The Son of Ice and Fire (Jon Snow SI)

Aegon gazed down at the lifeless body of Gerold Dayne, his friend…his oldest and truest friend. A surge of rage so consuming welled up within him that it threatened to engulf him entirely. The cold, vacant eyes of his once-loyal companion stared blankly at the ceiling. Aegon clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. 

He couldn't comprehend what had happened. His plan had been unfolding perfectly; everything was aligned for Maekar's downfall. Then, in the blink of an eye, it had all unraveled.

Maekar had escaped.

Gerold had nearly killed Joffrey.

Why?

None of it made sense.

What could have possibly possessed Gerold to attack Joffrey?

Why?

It was as if Gerold had not been himself, like a wild animal as he mauled Joffrey. Maekar had intervened, saving Joffrey, killing his oldest friend, and was now hailed as a hero for it. If not for Lord Tywin's assurances, Aegon would have believed he had lost the support of the Westerlands entirely.

"My prince," a timid voice interrupted his thoughts.

"My prince?" the servant girl called again, her voice trembling.

Aegon spun around, fury radiating from him.

The rage inside him exploded. Without thinking, he lashed out, striking her across the face with the back of his hand. She staggered sideways, letting out a muffled cry as she nearly fell, barely catching herself before her knees gave way.

His blood boiled. Aegon struck her again, and then again, her cries echoing with each blow, her face marked with bruises and trickles of blood. For a moment, he considered continuing until his rage was fully vented, until her screams silenced the chaos within him. But he stopped. He remembered the last time this had happened. He recalled how his mind had felt like it was splitting—the pressure, the weight of all he had to carry. He had almost broken then. He had almost killed the other girl.

"What is it?" he hissed, barely containing the venom in his voice.

The servant girl, trembling and holding back sobs, managed to whisper, "My prince... your uncle... Prince Doran is here."

Aegon exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself.

"Get out," he snarled, his tone as sharp as a blade.

Eyes wide and tears streaming, the servant girl hurried out of the room, her soft cries still echoing faintly as she left.

Aegon tried to breathe, to find some semblance of control. He had to think. He needed to understand. He turned his gaze back to Gerold's body, his mind spinning with questions and fury.

The silence in the room was unbearable.

After what felt like an eternity, he heard the faint sound of wheels rolling along the floor. Soon, Prince Doran Martell, his uncle, entered the room, being pushed by a servant in his specially made chair.

"Nephew," Doran greeted softly. He paused, taking in the sight of Gerold's lifeless body. "My condolences," he said, his voice sincere but guarded. "I understand that you and Ser Dayne were close."

Aegon did not answer. His gaze remained fixed on Gerold, his expression unreadable.

Doran wheeled himself closer, his expression calm but his eyes keenly observant as they studied Aegon.

He cleared his throat gently, as if to remind Aegon of his presence.

"Now is not the time to rage, Aegon," Doran said, his voice even, almost soothing. "There is too much at stake to let your emotions cloud your judgment."

Aegon remained silent, his eyes fixed on Gerold's lifeless form, the rage within him too great to be soothed by mere words.

Doran watched his struggle, his expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, he spoke again, his voice softer, almost reassuring. "Has Lord Tywin made any demands?" he asked, leaning back slightly in his chair, his fingers resting thoughtfully on the armrest.

Aegon's shoulders tensed. He turned to his uncle, his face a mask of barely contained fury. "He's asked for Gerold's head so it can be displayed at Casterly Rock," he said, his words clipped, as if they tasted bitter.

Doran nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. "Is that all?" he asked.

Aegon's face twisted with disbelief. He gestured toward Gerold's body, his voice rising in frustration. "That's all? This was my friend, Uncle! The man was my closest—"

Doran interjected, his voice firm, cutting through Aegon's words. "And would you risk angering Lord Tywin? Gerold was a friend, yes, but Tywin Lannister is an ally you cannot afford to lose. You must think beyond your emotions, Aegon. Your friend…attacked Joffrey Lannister, the heir to Casterly Rock…Heir to Lord Tywin You need Lord Tywin on your side if you wish to win this war."

Aegon glared at his uncle for a long moment, then turned away, looking back at Gerold.

