Chapter Text
When Rhaenys arrived at Dragonstone, it was almost dusk. Familiar with the castle, she encountered no obstacles upon entering. The guards, having been informed of her arrival, directly escorted her to Rhaenyra's chamber. Despite the tightly closed door, Rhaenys could smell the tang of blood. Rhaenyra emerged looking pale and exhausted, as if she had just given birth, with Daemon by her side.
“Did you deliver early?” Rhaenys asked, though she really wanted to ask about her son. She had just left Borros Baratheon’s castle when informed that Prince Haegon, along with Aemond and Lucerys, had flown into a storm, heading toward Dragonstone, yet she saw no sign of her son upon arrival.
“It’s a daughter,” Rhaenyra said. “Named Visenya. The wet nurse is feeding her.”
Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. “She survived. Congratulations.”
That was unexpected. Rhaenyra’s pregnancy was at most eight months along; an early birth surviving was nearly miraculous.
“You may want to see Haegon,” Rhaenyra said. “Daemon will take you.”
“Why can’t my son come to me?” Rhaenys asked.
Rhaenyra did not respond, and Rhaenys felt something clench in her heart, an ominous feeling swirling. “What happened?” she demanded.
“I’ll take you, Rhaenys,” Daemon said.
In the center of Dragonstone’s great hall lay a stone slab with a body on it. As soon as Rhaenys saw it, she clenched her teeth, her pupils shrank, and a white noise filled her ears. Lucerys stood beside the slab, motionless as if he were part of the stone itself.
It was her adult son, Aegon, lying there. His hands were peacefully placed by his sides, his chest still, a stone covering his eyes, his skull deformed, supported by wood to retain its shape. Rhaenys blinked, forcing herself to calm down: “How long?”
“It’s been five hours since I found him with Lucerys,” Daemon said. “He hasn’t come back to life.”
Rhaenys almost forgot to breathe until a wave of dizziness hit her, and Daemon quickly supported her. “Lucerys,” she said.
The statue then turned its head. Rhaenys saw her grandson’s face was also pale, his eyes hollow, his forehead bruised. His eyes were devoid of life, haunted. He remained silent.
“What happened?” Rhaenys pressed.
“Vhagar was chasing me,” Lucerys said, his voice distant as if he were in a dream. “Uncle jumped off the dragon, unfastened me from Arrax, and we both jumped.”
Rhaenys approached, her steps shaky, her hands touching her son’s cold cheek: “Aegon,” she called, “Aegon, my son, wake up, Aegon.”
Aegon remained still.
“Haegon, Haegon—Helmut,” she uttered the name she never wanted to use, but her son still did not open his eyes. Had Flaenderys’s magic failed? How could it? Her son was meant to stop the Long Night; who would stop death from creeping over the land of the living if he were gone? Perhaps his resurrection needed more time; all she had to do was wait—
“Rhaenyra has already notified King’s Landing and all the lords of Haegon’s death,” Daemon said. “It’s wartime; we can't hold a funeral. Stay here.”
Rhaenys sharply looked up, her gaze fierce and cold: “You want to burn my son before he can come back.”
“He's been dead too long, Rhaenys,” Daemon said. “Traditionally, we wait three days.”
“I will take my son back to the Stepstones,” Rhaenys declared. “You and Rhaenyra will not get your way.”
“Perhaps the gods’ grace has its limits, Rhaenys,” Daemon remarked. “And Haegon may have overused it—how many times has he returned from the dead? Perhaps even the gods grow weary.”
Guards from Dragonstone approached, seizing Rhaenys by the arms. A fierce hatred blazed from Daemon’s cousin’s eyes, but she kept her composure. Silent, she was led away by the guards, with Lucerys only glancing in her direction as she disappeared from the hall.
“Dammit,” Daemon cursed. “What a mess.”
He truly didn't want Haegon dead; his support for Rhaenyra was based on marital and filial loyalty. How much did he really support Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne? It was more about his own standing and the pure Targaryen lineage. His loyalty had been wavering—damn, it was indeed wavering, with all three daughters caught by the Reds. Rhaena had been taken to the Stepstones, Naerys would rather be hunted with Haegon than be a noble lady on Dragonstone, and Baela was completely aligned with Haegon. Even a blind man could see that the heir apparent, who had quelled the Iron Islands rebellion and subdued half of Essos, was more fit to be the next king, especially since it was his brother’s dying wish—the damned Viserys had been indecisive all his life, but utterly mad at the end. But betray his wife and children? He couldn’t.
Already conflicted, with Westeros in turmoil, now Haegon was dead. What if he couldn’t return? Would the Greens start a merciless revenge? Rhaenys seemed ready to burn him, Rhaenyra, and all of King’s Landing. Theoretically, he shouldn't worry about Green retaliation, since it was the Hightower cow’s son who had chased Lucerys, leading to Haegon’s death. But who knew if those supporting the king’s latest decree would attack indiscriminately?
Yes, that decree. Daemon wanted to curse. The decree had made everyone a bastard, including his own children, making him the heir even before Rhaenyra—how would she view him now? Damn, Viserys forcing those poor councillors to sign the decree surely hadn’t anticipated Haegon’s death, otherwise, he wouldn’t have restored Daemon’s place in the succession.
Lucerys still stood by Haegon, unaware of how long he had been there, as if soulless.
