Chapter Text
Aegon Targaryen
Estel, where are you? I need you!
He poured considerable energy and focused it into their bond to send his plea, but he received no reply. This was becoming more concerning by the day. At first, he had assumed she was merely cross with him. Observing from their mutual bond but still abstaining from directly intervening. Now, he was sure she was completely removed. The ring still hummed from time to time, indicating spellcasting by Estel.
But she never responded.
Aegon was sure this no tantrum and something had happened. Something that was currently beyond his scope to deal with. His knuckles whiten and teeth grit with impotent fury. There was naught he could do but prepare for her arrival. And there was no better way to do that than make allies. What had started as a brief, chance encounter with Edmund had led to a new strategy entirely.
An alchemist was well worth their weight in gold and Edmund had proven his competency.
For what he had planned, Aegon knew he would allies. Not just brave and loyal men to form shield walls or to brave the ramparts. No, to birth an entirely new epoch free from the tyranny and decay of yore, he would need talented men. Learned men of letters, magic, science, and open minds. Luckily for him, the House of Undying was filled with such young men who were being treated like cattle.
Although his capture was a crisis that enraged Estel, the longer he thought about it. The more he was certain that this was not an imprisonment, but a great buffet. And he was one hungry, hungry dragon showing up early.
Predicament
Aegon paused in his writing, the quill hovering above the parchment. His head ached from the long hours spent transcribing the morbid texts on blood magic for Master Pree. He sighed in frustration and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Gryff, I beg you, the boy has potential,” Edmund pleaded. “Just one chance.”
Had they not burdens enough already?!
“Edmund, I am sorry, but the boy is in Master Riaz’s group,” Aegon said. “We do not want that kind of attention on our activities. Do you not wish to be free of this hell soon enough?”
The boy flinched and pursed his lips, frustration plain upon his face at Aegon’s casual dismissal of his friend’s life.
“How on earth do you even know him?” Aegon asked. “I have never seen you leave my side ever since that day and the warlocks weren’t keen on us exploring the tower earlier.”
“We were on the slave ships together,” Edmund said. He fiddled with the hem of his tunic, still struggling to frame his thoughts. “Due to our cooperation, we were allowed to mop the floors on the upper decks. That is where I knew him from.”
“You seem hesitant to voice that,” Aegon said, finally locking his purple eyes on the boy, who squirmed beneath the attention. For additional effect, Aegon let his eyes glow faintly and dared the boy to look away. “You would not be hiding things from me now, would you, Edmund?”
Edmund was powerless to resist. “N-no, G-gryff.”
“Then why the hesitation?” Aegon said, an edge sharpening his voice as he closed the books with a loud thump that made the other boy jump in his chair.
“I-its j-just t-tha-at,” Edmund stuttered before swallowing hard and gathering his courage. “People did not take too kindly to us getting special treatment. They thought if we kept annoying the slavers, we could have escaped the ship.”
Aegon said nothing, and the silence made the boy grow more tense.
“Do you consider me a traitor, Aegon?” Edmund asked at last.
“Not at all,” Aegon said, visibly shocking him. “You were outnumbered and outsmarted. Any acts of open rebellion would have only made your situation worse.”
“Oh,” Edmund said simply. “I thought given... well, you know... you would have thought the situation dishonorable.”
Aegon snorted at that. “Your masters, the slavers, nor the warlocks give one whit about fairness. Why subject yourself to such chains?”
He shook his head and continued. “Still, I am not sure it is wise to approach one of Riaz’s get.”
Edmund licked his lips. Aegon sensed the boy had one more card left to play.
“The boy is of Rhoynar. He knows the ways of the water lore,” Edmund said.
That seized Aegon’s attention at once. He gestured for the boy to continue.
The Heist
The night lay thick and heavy over the tower as Aegon and Edmund moved like shadows, keeping low and close to the cold stone walls. They crept toward the upper chambers where Master Riaz kept his blood harem chained.
Unlike Pyat Pree, who trusted too much in his own concoctions, Riaz was a more careful man. Two bored mercenaries stood guard at the approach, leaning on their spears with heavy-lidded eyes, half-asleep in the summer night.
Edmund pressed close. “Gryff, what is our play?”
Aegon gave no answer. Instead, he reached beneath his robes and drew out a short bow and a single arrow.
Edmund’s eyes widened in the gloom. “Where did you get that?!”
Aegon did not reply. He nocked the arrow, drew, and loosed in one fluid motion. The shaft took the first guard through the throat with a wet thud. Before the man could fall, the second arrow followed, punching into the other mercenary’s neck. Both guards crumpled without a cry, their spears clattering softly against the stone.
