The Kingsroad stretched beneath a grey sky, heavy with rain, casting the Crownlands in a bleak light. weeks had passed since Vaegon Targaryen's work at Rosby, his hands still raw, his mind on the fragile green shoots piercing the ashen soil. Now, five wagons rolled south, creaking under sacks of salvaged grain, Rosby's partial first yield, vital for the starving people of King's Landing. Vaegon led the convoy, his black destrier's breath steaming in the cold, hooves sinking into mud churned by war. At his belt, the dragon-etched orb pulsed with warmth, a steady presence amid the realm's despair.
Ten guards flanked the wagons, Stepstones veterans in dented steel, led by Ser Gyles Morrigen, his scarred brow furrowed. At Vaegon's side rode Ser Barristan Selmy, the youngest Kingsguard at three-and-twenty, his white cloak billowing, a stark contrast to the gloom. His simple but deadly longsword gleamed at his hip, his green eyes alert. That morning, Jaehaerys, weak in his chamber, had rasped his order: "Secure the roads, the city starves." Barristan was sworn to see it done.
The land around them was a wasteland of blackened fields and skeletal trees. The Kingsroad was scarred with ruts and stained with blood. Crows wheeled overhead, their cries sharp. Vaegon's lilac eyes traced the treeline, bare oaks, their trunks hacked by scavengers, shadows twitching in the wind. "They're watching," he said, voice low, hand resting on his dragon-hilted longsword, its Valyrian steel a cold comfort.
Barristan nodded, helm tilting as he sniffed the air. "Aye, my prince. Bandits, war's leavings. They'll hit soon, grain's a king's ransom now." His gauntleted hand flexed on his reins, sword arm loose but ready. The wagons groaned behind them, axles creaking under the weight of burlap sacks, their drivers ,two gaunt smallfolk, hunching low, whips slack in trembling hands. Ser Gyles growled from the rear, "Eyes sharp, lads, roads bleed easy these days."
The ambush came at midday. A shout split the stillness, Take it!", and forty ragged figures erupted from the trees, a horde of war's festering remnants. Deserters in tattered mail, their sigils faded; smallfolk turned feral, faces gaunt with hunger; sellswords with notched blades and wild eyes, they surged, axes glinting, crude spears thrusting, screams tearing the air: "Kill 'em all!" The lead wagon lurched as a thrown axe bit its wheel, wood splintering, grain sacks tumbling into mud with a dull thud. Dust and ash swirled, kicked up by their charge, a grey veil over the chaos.
Vaegon's guards snapped into action, shields locking in a battered line under Ser Gyles's roar, "Hold the bastards!", steel clashing as the bandits slammed into them. An axe hacked a shield apart, its wielder, a wiry man with a pox-scarred face, driving it through a guard's gut, entrails spilling as he screamed, blood pooling in the mire. A spear punched through another's helm, the tip bursting out the back in a spray of crimson and bone, the man crumpling like a broken doll. Two down, the line buckling, shields splintering under the press, axes thudded, spears probed, cries choked off in wet gurgles.
Vaegon spurred forward, destrier rearing as he plunged into the fray, longsword flashing in a silver arc. "For the king!" he shouted, blade slashing down to meet a bandit, a hulking brute, axe notched with old blood, face a smashed ruin beneath rusted iron, beard matted with filth. The brute roared, spittle flying, "Die, silver bastard!", and swung, axe arcing to cleave Vaegon's skull. He parried, the blow jarring his arm to the shoulder, sparks spitting into mud, teeth rattling with the force. The bandit's strength was monstrous, his bellow shaking the air, but Vaegon held, steel grinding against steel.
Barristan charged beside him, sword drawn in a blur of silver. His blade sang, a high, lethal note, as he carved through a spearman lunging for Vaegon's flank, the man's chest splitting open, ribs splaying in a fountain of blood, collapsing with a gurgle.
