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The Dreamer

He leaves the cellar with a lion still inside. The stalwart Unsullied guard the hallways.

But he is alone.

And his mind is in shambles by what has been asked of him.

‘Sometimes duty is the death of love.’

The lion had twisted Aemon’s words on the dragonwolf. Only, he doesn’t see himself as a dragon. No, he is a Snow of the North.

‘And your sisters?’

The lion’s words of poison are working. He knows that as he journeys alone to where she is amongst the ashes and rubble.

Here, Jon Snow is afforded silence. Flakes fall like snow atop his head. Only, it isn’t snow. No, these flecks are warm. The remnants of fire. And homes. And bodies.

So many were consumed.

And then, a rumble stops Jon Snow in his tracks. A mountain of ash beside the entrance stirs, and out of slumber rises the dreaded Drogon.

The black dragon, his mother’s mount, takes stock of this man before him. Sniffing as he’s prone to doing when this man is in his presence.

But Jon Snow stands his ground, as he always has.

Drogon smells the blood of Old Valyria, not as strong as his mother. But it is very much there. Mixed with that of a wolf. The dragon settles back down, and Jon continues on.

On to face his Queen. His father’s sister. The woman he loves, and confused for having loved her.

He finds her before the throne, the only part of the hall left untouched. His mind has not decided, nor has his soul. Nor has his body. Nor his heart.

‘Do you think they’ll bend the knee?’

‘They don’t get to choose.’

‘You protect people. Who is the greatest threat to the people, now?’

Lies and lily-laced poisons. He is trying, and when he sees her… at the end, he does want to smile. She has accomplished it: Targaryens have reclaimed the throne.

But his smile never comes, not for the hole in his heart. The reason he’s made this journey. The choice he has to make.

“When I was a girl,” she starts, “and Viserys was still kind, your uncle would tell me stories ‘til I fell asleep. He told me the history of House Targaryen, or of what he could recall.” She turns and gives her nephew the warmest smile imaginable.

She truly is overjoyed to see him. Here and unharmed.

If only he was, too.

“He said Lord Aenar Targaryen took his family, their dragons, everything they possessed, and left Old Valyria because of a dream. His daughter, Daenys, foresaw the Doom, and the other dragonlords mocked our family for fleeing.” Her smile morphs into triumph. “How wrong they were. Now, we are the only dragonlords left.”

Only she, for she has the only dragon left.

“Aegon began the conquest because of a dream.” She descends the steps to be with him. “I have dreamt, too. Of my sons. Of this throne. Of a man, whom I love.” She stops before him.

He struggles to hold her gaze, and finally cedes. “You are Old Valyria’s legacy, Dany, but there is another doom approaching.” His voice grows desperate. “Can House Targaryen survive it?”

“I am the Unburnt.”

He is breaking. “Oh please, Dany. Please see reason.” The choice has never been clearer than the one waiting for him. Never has he faced one such as this.

“What reason? What is there but us?” She takes hold of him, anchoring them both to this spot.

He wants it, he does. But, “What about everyone else?”

Her gentle face hardens in an instant. “How do you think Aegon and his sisters forged the Seven Kingdoms? With fire and blood.”

He knows the histories well, for unlike her, he received a formal education.

“How do you think your precious Starks became Kings in the North?” She pauses, but does not expect an answer. “They took it. How are they better, more honourable than us?”

“They’re not,” he admits. “They were vicious, they had to be.”

She searches his hesitant eyes. Grey depths that clearly shone his conflict. “As did we.”

“I need to know… Was it all worth it?”

What he was referring to, she wasn’t sure of. She doesn’t dwell on it, either. “We are here because of you.” Cupping his face, she brings it down to hers. She won’t let him go, not without a fight. “Because a dragon, raised by wolves, fell in love with the only other dragon. And they never knew he was a dragon. But they should have.”

He wants to take refuge in that, he truly does. But something, somewhere deep, won’t let him. Not yet.

“Who could have foreseen that,” she asks. “Did my brother know that when he and Lyanna Stark fled to Dorne? Did they know all that would happen? No, but it did, and despite everything we’ve suffered, we found each other.” She pulls him closer, still. “We have each other. Don’t we?”

He breaks. Completely. “I’m being pulled in every direction.” His tears cause her own to fall. “How can I be what you want when the Starks don’t want that? How can I be a brother when my siblings stand against my aunt? How can I love you when my duty says otherwise?” He whispers, as if to himself, “How can I love you?”