Doran observed his struggle, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice softer, almost reassuring. "Do not concern yourself too much with Maekar," he said, his tone carrying a hint of something more—something that made Aegon turn toward him, a look of curiosity mixed with suspicion crossing his face.

"What do you mean?" Aegon asked, narrowing his eyes.

Doran gave a faint smile. "Maekar may have escaped your attempt today, but let us see if the gods are on his side tomorrow as well."

Aegon blinked, confused. "What are you saying?" he asked, his eyes searching his uncle's face for answers.

Doran leaned back, his fingers resting on the arm of his chair. "Join me today for the joust," he said. "Perhaps we will see what fate has in store for the ambitious, grasping Prince Maekar."

He offered no more details, his expression calm as he ordered his servant to turn his chair and wheel it toward the exit of the tent. Aegon watched him leave, the anger within him slowly giving way to curiosity.

Doran paused at the entrance, glancing over his shoulder at Aegon, his smile still in place. "Patience, nephew," he said quietly. "Patience, and the gods may smile upon us yet."

======

Aegon sat beside Doran, his face expressionless as he watched the jousts below. The crowd roared, but he barely heard them. His eyes were fixed on Maekar as he faced Arthur Dayne. With apparent ease, Maekar unseated Arthur, who landed heavily on the ground.

"He's good," Doran murmured beside him. Aegon glanced at his uncle, noting the slight tension in Doran's expression, as if things were not unfolding quite the way he had expected.

'Of course Maekar will survive whatever his uncle has planned as well,' Aegon thought bitterly. The hatred he felt for his brother twisted deeper. He turned his gaze toward the royal box, seeing his sister and aunt seated together. The sight only worsened his mood.

Rhaenys had made her allegiances clear. Three days ago, her actions had left no doubt where she stood when she publicly sat with Maekar.

He didn't need her. She was barely important—something to be traded away when it was all done.

His attention shifted back to the field. The next match was about to begin. His uncle Oberyn, the Red Viper, rode onto the field, resplendent in his gilded armor that gleamed under the sun.

He watched, the tension building. Oberyn was skilled; of that there was no doubt. But would he be enough? Maekar had defeated his opponents so easily, even the great Arthur Dayne. Surely, whatever plan Doran had set into motion should take effect soon.

To his surprise, Maekar struggled. Aegon blinked, watching as Oberyn held his ground, as Maekar's movements seemed strained, sluggish.

"It seems to be working," Doran whispered, leaning in, his voice barely audible over the crowd's excitement. Aegon's heart thudded in his chest, his eyes widening.

'Poison,' Aegon thought, his mind immediately jumping to the answer. It was poison. His uncle had done it. Perhaps, at long last, this day would end with Maekar defeated.

Yet it didn't. Despite the struggle, despite the faltering in his movements, Maekar somehow pulled through. He defeated Oberyn in a final tilt, knocking him from his horse with sheer determination.

Aegon's heart sank. His hands clenched into fists, frustration threatening to spill over. He stood up, ready to leave, his heart filled with anger and disappointment, but he felt Doran's hand on his arm, stopping him.

"Look," Doran said. Aegon turned back, and he saw it—Maekar, still atop his horse, suddenly seemed to sway. His body slumped, and then, before anyone could react, he fell from his saddle, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

Doran smiled, a victorious gleam in his eyes. He patted Aegon on the arm, his voice filled with satisfaction. "It worked," he said.

Aegon could hardly believe it. He looked at his uncle, then back at the field where Maekar lay motionless. A smile began to form on his lips. This was it—Maekar was dead. There would be no need for war, no more splitting of loyalties, no more threats of rebellion. He had won. Yes, perhaps some of the traitors would escape punishment for now, but there would still be time. He would deal with them later, once his reign began.

He allowed himself to relax, the tension easing from his body. Yes, this was it. He had won.

But then, the sound came.

A roar. A sound so loud and otherworldly that it seemed to shake the very air. The audience, moments ago jubilant, fell into silence. Doran turned to him, his face paling, his eyes wide with shock.

"What was that?" Doran asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Aegon's breath caught in his throat. He didn't answer. He couldn't. But deep down, he knew what it was. He knew that sound too well, though he had tried to bury the memory, to push it far from his mind.