"To the prince!". Barristan bellowed, wheeling his steed to slash another's throat, crimson arcing as the bandit fell, clutching a severed windpipe. His strikes were relentless, precise, felling a third with a thrust through the eye, the sellsword's scream cut short as he toppled into mud. The guards rallied, shields slamming, swords slashing, Ser Gyles beheaded a foe, blood arcing as the head rolled.
Vaegon ducked as the brute's axe swung again, the blade whistling past his ear, shearing a lock of silver-gold hair that fluttered to the ground. Time slowed the stench of sweat and blood, the slick churn of mud, the brute's ragged breath. He lunged, thrusting his longsword with both hands, driving it through leather and ribs, snap of bone, wet plunge into flesh, punching out the man's back in a flood of steaming gore.
Blood sprayed Vaegon's face, hot and coppery, stinging his eyes as the brute's roar choked to a gurgle, his weight dragging him down into the mire, pinning the sword. Vaegon wrenched it free with a sickening squelch, breath heaving as blood dripped from his chin.
The orb at his belt flared, and its voice thundered in his skull: "Task: Slay a Foe. Complete. Learn the Ritual of Kin." Visions flooded him, runes etched in blood, a circle aflame, his palm bleeding onto the orb, words echoing: "With my blood come my blood, my kin." An ash-grey-haired warrior rose in his mind, amber eyes glowing, his kin, to call when ready. The knowledge burned, and he staggered, dizzy with its weight, palm itching as if already cut.
The bandits pressed, axes hacking, spears thrusting, but Barristan was a tempest, blade slashing a sellsword's chest open, then beheading another in a clean stroke, the head bouncing into a wagon's wheel.
"Hold the line!" he roared, white cloak splattered red, guards surging as he cut a path, another fell, arm severed, howling as blood fountained. Vaegon swung, blade cleaving a bandit's shoulder, then another's neck, blood soaked the road. The foe broke, scattering into the woods with ragged cries, boots pounding earth in retreat, leaving ten of their own sprawled in mud.
Vaegon stood, chest heaving, sword trembling, blood crusting his face. Barristan reined in beside him, breathing hard. "Well fought, my prince," he said, voice steady despite the slaughter. "You've the heart of a dragon." He nodded to the wagons, two burned, their grain ash, three intact, sacks spilled but salvageable. Ser Gyles limped over, helm askew, blood streaking his face from a shallow cut. "Seven hells, we held," he rasped, spitting into mud. "But they'll regroup, more'll come."
Vaegon wiped his blade on a dead bandit's rags, sheathing it with a scrape, the orb's warmth pulsing with its locked ritual. "Load what's left," he ordered, voice raw but firm. "We ride for the Keep." The guards moved, dragging sacks, their eyes wide with exhaustion and awe, Barristan's carnage, Vaegon's stand. The Kingsguard mounted, cloak sodden with blood and rain, a white shadow at Vaegon's side as the convoy limped south, crows descending on the dead, their caws a grim hymn over the salvaged grain.
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By dusk, they reached the Red Keep. Blood crusted Vaegon's face, his silver-gold hair matted with mud and gore. His destrier snorted, hooves clopping unevenly on the cobblestones. Behind him, three wagons scarred from the clash limped through the gates, their wooden sides scarred, burlap sacks spilling grain. Servants rushed to unload them, whispers of the ambush spreading.
Vaegon dismounted, boots squelching in the mud, his cloak dragging heavy with the day's grime. He strode toward the royal apartments, Barristan a silent sentinel at his side. The orb pulsed at Vaegon's belt, its warmth seeping through leather, the ritual of kin locked in his mind, blood runes and fire waiting to be born. Guards parted before them, their spears clattering in salute, eyes wide with awe or fear, rumors of the Kingsroad clash already spreading through the Keep's shadowed halls.