But she hears it, nonetheless. “Without guilt. Without restraint. I’m asking-- No, I’m begging you, despite what my mind is yelling, to be with me.” Their lips are touching but neither kisses. Not yet. “To love me as I love you. Is that alright? I want it to be because I want you.” She pushes forward, and he gives in. “I love you without guilt, without restraint. Dragons fear nothing from the herd.”

“I don’t know how to be a dragon,” he says in between heavy, mournful breaths.

“I can teach you.”

He brushes the tears from her cheeks. Their eyes are both red and wet. “How?”

“You have to let go: of all the names they’ve called you, of all the fears you’ve held, of all that’s kept you a bastard.”

“How do I let go?”

She moves closer to him, once more. He freezes, only for a moment.

Is he afraid of her?

She reaches out and brushes the ash from his face. He doesn’t flinch nor flees. A good sign.

“Love me.”

“I do,” he answers.

“Show me.” She expects it to be soft and sweet once more.

It isn’t.

No, he’s strong and rough. Quickly, they’re on the floor, among the ash and rubble. She moans at the feel of his hardness pressing against her. He does, indeed, show her.

* * *

“What if I can’t do it, Dany? What if I can’t let go?”

They had settled down atop their discarded clothes. Their skin is grey and red all over. Marks of passion show their struggle for dominance. It was a dance of dragons like no other.

“Then… I won’t force you.”

“You were raised a dragon,” he says. “What you did, do you feel nothing for it?”

There is no accusation in his words, only a genuine need to know.

“Do you feel every life you take?”

“Steel is not dragonflame.”

She circles the scars littering his body. A distraction from his line of questioning. “No, but a life is a life. This is what it means to be Targaryen. We wield power, but we must also have wisdom.”

“Burning the city was wise?”

That, indeed, is an accusation.

“Cersei and her brood reaped chaos on King’s Landing and no one bats an eye. Me? They’ll call me evil and mad. How is that just?”

His doesn’t reply, not immediately. This is important for him, and so, he thinks it through. He thinks how it could mean. “What you’re saying, then, is… it was necessary? How?”

“Do you truly believe Cersei would have surrendered? That she wouldn’t have had some plan up her skirt? Spring some ambush as we marched through the streets?”

And then, in that moment, he does recall a plan. The foundation of a story he had heard long ago. About the foundations. “Wildfire. Like the Sept of Baelor?”

She nods against his chest, circling the jagged scar of his heart. “My… former advisors told me of hidden caches under the city. A leftover from my father’s reign.”

Yes, he remembered hearing that. The Mad King had ordered they all burn.

“But the people--”

“In war,” she cuts him off with, “there is always damage on a collateral level. We try to prevent it, minimise it, but it’s inescapable.” She notices his ambivalence. “You still don’t trust me.” To herself she whispers, “You never will.”

“It’s not a matter of trust. I… It would be different if Rhaegal were still…” He still feels that lost, made worse as he wasn’t there. His dragon was taken from him and he never truly knew at the time. “I never felt more like a Targaryen than when I rode him.”

“I know. And never was he happier than when flying with you.”

“Now, I’m just… Jon.” That’s a sobering admission. “You said it yourself, ‘Without the dragons, we became like everyone else.’”

“We’re not like everyone else. That is something we must accept, Aegon.” She sat up to take note of him. “Can you do that?”

He holds her gaze, firm and true. “I’ve never fit in, no matter where I was… until I answered a Queen’s summons, journeyed to her home, and saw her for who she truly is.”

She smiles, a brilliant and glowing thing. “Our home.”

“Not the Red Keep,” he asks.

She glances around. “This city is sick, it always has been. Dragonstone shall be the seat of power. As it should be.”

“What about the Iron Throne?” He glances at it.

It’s right there, within their grasp.

“It’s only a seat of swords. We shall start again.”

He nods, and drifts deep into thought. She merely watches him, and knows she could do this all day and night. Watch him and try to peel back the thoughts racing through his mind like the blood pulsing through his body.

He abruptly shifts and stands. “We should dress, my Queen. This can’t be good for your skin.”

She takes note of his own ashen appearance. “I am the Unburnt.”

“Are you the unsick, also?” He’s met only with a half-hearted glare. “I didn’t think so. Come on,” he says, holding out his hand to her.

She takes it and he hoists her up. “Take care how you order your Queen, my Prince.”

Brushing off any remaining soot, he tugs his trousers on. “Forgive me. I was once a king.”

“That you were,” she says.

In no time they’re clothed once more. Wrapped in her black leathers, she fixes the clasp of her dragon chain.