Another roar echoed, louder this time. Aegon felt his entire body go cold, a shiver running down his spine. His eyes turned skyward, and there, casting a shadow over the entire grounds, was the dark silhouette of a dragon descending from the clouds.

The same dragon that had nearly killed him. Euron's dragon—the one he had hoped to tame, to bond with. It was here.

"My prince, we have to go," one of Doran's guards urged, his voice panicked.

"Aegon, come," Doran said, his own voice betraying fear.

Aegon ran, his heart pounding, panic coursing through every fiber of his being. He didn't know where his uncle was, nor his own guards. The chaos around him was overwhelming—the cries of lords, the shrieks of ladies, the frantic scuffle of feet all trying to flee. He was limping, his legs weak and unsteady, his muscles screaming in protest. His body not completely healed, and now, as he tried to escape, sharp pain shot up from his leg with each desperate step.

He looked up, his eyes wide in terror. The dragon—it was there, flying above him, its enormous wings beating with power. The gusts of wind generated by each wingbeat sent ripples of force crashing through the fleeing crowd, nearly knocking Aegon off balance. He stumbled, gasping, his heart slamming against his ribcage. He forced himself upright, trying to move forward.

The beast was immense, its scales dark as a stormy night. Its eyes—a deep, glowing green—were so vivid that Aegon felt himself almost caught in them, as though the beast's gaze had found him, locked onto him. His chest tightened, breath catching in his throat. A chill reached down into his very soul.

Euron's ritual... The thought struck him, quick and cold like a dagger. The ritual Euron had planned—to bind the dragon to his will, to make the beast his weapon. What if the dragon was here for him? What if the dragon was bonded to him now?

Aegon's mind raced, panic turning to an almost primal fear. His breathing grew ragged, his legs barely holding him up. He couldn't stay there; he had to move.

The dragon let out another earth-shattering roar, a sound so deep and monstrous that Aegon felt it reverberate in his bones. The cries of the crowd grew more desperate, more frenzied, as nobles, guards, and servants scattered in all directions, driven by pure terror.

He looked around, his eyes searching desperately for his guards. Finally, he spotted them, their armor glinting amidst the fleeing mass of people. He waved them over, his arm trembling. "Here!" he shouted, his voice cracking. He needed to be carried. His legs couldn't take much more of this—his old wounds ached, the pain nearly unbearable.

Just as the guards reached him, another powerful gust of wind hit. The dragon flapped its massive wings, ascending higher, and the force of it was like a physical blow. Dust and debris flew into the air, the powerful gust sending people stumbling. Aegon felt himself lose balance—his body tipping forward, vision blurring as he tried to right himself.

But his legs gave out. He fell heavily, the ground rushing up to meet him. He hit hard, the impact jarring, his head slamming into the packed earth. Pain exploded in his skull, and for a moment, everything blurred—shadows and light spinning together in a dizzying haze.

The world around him began to fade, the sounds growing dim. He was vaguely aware of someone lifting him, strong hands grasping his shoulders, his body being hauled upward.

=====

Aegon woke to the soft rustle of silks and the distinct scent of roses. The green and gold colors surrounding him, along with the lush, almost overwhelming decorations, confirmed it: he was in the Tyrell tents. His head pounded, and his body ached as he shifted slightly.

"My love, you're awake," a voice called softly. Aegon turned his head and saw Margaery, her face filled with a mixture of relief and concern. Her presence, her familiar warmth, calmed him, his scattered thoughts beginning to coalesce.

"How long?" he rasped, his throat dry.

"Six... seven hours," Margaery replied, gently lifting a small bowl of water to his lips. He sipped slowly, the coolness soothing his parched throat.

She continued, "Everyone is here—all the lords. They just arrived." Worry clouded her eyes as she looked at him.

Aegon forced himself upright, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head. "Announce that I am coming," he ordered, his voice growing stronger.

Margaery hesitated, her hands hovering as if she wished to push him back down. "Please, rest, my love," she said softly, genuine concern etched on her face.

"No." His voice was firm. He had no time for rest. The realm was slipping from his fingers, and he had to be the one to grasp it before it fell apart. He turned his gaze back to Margaery, giving her a small nod. "Announce that I am coming."