They entered Jaehaerys's chamber, dim and heavy with the scent of sickness. The king lay pale and frail, silver hair dull, breath rattling in his chest. A brazier burned low in the corner, its embers casting a faint glow, filling the room with the scent of charred wood and the sharp tang of milk of the poppy. Shaera stood at his side, with a mother's pride warring with suspicion, her hands clasped tight to hide their tremor, clad in a gown of black and red, the colors of a house fraying at its edges.
Vaegon knelt before the bed, the stone floor cold through his mud-soaked breeches, his unbandaged palm hidden beneath his cloak. "The road's ours, Father," he said, voice raw from shouting over the clash. "Grain's saved, for now." His lilac eyes met Jaehaerys's, steady despite the ache in his chest, three wagons, a bitter victory, but enough to feed the city another day.
Jaehaerys stirred, a faint smile curling his lips, a ghost of the king he'd been. "Good, boy," he rasped, voice a threadbare whisper swallowed by the room's stillness, his hand twitching as if to reach for his son, falling short in exhaustion.
Shaera's gaze sharpened, eyes boring into Vaegon, pride glinting, suspicion coiling beneath it, her lips thinning to a bloodless line. She stepped closer. "You return a warrior," she said, voice low and edged, "but at what cost? Blood on your hands, mud on your name, is this the price of your innovations, or just a folly's?"
Her eyes flicked to the pouch at his belt, the orb's faint glow catching her notice, narrowing her stare, a mother's fear of forces she couldn't grasp. Vaegon held her look, unbowed, the orb's warmth a silent answer he wouldn't voice.
Aerys slouched in the doorway, purple eyes glinting with cruel amusement beneath a smirk that trembled at the edges. His doublet, red and black, embroidered with dragons, was rumpled, stained with wine, his breath sharp with its stink as he leaned against the frame. "Mud and blood, pathetic," he sneered, voice dripping scorn, a jagged laugh.
"What's next, brother? Plowing fields with that fancy sword? A farmer's crown for a dragon's heir?" His hand flicked dismissively, but his smirk faltered as Ser Barristan stepped forward, white cloak swaying, green eyes hard as flint.
Barristan's voice cut through, firm and unyielding, a blade sheathed in calm: "He fought like a king, my lord." The words landed heavy, silencing Aerys mid-breath, his sneer twitching as he flinched under the Kingsguard's stare, Barristan's helm under his arm, blood-streaked face a testament to the road's cost.
"I saw him take their leader, sword through the heart, blood to his elbows. The grain's here because of him." His tone brooked no argument, a knight's oath forged in the clash, and Aerys slumped back, muttering under his breath, eyes dark with envy darting to Vaegon's bloodied form.
Vaegon rose, mud flaking from his knees, the orb's pulse steadying his racing heart. Jaehaerys coughed and waved a frail hand, dismissal, gratitude, exhaustion. Shaera's lips parted, then closed, her suspicion unspoken. Aerys turned, storming out with a curse, his boots echoing down the hall. Barristan inclined his head to Vaegon, "Rest, my prince. You've earned it", and took post outside.
Vaegon lingered, eyes on his father's fading form, then left, the ritual's promise burning in his mind—blood, runes, kin to come.
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The air in the Red Keep hung thick with the scent of damp stone and charred wood, midnight casting its halls in uneasy shadow. The torches guttered low in their sconces, their embers barely clinging to life. Beneath the Tower of the Hand, in a long-forgotten chamber, Vaegon Targaryen stood alone. At twenty namedays, he bore the weight of blood and duty, his silver-gold hair matted with mud, lilac eyes fevered with exhaustion and resolve. Dried blood crusted his face from the Kingsroad ambush, a grim testament to the night's violence.
The chamber was a crypt of time's neglect, cracked walls streaked with moss, dragon reliefs half-swallowed by damp decay. His dragon-hilted Valyrian steel longsword rested against the wall, dulled with bandit gore, but his focus was fixed on the orb before him.
