Red Keep, Morning After the Oath
The Red Keep was quiet at dawn, the fog was pressing thick against my chamber window in the Tower of the Hand.
I leaned on the sill, silver-gold hair a mess from a night of broken sleep, my black tunic creased and damp with sweat.
The orb hung at my belt, its heat was a steady ache, it became sharper since I'd sworn to Rhaella last night—"We'll bear it"—and my wrist throbbed under the bandage, a reminder of what I'd done to call Aelthys. I didn't tell her that part—I couldn't, —and the weight of it sat heavy, like a stone in my gut.
Rhaella's voice from Father's room echoed—share it with me and don't burn alone—and I wanted to, but showing her Aelthys meant letting her close to something I didn't fully trust myself.
She'd pressed me again last night, quiet but firm: "Tomorrow, Vaegon—I need to see him." I'd said Rosby at dawn, i was too worn to argue and now I wondered if I'd regret it.
A soft knock pulled me from the haze. I opened the door, and Rhaella stood there, her red gown muted in the gray light, silver hair loose under a shawl. Her violet eyes were tired, it seems she didn't sleep much either. "You're up," I said, my voice rough, and stepped aside to let her in.
"Couldn't rest," she said as was slipping in, her shawl brushing my arm as she moved to the low fire in the hearth.
She rubbed her hands, staring at the embers. "After last night, i kept thinking about Aelthys. You said i'll se him at dawn at Rosby. Well here i am Vaegon—let's go." Her tone was calm and worn, not pushing hard, just needing something solid.
I shut the door, leaning against it, my was chest tight. "Yeah," I said, slow, scratching my wrist through the bandage. "We'll ride out to see him with Gyles' men. He's doing his job by guarding the fields,. But Rhaella…" I met her gaze, hesitating. "He's not like the others— he is hard to pin down. So you sure?"
She turned, firelight catching her face, and gave a small but certain nod. "I swore it—to your Father, to you. If he's part of this, I need to know who I'm standing with." Her voice stayed soft, but there was a thread of steel in it, a need I couldn't sidestep.
"Alright," I said, grabbing my cloak from the chair. "Get yours—we'll go now." The orb's heat flared as I moved and we left, her steps quiet beside mine, the Keep stirring slow around us.
Rosby, Midmorning
The ride to Rosby was hushed, just the creak of leather and hooves thudding soft on the Kingsroad. Fog draped the fields—two hundred acres of wheat, rye, and turnips, green and gold, my work holding up just nice.
Gyles' men were at the holdfast when we arrived, thirty veterans in battered steel, stacking grain sacks from the latest cut. Smoke drifted from a firepit, the air cold and sharp with straw and frost.
Gyles met us at the gate, his scar deep in the morning chill, dark cloak stiff. "my Prince," he said, nodding, then glanced at Rhaella, brow lifting. "my Lady. The fields are safe—raiders haven't come back since Aelthys hit 'em. He's by the barn, keeping eyes out." His voice was steady, rough, but his look lingered on me—why's she here?
"Take us to him," I said, sliding off my horse, steadying Rhaella as she dismounted. Her hand brushed mine, quick and warm, then pulled away.
Gyles led us past the men, their eyes were flicking up—some nodded and some muttered "Cropbringer"—and I felt it settle on me, heavier with her there.
Aelthys stood by the barn, tall and still, ash-grey hair damp under his hood, his amber eyes catching the light as he turned.
His blackened steel sword leaned against the wall, blood dried on his boots from the last fight. He didn't shift, he just watched, and the air around him felt off—it was too quiet, too cold.
Rhaella slowed, her breath hitching. "Him," she said, her voice low, staring. "Aelthys." She stepped forward, cautious but not backing off, and I stayed close, the orb's heat pressing my side.
"My lady," Aelthys said in a deep voice and rough, dipping his head. "I guard the prince's work—the fields and the grain." He didn't move beyond that, just stood, and I saw her take him in—the stillness, the eyes, like something is not right.
She looked at me, then back at him. "Fifteen dead," she said, quiet, not asking, just saying it. "Gyles' men say you moved too fast, faster than them. So where'd you come from?" Her voice held steady, curious more than scared, and I tensed.
Aelthys glanced at me, waiting, and I nodded, keeping it tight. "I found him after the war," I said, smooth as I could, the lie practiced. "very well Trained, loyal and worth more than most. He's here for us." My hand stayed still, away from the orb, and I hoped she wouldn't push.
Her brow creased, eyes flicking between us. "Found him," she repeated, soft, like she was tasting the words. "He's… different, Vaegon. Not like Gyles' men—something's off about him. Do You trust him?" She wasn't accusing, just digging, and I felt the orb humming low and steady.
"Yeah," I said, meeting her gaze. "He's saved the grain and saved us. I trust him to do his job." It wasn't a lie, not really—he was mine, bound tight, but the how stayed locked in my head, the blood and runes a secret I couldn't spill.
She nodded, slow, like she was turning it over, then looked back at Aelthys. "Keep the fields safe," she said, simple, her voice carrying a quiet weight. He dipped his head again, silent, and she stepped back, closer to me, her shawl brushing my arm.
Gyles walked up, wiping frost from his hands. "He's a blade worth a dozen," he said, gruff, nodding at Aelthys. "Men're still edgy—say he's too quick, too cold. But the grain's here because of him. Where'd you dig him up, Prince?" His dark eyes were blunt, steady, digging like Rhaella's but rougher.
"Stepstones," I said again, short, sticking to it. "He fought with us and stood out. He's ours now." Gyles grunted, accepting it for the moment, though his frown said he wasn't sold. He turned back to the men, barking orders, and I glanced at Rhaella.
"Enough?" I asked, my voice low. She looked at me, violet eyes searching, then nodded, small.
"For now," she said, quiet. "He's yours—I see that. But Vaegon… whatever he is, if it's breaking you, tell me okay ? We swore it after all." Her hand rested light on my arm, warm through the cloak, and I felt a knot ease, just a bit.
"Deal," I said, voice rough, managing a half-smile. She didn't smile back, but she stayed there, watching the fields with me, the grain standing tall against the fog.
Aerys Targaryen
Red Keep, Afternoon
I slouched in my chambers, the stone walls damp and cold, torchlight flickering weak. The dinner two nights back—Vaegon's steady voice, Rhaella's soft looks, Father's wheezing favor—gnawed at me, and now Rosby talk was everywhere: Aelthys, fifteen dead, too fast. I'd cornered her last night and told her the truth that it was sorcery, not steel—and she'd brushed it off, stubborn.
My blood simmered, purple eyes narrow as I paced, my black tunic wrinkled, dark stains on the sleeve from wine.
I grabbed a flagon from the table—sour Dornish red—and took a long pull, the taste sharp on my tongue.
Vaegon had her, the throne, everything, and I'd rot in his shadow unless I hit back. I slammed the flagon down, wood creaking, and headed for the library looking for old scrolls, Valyrian scraps, something to twist against him.
The library was dim, dust thick, shelves heavy with parchment and leather. I pulled down Chronicles of Valyria, flipping it open fast, eyes scanning the faded High Valyrian.
There—"Shadows rise from old rites, swift and fierce, bound to a will that wanes." No names, no orb, but close—shadows like Aelthys, tied to someone fading. I smirked, tearing the page, tucking it into my tunic. It's not proof, but a start.
I'd take it to Father later, let it fester—Vaegon's pet wasn't natural, and I'd make them see. Rhaella'd have to listen when I had more, you either pick me or sink. I left, boots scuffing the stone, my head buzzing with wine and spite—Vaegon wouldn't bury me, not without a fight.