“Did you ever get used to being called ‘Princess?’”

“I accepted it, no matter how underserved it felt.”

“Aye. I suppose it will take time.”

She looks him over and wishes he, too, were in black and red. Soon. Very soon, that will be a reality. “Fear not, for this is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

He smiles, warm and wide. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

He takes her in his arms. Her back is to the throne. Just as he leans in, to kiss her once more-- He spots movement. A shadow breaks from behind the throne and darts like lightning to them. On instinct, he shoves her out of the way-- The shadow, small and smeared with blood and ash, thrusts forward.

A familiar pain courses through his heart. Memories of a night alone in the snow.

Jon sees grey eyes looking back at him, panic overtaking them. He looks down and sees the dagger in his heart. Blood weeps down his brigandine and trickles onto the stone. The assassin releases her hold, and the Queen – having fallen to the ground – sees her would-be attacker in plain view.

Arya Stark steps back. Her dagger embedded in her brother’s chest. All breath has left her. She miscalculated. She made a mistake.

“Jon!” Daenerys is too slow to catch him as he falls to the ground. Arya steps to help but the dragon drags her love away from the wolf. “Stay back!”

“I didn’t,” she tries to say. But no more comes out.

“Stay away!”

A dragon’s shriek splits the air as Drogon descends upon these ruins. He sees his mother’s love in her arms, the dagger in his heart, and the wolf all alone. He traps her in his gaze.

Arya Stark cannot move. She’s never faced a dragon before, and she now wishes she never would.

Daenerys cradles Aegon. His breathing becomes ragged, and he tries to speak. “Shhh,” she whispers. “It’s going to be alright.”

“Dany,” he says. “I wish… I wish I’d as-asked… my w-wife.”

She strokes his paling cheeks. “Shhh, my love. I’m here. Everything’s…” Her voice, like her body, is breaking.

“I am yours… from… this day un… until the end… of… of my days.”

She understands. Precisely. What it is he’s promising. She takes hold of his face and looks him in his soulful, grey eyes. “You are mine as I will only ever be yours, from this day until the end of my days. I love you.” And with that, she seals their union with a kiss. A plea for him to never leave her.

He wishes it would not be for a very long time to come, but seldom do they get what they want. And he’s already wished for a great many things.

As has she, and none more than the one she hasn’t yet shared with him. Not yet. “Jon. I never told you.” She sees his eyes glazing over. She must hurry. Taking his hand, she places on her stomach. Once thought to be barren and cursed. “There is a babe. Your babe. Growing inside me. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid it wasn’t real. I’m so sorry.”

“D-Dany, I’m… I-I’m af-fraid.”

“No! No, no, don’t--”

He smiles as his words break with ever laboured breaths. “N-never forget… what you are… They wo-- they won’t… Dany… I lov--”

“Jon! Jon,” she tries desperately, but he does not answer.

His eyes remain on her, holding her image in his mind. And for the last time, Aegon Targaryen exhales.

The cries of a dragon and the roar of her son shake the city.

The White Wolf runs red.

And a dragon has left this world.

* * *

From the Journals of Grand Maester Pylos

‘Tis a tragedy that need not have happened if the Prince’s kin were kind. But, ‘tis not how they were. No, they were cruel creatures, twisted and evil.

Plotters, they were. Assassins and cutthroats.

Good riddance the House of Stark has fallen.

The Prince, although raised in the North with the old ways, was put to rest as a Targaryen. The pyre was lit by the Queen’s own mount, Drogon the dreaded, and presided over by the Queen herself.

Her Grace, however, first had a statue made to reflect the beauty of my Prince, so that no one could forget him.

The Northmen, many of whom had fought by their Warden’s side, paid tribute to the fallen Prince. And all were rapturous with his Stark kin. They called for justice, and the Queen promised it to them.

Word spread quickly of the assassination, reaching from Sunspear to the Wall. The Free Folk, friends and allies of the Prince and his Queen, made haste for King’s Landing. Their leader, Tormund Giantsbane (if ever there was a man who lived up to his name) brought with him the Prince’s companion: the white direwolf, Ghost. Wounded from battle with the Dead, the Prince had sent his beloved wolf with the Free Folk to heal. But now, the great wolf’s wounds would never truly mend.

I was honoured and entrusted by my Queen to oversee Ghost’s recovery. He never made a sound, as was his name. But his pain was felt by all in his presence.