The orb's voice had thundered in his mind after the ambush, "Task: Slay a Foe. Complete. Learn the Ritual of Kin", and now its visions haunted him: runes etched in blood, a circle aflame, a warrior rising.
Vaegon drew his Valyrian steel dagger, its dragon-hilted blade glinting with a cold, otherworldly light, and set a worn parchment on the table. With trembling fingers, he sketched the runes from his vision, spirals like coiling serpents, jagged flames, claws curling inward, ink black against the yellowed page, each stroke a vow. The orb pulsed faster, its heat searing through the leather pouch at his belt, a living thing eager for blood.
Vaegon exhaled sharply, steadying himself. Then, with one swift motion, he slashed his palm.
A crimson line welled fast, hot and thick, and he clenched his fist, letting the blood drip onto the orb. Each drop hissed as it struck, the runes flaring brighter, drinking deep.
Kneeling, he smeared a rune-circle on the stone floor, five feet wide, jagged lines glistening wet in the dim light. The chamber swayed, pain throbbing up his arm, but he pressed on, gripping the orb with his bleeding hand. Its warmth melded with his flesh, a hunger that was not his own.
"With my blood come my blood, my kin," he intoned, voice raw and steady, the words from the orb's vision rolling off his tongue like a spell.
The runes ignited. Fire leaped skyward, red and gold, twisting like dragon's breath. The chamber trembled, the brazier's embers flaring as if recoiling. Smoke curled thick and acrid, sharp with the stench of molten steel and scorched flesh. Shadows writhed, taking shape, wings, claws, a face half-formed. The temperature plummeted, ice needling through Vaegon's sweat-dampened cloak.
From the pool of blood, the ritual took hold. The crimson liquid writhed, tendrils snaking upward, thickening into sinew and bone. The grotesque transformation unfurled before him: first a skeletal frame, blood mist knitting cartilage and muscle, then flesh layering over glistening red sinews. Veins pulsed visibly beneath translucent skin, arteries bulging as if pumped by an unseen heart. A skull emerged, ash-grey hair sprouting in damp clumps, matted with blood. Then the eyes, amber, burning like embers, blinked open.
The warrior grew taller, lean and sinewy, his form a patchwork of blood and shadow, his skin hardening to a pale, battle-worn complexion. Armor rose from the blood, dark steel etched with runes, its molten edges cooling to bronze. A longsword materialized in his grasp, blackened steel, its edge whispering as it solidified. The chamber pulsed with a low, guttural hum, the orb's runes flaring in time with the warrior's first, shuddering breath.
Aelthys stood before Vaegon, towering and unyielding. Ash-grey hair framed a face worn by war, its sharp angles lined with the faint ghosts of past battles. His amber eyes smoldered, deep-set beneath a furrowed brow. Blood dripped from his boots, the last remnants of Vaegon's sacrifice pooling at his feet. Slowly, he knelt, voice a rough growl, like forge-smoke curling in the dark.
"My prince, your kin."
Vaegon staggered back, his palm throbbing, his limbs weak, his blood now walked, shaped into something old, something terrible. The flames guttered out, leaving only charred stone where the rune-circle had burned. The chamber fell into heavy silence, broken only by Aelthys' steady breathing, a sound too human, too alive for what he was. The orb's glow faded to a dull pulse, its hunger sated… for now. But its runes whispered of more, more blood, more kin.
Lilac eyes met ember-bright gaze, a prince staring into the abyss of his own making. The weight of it settled in his chest, thick as smoke, cold as death. He sank to his knees, the stone biting against his bloodied hands.
"What have I done?" The words barely left his lips, raw and trembling.
He clutched the orb, its warmth now a mocking comfort. The dagger's hilt was slick with sweat, his grip unsteady. Aelthys remained silent, a sentinel of his own creation. Vaegon's breath came shallow, the chamber pressing in. Had he forged an ally, or had he set ruin upon himself?
{What do you guys think about the ritual ?}