“Luke,” Daemon said, “go rest.”
Lucerys ignored him.
“Your mother will worry, Luke,” Daemon tried again.
Lucerys shook his head: “You go, Daemon. I’m waiting for Uncle to come back.”
Daemon sometimes wondered what a normal family was like.
Zemo sometimes wondered what a normal family was like, his first thought as he opened his eyes; clearly, he hadn’t resurrected normally, or at least not in his own body. Everything was white, and his chest screamed in pain, echoing the screams around him.
“Fuck! It’s a person! Not a wight!” Of course, I’m a person! Zemo’s mind burst free of decorum. You're the white walker! Your whole family are white walkers!
Gasping, he yanked an arrow from his chest, spattering blood, then heard another scream: “Fuck! It really is a person, not a white walker!”
He sat up, glaring at the man not far from him, recognizing the face: “Cregan Stark! Are you blind?”
But he quickly realized something was off. It looked like Cregan Stark but not his attire; dressed simply, armored poorly, as if rough iron sheets were crudely tied together with coarse wire, neither light nor durable. In a flash, Zemo turned and plunged the arrow he had just removed into the chest of an approaching creature.
That was the white walker, its body pale white, eyes glowing blue, collapsing instantly as the arrow pierced it.
The Cregan-looking man ran towards the back, shouting, “Brandon! Brandon! Here’s someone who knows my name! And he looks like a white walker!”
Zemo ran after him, his chest wound healing as he ran, leaving just a hole through which cold air whistled until he saw someone standing over a wight. Cregan finally stopped, panting: “Brandon!”
The man called Brandon turned around, and Zemo saw his own face.
By the gods, he thought, could you not be a bit more creative when making people?
“So you’re really not a wight,” Cregan said. “Nor one of the Night King’s—what’s your name?”
“Aegon Targaryen,” Zemo replied. “And you?”
“Didn’t you know?” Cregan asked. “I’m Cregan Stark, this is my brother Brandon Stark, King in the North.”
“I know a Cregan Stark,” Zemo said. “He looks a lot like you but older. You’re definitely not him—Brandon Stark? There are too many Kings in the North named Brandon Stark. Who is the King of Westeros now?”
“Westeros has seven kings,” Cregan questioned. “Which one are you asking about, silver-haired stranger?”
“Silver hair?” Zemo touched his hair, which was indeed silver. Wasn’t he supposed to have black hair? Clearly, he wasn’t in his own body; otherwise, Cregan would have noticed the resemblance between Zemo and Brandon Stark. Which body was he in now? Had the gods thrown him out at random? Wait, there are seven kings in the Seven Kingdoms: the King in the North, Brandon Stark, the Night King, the white walker—
Damn, he thought, he was now beside Brandon the Breaker, the Stark who defeated the Night King and repelled the white walkers.
So, had the gods thrown him here to apprentice in how to repel white walkers?
“Never mind,” Zemo said. “May I join you to learn how to repel white walkers?”
“Of course, you're an adult man in the North; you must repel white walkers,” Cregan said. “Did you think you had a choice?”
“Cregan,” Brandon spoke, his gaze intense as Cregan immediately fell silent, the surrounding warriors gradually gathered around their king, their surroundings littered with the bodies of white walkers. “I know you, stranger with silver hair, the gods have revealed to me that I must teach you all I know about repelling the white walker to protect our future.”
Cregan’s mouth slightly agape, seemed shocked at Brandon's composure.
“Come back to camp with us, Aegon Targaryen,” Brandon said. “We've repelled this wave of white walkers, they will have a respite, during which I will thoroughly impart to you all that I know.”
---
Aemond returned to the Red Keep, heading directly for the throne room without any pause. Aegon sat on the Iron Throne, with Alicent Hightower standing beside him, while below the Iron Throne, Larys Strong was reporting his duties.
“Aemond,” Alicent said, “why do you look so agitated?”
“Aegon needs to be betrothed to Lord Baratheon's daughter,” Aemond stated. “On that condition, he is willing to support us.”
Alicent looked at Aegon next to her; he sat obediently on the Iron Throne, his gaze vacant, continuously fiddling with the melted swords of the Iron Throne.
Alicent placed her hand on Aegon’s shoulder: “Good, your brother will be betrothed to his daughter.”
“He demands a marriage contract,” Aemond declared.
Alicent nodded: “He shall have a marriage contract.”
Aemond nodded, turned, and walked away, but Alicent called out to him: “Aemond,” his mother inquired, “is there nothing else?”
Aemond shook his head, drenched from head to toe, as if he wanted to peel off his own skin: “No, mother.”
Late at night, Ser Cole knocked on his bedroom door, the captain of the Kingsguard looking grave: “Prince Aemond, your mother requires your presence in her chambers.”
Aemond knew the sword had finally fallen; perhaps his brother had lost all tolerance for him, perhaps he was already approaching the Red Keep with his three dragons; his brother had never tolerated harming family members, and he, and Vhagar—and he had failed to control Vhagar, Lucerys fell from the sky, if not for Helmut, if not for Haegon arriving in time, he would have been a complete kinslayer; perhaps in his brother’s heart, he already was.
When he entered his mother’s chambers, what he received instead was a hug. Alicent touched his face, her expression joyful: “You killed him, my proud son, Aemond—you killed the sorcerer from Essos, and now his body is rotting on Dragonstone.”