He never left the Queen’s side and became her fiercest guard, and the only to wear the white of old. And in time – seven moon turns, to be precise – Ghost was charged with protecting his Prince’s own ‘pup’.

Ah yes, old was Ghost in years but his spirit seemed to rejuvenate with the Crown Prince keeping him on his paws. Inseparable they became until the one enemy no one can truly defeat came for him, too.

And as the Crown Prince reached six and ten – already a knight and diligent young man – Ghost left this world to run the Lands of Always Winter with his Prince.

But in my excitement, I have wandered offtrack. I must return to the moment Prince Aegon left this world.

The assassin, Arya Stark (the Prince’s own cousin, of whom he was falsely raised as her older half-brother) was caught and cornered by a seething Drogon. The cowardly killer’s only saving grace was Her Grace’s intervention. Not for the love the Prince may have held for his cousins, no, but so that the entire realm may see the Starks for who they truly are: traitors.

The faithful Unsullied detained and kept Arya Stark under their constant eye. No one was allowed near her. No one even knew where she was kept.

It was not until much later that Her Grace informed me it was in the dragonpit, chiefly guarded by her mount.

The killer’s elder sister proclaimed herself Queen in the North and demanded the return of her captured sibling. But Sansa Stark was mistaken, as was her crown. She held no power in the Seven Kingdoms for they belonged to the one and true ruler.

And so, Sansa and Arya Stark were executed, feasted on by a very angry dragon. The remaining Stark, Bran the Broken, was said to have fled beyond the Wall. No word has ever reached of what happened, and even the Free Folk have never found a trace of him.

The fall of the House of Stark was complete. Winterfell was ceased by Her Grace and kept so that her son would one day claim it as its Prince and Lord.

King’s Landing, by comparison, was uninhabitable for Her Grace. The Red Keep was destroyed rooting out the false queen, Cersei Lannister. Her corpse, as well as her twin-brother’s, Ser Jamie, were discovered in the passages underneath the castle. Twisted and crumpled by falling debris, they were left and the entrances sealed.

Their surviving kin, Tyrion Lannister, was executed for conspiring to assassinate Her Grace. His chosen instrument: the Prince, himself. Poisoned words passed from the dwarf to my Prince, but the latter remained true, no matter how sweet they sounded. And so, the House of Lannister, too, fell.

Her Grace declared that the ancestral seat of House Targaryen would become the seat of power for the realm. King’s Landing itself would be improved and expanded, but never again would the monarch reside within its walls.

In a stunning move, Her Grace commanded her mount to destroy the Iron Throne. It has puzzled many, but my Queen has merely stated, “It was only a seat of swords.” Very true.

In the days and weeks, months and even years that followed, there were objections to Her Grace’s swift marriage to the Prince. I, however, found it a great honour to officiate the oaths made between husband and wife. The marriage was brief, but the love shared extended well past the Prince’s life, to the bitter envy of many angry Lords whom thought to usurp his place in the Queen’s heart.

They were swiftly reminded to whom her heart and body belonged. Particularly, one horrendous sellsword from Essos. This foolish ‘man’ (I use the term loosely) attempted to swoon my Queen from the Prince’s memory. His chosen target: mocking the legitimacy of the marriage vows. It failed, and rather fatally for him.

The Queen and Prince were very much in love, so much that it almost ignited a war with the Starks, whom claimed the Queen bewitched their King into kneeling. It must be said that these accusations were made on the eve of execution, and thus, were a desperate attempt at rallying the people against Her Grace. Much like the sellsword, they also failed.

Preposterous, I deem it, for the Prince (and Warden of the North) bent the knee to make the Seven Kingdoms whole once more. The Prince was in love, but never witless. No, I will never stand to hear such vileness besmirch him nor his memory. Prince Aegon, the former King in the North, should have lived that day to serve his Queen and wife, but alas, the Gods are cruel.

No, it was the Starks that betrayed their Warden, their own kin. And for that, the House of Stark is no more. Not as it is remembered, for the Queen bared departed Prince Aegon a son, Prince Valerion Targaryen. Born with his mother’s violet eyes and his father’s black curls, the Crown Prince was born perfect.

The Queen confessed to me that--

(Note: I have removed all mentions of what Her Grace has shared in confidence. It was wrong of me to document them, even if to better paint the picture of her love for her Prince and husband. I pray she remains ignorant of this error, although I feel compelled to inform her, nonetheless. Yes, I will accept whatever punishment she deems appropriate.)

* * *

Her Grace was most displeased of my recordings until I explained my intentions, and for that, I thank her for the opportunity to do so.