She watched him for a heartbeat longer, then nodded reluctantly and rose to leave the room. As she departed, Aegon took a deep breath, gathering himself. He slowly got out of bed, pain shooting through him, but he ignored it. He washed his face, trying to rid himself of the weariness that clung to his body, then adjusted his tunic, ensuring he looked presentable—no, not just presentable, commanding.

He finally walked out, his body stiff and heavy. The tent was grand, filled with his supporters—Lord Tywin, Edmure, Mace, Stannis, his uncles Doran and Oberyn, Lady Olenna, and many others. As he entered, he sensed the tension in the air. The lords looked fearful, their eyes shifting uneasily, their conversations filled with low murmurs.

Their discussion grew louder as one of the lords, an older man with a quavering voice, spoke. "A dragon, my lords. What...?" He stopped mid-sentence when he saw Aegon enter, his presence silencing them all.

They turned, bowing respectfully, murmuring their greetings, but Aegon was not in the mood for pleasantries. He walked straight to the center, his voice cutting through the silence. "What happened while I was..." His voice was sharp, demanding answers.

Lord Tywin stepped forward, his face stern as always. "We have lost control," he said without preamble. "Something happened to your father, the king. Your brother, it seems, has taken him back to King's Landing."

Aegon's eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest. "What?" he barked, his face flushed with anger and disbelief. "What happened to Father?" He shook his head, trying to make sense of Tywin's words. "Maekar recovered," he thought aloud, confusion clouding his features as he glanced at his uncle Doran, who looked equally frustrated.

Lord Tywin continued, his voice unwavering, "There are rumors... that your father may be dead."

Aegon felt the world tilt around him, the words reverberating in his mind. "Father... dead?" he whispered, barely able to comprehend it.

Lady Olenna leaned forward. "From how your brother acted—taking His Grace back to the city—it does seem that Lord Tywin may be correct," she said.

Aegon slumped into the nearest chair, his legs giving way. His mind was spinning. His father, gone?

Suddenly, Edmure Tully's voice cut through the growing tension, filled with panic. "No one cares that a dragon—a seven-damned dragon—appeared?" he shouted, his voice trembling.

The tent broke into loud murmurs and arguments, fear clear in their voices. "A dragon..." The words were repeated over and over, filled with disbelief, fear, and confusion. The lords were losing their composure; fear seemed to spread like wildfire.

Tywin raised a hand, his voice calm and cold. "Yes, my lord, but the dragon is gone. Currently, it is not important."

Soon the tent spiraled into chaos.

"A dragon at Prince Maekar's side? Gods, it will be another Field of Fire!" one voice exclaimed, trembling.

"We can't stand against a dragon," another lord muttered, his face pale. "He'll burn us all."

"Is it bonded to him?" someone else asked, their voice a mix of terror and disbelief. "How did he manage to find it?"

The murmurs grew darker, defeat looming among them.

'No, he needed to stop this,' Aegon thought, hearing the direction this was heading.

"THE DRAGON!" he roared, his voice cutting through the noise, commanding silence. The lords turned to look at him.

"The dragon," Aegon repeated, his tone level, his gaze sharp as it swept across the gathered nobles. He paused, letting the silence hang for a moment. "I have seen it before."

A ripple of shock went through the room, murmurs starting again, this time with curiosity mixed with fear.

Aegon took a steadying breath, trying to focus his scattered thoughts before finally raising his voice over the frantic murmurs of the lords.

"I have seen this dragon. Euron Greyjoy was searching for this very dragon on Skagos. That was why he captured me—to use me in some twisted ritual. He needed me, needed my blood, to bond it to himself."

The room fell into stunned silence.

Edmure was the first to break it, his voice hesitant. "If this dragon was part of Euron's plan, could it have bonded with you instead?" he asked, his eyes widening as the realization settled on his face.

Aegon paused, his mind racing. The lords took his silence as an answer.

"It makes sense!" one of the Crownlands lords said, excitement breaking through the tension. "Of course it bonded to Prince Aegon—he is the true prince of the blood."

"Yes, the true heir," echoed another. "The dragon recognized its true master."

They began speculating further, their voices overlapping.

"No," someone muttered darkly. "What if it's bonded to Maekar?"

"That bastard?" Mace Tyrell scoffed, loud enough for all to hear. "Maekar isn't a true dragon. He's a half-savage."

