.
293 AC – Winterfell
“Please.”
Catelyn’s voice had become hoarse from weeping. She no longer knew how long she had been kneeling beside the bed. Minutes. Hours. It did not matter. Her hands remained wrapped around the boy’s cold fingers while teardrops stained the blankets below.
The chamber remained silent save for the crackling hearth and the wind scratching at the shutters. She was about to let go of the boy’s hand until she heard him cough.
Catelyn's head snapped upward, another cough followed, and Jon's body jerked beneath the blankets. The Lady of Winterfell stared in disbelief as the boy drew a ragged breath into his lungs. His chest rose sharply. Color returned to his face. Another cough escaped him as he rolled onto his side.
“Gods be good...” Maester Luwin breathed.
“Jon!”
Catelyn seized him at once, pulling the boy into her arms before she could stop herself. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
“Thank the Seven above," she whispered.
The boy blinked, disoriented and confused, but alive. His gaze wandered across the room, lingering on the hearth, the walls, the shelves lined with bottles and books. He looked as though he had awakened from a dream he could not remember.
“Jon?” Catelyn asked. “Are you alright?”
The boy turned toward her. For a moment he said nothing, then he simply nodded. The relief struck her so hard she nearly began crying anew.
I’ll try, she thought. I’ll try to love this bastard.
Maester Luwin stepped forward. “Easy now, boy. The gods have been most gracious but do not try to stand.” The old maester examined him carefully. First his breathing. Then his pulse. He had seen men survive sickness before but nothing like this. He swore the boy was dead but it appeared not. The lad was stronger than he thought.
As he leaned closer, something caught his eye. The bastard of Winterfell’s grey, almost dark eyes had taken on a new shade. The left eye was the same but the right. It stared back at the maester.
It was violet. The color was faint, almost hidden in the candlelight, yet unmistakable. The maester's brow furrowed and he turned to Lady Stark. She was still hugging the boy to notice. Luwin’s gaze shifted upward and there, at the roots of the boy’s dark hair, pale strands had begun to emerge.
Silver-white.
Luwin blinked. Surely it was a trick of the light. It had to be. Yet when he looked again, the color remained. The old maester felt a chill creep down his spine.
"What is it?" Catelyn asked, finally releasing the boy.
Luwin looked away from the boy. “Nothing, my lady.” The lie came easier than expected. “Nothing at all.”
Outside, the wind howled against the ancient walls of Winterfell. Snow drifted through the darkness and somewhere beyond the sight of gods and men, fate quietly altered its course. Aegon Targaryen, First of His Name, Lord of Dragonstone, King of All Westeros, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, and Shield of His People, had crossed the threshold of death itself.
The Conqueror had returned and this time... he would not fail.