After consideration, and personal examination of the text, my Queen has given me permission to continue in an official capacity.

This, I did not expect. But I am relieved, not for my own life but for how she views the rather trivial matter of my documentations. But who am I to question Queen Daenerys on what is and is not trivial?

Her Grace is most enthusiastic in preserving her Prince Consort’s life, so that all may know what Prince Aegon sacrificed for the Seven Kingdoms.

(Note: I do not believe I deserve such leniency, but by Her Grace’s command, I will see it done to the best of my abilities.)

* * *

At the age of eight and ten, the Crown Prince took Valaena Waters – the natural daughter of Captain Aurane Waters (Her Grace’s Master of Ships), both belonging to House Velaryon – as his wife and Princess.

Their union, one kindled by love and friendship, solidified the Targaryen reign. Queen Daenerys’ heart never recovered from her husband’s untimely passing, and she never sought to replace him with another.

The gift from the Gods allowed her to focus her time and energy on repairing the realm and nurturing the young Prince to follow in his father’s footsteps. Prince Valerion took it in stride.

He will make for a fine King one day.

And I will be proud to see him wear his Queen mother’s crown, if I live to see it. Her Grace’s fire never seems to dull, while I feel my age most acutely.

* * *

It is a dark time on Dragonstone.

The Crown Prince has finally arrived. He needed to be here, for Her Grace wouldn’t rest until he did.

It is with the heaviest of hearts I write that Her Grace does not have much time left. Much has been achieved during her reign. Much has been set right after years of war. Much has been sacrificed to see the realm as one.

But now, she is ready. She has told me as much.

She wishes to see him again.

* * *

I have excused myself from the royal chambers.

Her Grace’s final moments should be with her family: the Crown Prince Valerion; his wife, Princess Valaena; and their three children: Princess Lyarra, Prince Aenar, and Princess Daenaera.

Yes, I will sit here in my study and wait… Wait for the call I dread, but know will come.

What a life Her Grace has lived! A struggle, to be sure. Of that, none will dispute. I daresay few could have endured what she has. But it is a life filled with joy, also. Pure joy, of the heart and spirit. If the Gods do exist, then I pray she will be rewarded for her service. She deserv--

A dragon’s roar rips through the night sky.

It has come, then.

Goodbye, my Queen.

* * *

King Valerion has claimed his Queen mother’s mount. Drogon was near inconsolable, but he was brought under control with a firm grip from his mother’s son.

I witnessed the entire island filled with Lords, Ladies, and smallfolk. It felt as if the entire Seven Kingdoms arrived to farewell their Queen, and usher in her son as King.

The royal family, however, was well aware there were those who sought to capitalise on this moment of heartache. I kept note of any I felt fit the description.

His Grace gave the command, and his Queen mother’s pyre was engulfed with dragonflame.

She will be missed dearly, but I take comfort in knowing His Grace carries her spirit within him.

May his reign be long.

* * *

I have asked His Grace if he could share Her Grace’s final words, if any. I realise the immense sensitivity – and frankly how disrespectful – of an inquest this is, but I think it’s prudent for Her Grace’s chronicles.

His Grace was, thankfully but not unexpectantly, obliging. He replied in High Valyrian – a lyrical language made for poetry, to be sure. I was ashamed to say that even after all these years in Her Grace’s service, my proficiency with the language remains rather lacking. Sorely so.

His Grace smiled and offered to transcribe what he felt was appropriate. Two words was all he wrote.

(Note: I have included His Grace’s handwritten note in the back of this journal.)

He recounted how the air was calm in Her Grace’s solar. She had spent the evening doting over her grandchildren, her son, and even her good-daughter.

By the time the moon was clear and radiant, however, Her Grace grew weak. It was then that His Grace knew his Queen mother had seen the sun set for the last time.

However, His Grace relayed that Her Grace still possessed great beauty, made all the more apparent when she was bathed in the moonlight. I, too, can attest to this. Her hair, in particular His Grace noted, took on a luminous quality. I am afraid I had to ask His Grace to pause so that I may dry my eyes.

He obliged, and once I had recomposed myself, he continued. There was little left of Her Grace’s story, but I feel it is the most important.

Her Grace’s final words were not meant for anyone within the solar. Not for her son, nor his children. No, but His Grace said he knew of whom she spoke to. He could feel this person there, despite having never met.

Her Grace reached out and whispered, “Ñuha jorrāelagon.”

His Grace, tearfully, translated it to mean, “My love.”