"Yes, even Princess Elia's blood carried the blood of Old Valyria through Marriage. Her lineage is true, unlike Lyanna Stark's," another lord added.

"That is true," Oberyn confirmed.

Aegon listened, his thoughts twisting. Was it possible? Could the dragon have been there for him? His heartbeat quickened as he considered it. If Maekar had truly bonded with it, he would have shown it off already—rebelled without hesitation. And if his father were to see a dragon at Maekar's side... he would name Maekar the crown prince without delay.

No. Aegon convinced himself that the dragon was his. It had to be. He had survived Euron's twisted games, and now the dragon had come for him. He just needed to find it again.

But Lord Stannis's voice cut into his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. "Like Lord Tywin says," Stannis said, his tone stern, "at this moment, the dragon itself is not important. The priority is determining what has happened to King Rhaegar. We need to return to the capital. If His Grace has died, Aegon must be crowned—if not, he still lives, declared regent."

Edmure shook his head, looking skeptical. "King's Landing is controlled by Maekar, and if the king is dead, Maekar could easily take us hostage."

A new wave of argument broke out, the lords talking over one another.

"The people of King's Landing will do their duty," one of the lords declared. "They'll pledge to the rightful heir."

"You don't understand," a Crownlands lord interjected with a nervous expression. "Prince Maekar is beloved in the city. King's Landing is his fortress."

Tywin, whose patience was clearly wearing thin, spoke sharply. "Prince Aegon," he said, capturing Aegon's attention.

"You should go to Highgarden. We need to leave here now and gather our forces. Maekar's Lords are doing the same. If we wait any longer, it will be too late."

Olenna nodded, her expression grim. "Many lords have left to gather their strength. We are already behind."

Stannis tried once more, his voice insistent. "We should avoid war, Lord Tywin. We should march to King's Landing and try to claim it peacefully."

Edmure sneered. "And what? Be taken hostage the moment we arrive? Maekar will have won without a fight if we're all sitting in chains in the dungeons."

Aegon closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to regain his composure. The words cut through him—about his father, about Maekar.

"Enough," he said finally, his voice rising over the din. "That time is long past. If my father is dead or near death, there is no time to waste. I will go to Highgarden and prepare myself. War is upon us." His voice hardened, his expression turning resolute. "Marshal your forces. Gather our strength. With luck," he said, his voice growing in confidence, "I will lead you all—on a dragon."

A cheer broke out among the lords. "King Aegon!" a few of them shouted, and others joined in, calling out "Aegon the Sixth!"

Aegon allowed himself a smile.

Today, he would begin a new age for his house—a second golden age. But first, he needed to kill his bastard brother.

.

.

.

Maekar awoke to the familiar, hazy surroundings of the dreamscape. His senses felt both heightened and blurred simultaneously.

Upon spotting Brynden standing near a shadowy weirwood tree, the first words that spilled from Maekar's mouth were, "Where am I? What happened?"

Brynden regarded him coolly with his single red eye, the empty socket on the other side staring blankly. He sighed before answering, his tone brusque.

"You are in King's Landing, recovering," Brynden replied. "Your father is barely alive."

"Your sister and your aunt took the initiative. Everyone believes you are healthy and well because your sworn shield led the procession taking your father, wearing your armor."

"Oh..." Maekar exhaled, a wave of relief washing over him. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

But Brynden's expression did not soften. Instead, his eye narrowed. "You were careless, Maekar," he said, his voice laced with disapproval.

Maekar frowned, his relief quickly dissipating. "No, I survived because I was careful," he retorted defensively. The poison had not killed him—it had almost—but his preparation, the antidotes, the foresight—that was what had kept him alive.

Brynden's lips thinned, and with a sudden shift, the dreamscape changed. It wasn't gradual; it snapped into place like a sudden plunge into icy water. The strange swirling mist vanished, and they were inside his tent at the tourney.

"Look," Brynden said, gesturing toward the tent.

Maekar turned and watched the scene unfold. There was his goblet of wine, the deep red liquid shimmering slightly in the candlelight. A figure moved into view—a woman, a very familiar woman.

He watched as the woman carefully poured a liquid into the goblet.

"That bitch..." he muttered.