Chapter Text
King's Landing
Red Keep
157 AC
The room brimmed with the sharp scent of medicines, shadows dancing in the flickering candlelight as King Aegon III lay in bed, his breaths ragged and punctuated by coughs that splattered crimson onto his linen sheets. At a mere whisper of his years, the king felt the hands of time tightening their grip on him, each moment shared with the bitter taste of mortality. Beside him, Queen Daenaera Valeryon clasped his hand, her fingers trembling, her eyes pools of desperation as she implored him to fight the inevitable.
In the corner, their son Daeron stood rigid, his expression masked in stoic resolve, while Baelor murmured soft prayers, each syllable dripping with hope. Daena stood with her sisters Elaena and Rhaena, her silent support broken only when Rhaena's voice, quivering like a fragile leaf, broke through the gloom.
"Don't leave us, Father," Rhaena pleaded, her voice a fragile whisper filled with a mix of fear and love.
Within him, Aegon yearned to soothe his daughter’s fears, to wrap her in the warmth of his words, but the strength he had relied on his entire life was ebbing away like the last rays of a setting sun. He mustered all his dying will, his voice rough as gravel, "It's alright, Rhaena. Be strong for your mother and your siblings. They will need you."
As acceptance washed over him like a tide, Aegon reflected on the tapestry of his existence, woven with strands of triumphs and woven more tightly with the sorrows of loss. Just then, the door creaked open, and in strode Prince Viserys, the younger brother who had always been his anchor in tumultuous seas, accompanied by his children: Prince Aegon, Prince Aemon, and Princess Naerys, who cradled her little one, Daeron, like a fragile vase.
"Brother..." Viserys said. "The Realm will mourn you. But we are certain to mourn you."
Aegon smiled weakly. "I know, brother. I trust that you'll guide Daeron after I am gone. You have been loyal to me, to the family, and to the Realm."
Viserys' eyes glistened with tears, and he nodded. "You have my word."
The King turned his gaze to his wife, his voice barely audible. “Daenaera… forgive the ghost you married. I should have given you joy.”
She choked on a sob. “You gave me a kingdom, Aegon. I only ever wanted your heart.”
Then, his head tilted.
The world fell away in an instant.
She stood there. Pale as moonlight, garbed in the sheer shimmer of memory. Long white hair flowed like snow in the breeze, her violet eyes endless pools of sorrow. Jaehaera Targaryen. His cousin. His first queen. The girl who had leapt from Maegor’s Holdfast’s tower so long ago, her mind shattered by pain no soul could heal.
And now, she watched him.
Aegon gasped. “Jaehaera?”
Daenaera’s eyes went wide. “Who is he speaking to?”
He pushed himself upright, though every bone in him screamed. “Don’t you see her?” His voice grew urgent. “She stands right there. She’s watching.”
Everyone froze.
The children shifted, glancing at one another, unnerved.
“There is no one there, Father,” Daeron said gently, concern clouding his brow.
Viserys stiffened, blinking hard. “Brother—what did you say?”
“She’s standing there… don’t you see her?” Aegon lifted a trembling hand. His eyes, long clouded by sickness and sorrow, shone clear for a heartbeat. “She’s watching me.”
Prince Aegon scoffed under his breath, whispering to Aemon, “He’s mad. The sickness has touched his mind.”
Aemon said nothing. But his jaw clenched.
Little Daeron whimpered, burying his face into Naerys’ gown. “Make him stop… he’s scaring me…”
“She is right there!” Aegon shouted, his voice breaking. “Jaehaera! You came back!”
But she did not speak. The ghost only watched, her expression soft, distant, as if waiting for something.
Aegon reached toward her and fell back.
His chest heaved. The pain ripped through him like claws. Blood bubbled on his lips. Darkness rose.
And then… nothing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aegon opened his eyes.
But he did not see the Seven Heavens—or the black beyond. He saw a dim room filled with strange, curling shadows and smelled the rich scent of myrrh and blood.
A woman sat before him.
She was old, ancient even, her eyes milky with time, her hair white as bone. She wore a robe of tattered red and silver, and around her neck hung a curious pendant shaped like a dragon devouring its tail.
“You died,” the witch said softly. “And yet here you are.”
Aegon sat up, gasping, heart hammering. “Where am I?”
“Between moments,” she replied. “Where truths are shown. Where the paths of dragons cross.”
“Why did you call me back?”
“Because your story is not over. You have been given a choice. A gift, if you would call it so. A return.”
Aegon blinked. “To what?”
“To a time before all was lost. Before the line twisted and fell into madness. You may go back—to her.”
“Jaehaera,” he breathed.
“Yes. You never loved Daenaera… not like you did her. And still, your line—your children—lived and died for the peace you carved from ashes. But House Targaryen withers regardless. Viserys’ line lived on, and eventually… crumbled.”
The air around them shimmered. She waved her hand and the air became a window:
Aegon saw Daeron’s early death… Baelor’s obsession with the Faith… the crown passed to Viserys’ Aegon… then madness, fire, more children cloistered, more dragons gone.
“And then… the end. Aerys. Rhaegar. Robert’s Rebellion. Ashes.”
Aegon stared in horror. “No…”
“You were the last true peace. But now… a new thread may be spun. Choose again.”
She handed him a glass hourglass filled with red sand.
“Use it wisely. You have one chance to stop time. One.”
He stared at the hourglass. “Why give me this?”
“To make better choices. Or worse. That is up to you.”
The world exploded in light.