Aegon turned to Edmund and tossed him a rich robe, the kind worn by Warlock Moro’s disciples. Edmund caught it and gave him a puzzled look, the fabric dangling from his hands. Aegon fixed him with a hard glare. The boy swallowed, said nothing more, and began stripping off his own clothes at once to don the disguise.
Thankfully, Edmund didn’t ask any further questions as they crept deeper into the tower. The guards had keys on their vests with which they entered and were immediately slapped with an unnatural chill that emanated from the tower with faint screams and maniacal laughter greeting them.
Edmund stiffened and backpedalled before Aegon caught him from the back of his neck and forced him forward.
“A bit too late to bail on me now, brother,” Aegon said and took a deep breath. “I am blood of the dragon, chosen by the One Ring. I fear not the petty machinations of pitiful warlocks.”
He shot a look back to Edmund. “Follow me as my friend, Edmund. Abandon me here, and you leave as my enemy.”
With a grunt Aegon walked inside.
A Living Hell
The chill struck them as soon as they crossed the threshold.
Aegon felt it bite through the stolen robe and settle beneath his skin. The chamber beyond was darker than the corridor behind them, lit only by thin blue flames trembling in wall niches. The air stank of old blood and rotting flesh, thick enough that Edmund gagged before he could stop himself.
Aegon caught him by the arm. Not a word, he mouthed.
Edmund nodded quickly, but the color had already fled his face.
They stepped deeper into Master Moro’s house of horrors.
The stone changed beneath their feet. It was slick in places, crusted in others, and every few steps Aegon heard something wet pull away from his boot. From somewhere behind the walls came a slow scraping sound.
Then a body walked across the passage ahead of them.
Edmund’s mouth opened and Aegon slammed a hand over it and drove him back against the wall.
The corpse stopped.
It had been a woman once. Her hair hung in stiff black ropes around a face gone grey and hollow. Stitches crossed her throat from ear to ear. Her hands twitched at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling as if remembering pain. One eye had rotted shut. The other turned slowly toward them.
Aegon held Edmund still.
The dead woman sniffed.
Her jaw opened, and a thin, broken sound leaked out.
“Blood.”
Edmund shook beneath Aegon’s grip. Aegon pressed harder over his mouth until the boy’s panic was trapped behind his fingers.
The corpse took one step toward them. Then another.
Aegon’s hand tightened around the dagger, though some cold part of him knew steel would do little good here. The dead woman was not alive enough to fear pain or death. Whatever moved her had no blood to spill or breath to be stolen.
She came closer, dragging one bare foot over the stone, her ruined eye fixed on them with blind hunger.
Warm. Blood.
The words crawled from her slack mouth and Aegon felt Edmund convulse against him.
Estel?!
But there was still no response but a reassuring buzz.
The idea then struck him with such force that something answered.
Not Estel. Not truly.
She was still unreachable, but the memory of her remained inside him. Her lessons for him to explore. Aegon reached for it by instinct, grasping at the shape of her craft and forced the light around them to bend to his will.
For a heartbeat, the world shimmered.
The air around them thickened like glass disturbed by water. Aegon felt the illusion settle over his skin with a crawling chill. He did not know what the corpse saw, but he felt the shape of the lie as it formed around them and take root in the crude intelligence inside the undead’s mind.
Dead flesh.
Rotten flesh.
Cold meat without pulse, without breath, without a single drop of fresh warm blood.
The undead woman halted at the threshold before them.
Her head twitched and then her jaw opened. It opened wider than any living mouth should have allowed. The hinges strained, split, and gave with an audible pop. Edmund began to weep silently beneath Aegon’s hand, tears spilling hot over his fingers. Aegon clamped down harder, fingers digging into the boy’s face.
The corpse leaned toward them.
Its ruined mouth hung black and empty. A thin sound built in its throat, first a rasp, then a whine, then a shriek so sharp it scraped against Aegon’s teeth.
It had been cheated. There was no warmth here!
The dead woman recoiled with a furious jerk, dropped onto all fours, and scuttled away down the passage with awful speed. Her nails clicked against the stone until the sound vanished into the dark.
Aegon held Edmund still for several more breaths.
Only then did he let go.
Edmund collapsed against the wall, one hand clamped over his own mouth as he sobbed openly now. His shoulders shook. His breath came in broken little hiccups, each one too loud for Aegon’s liking.
Aegon seized his sleeve. “Why are you doing that?”
Edmund looked up at him, face twisted with grief.
Aegon’s irritation sharpened. “Quietly, you fool. Do you want every dead thing in this tower crawling toward us?”
Edmund tried to answer and failed. He swallowed, choked, then forced the words through his trembling mouth.
“That was her,” he whispered.
“WHO?” Aegon harshly whispered as he grabbed the boy’s collar. “WHO DAMN IT?!”
“My aunt,” Edmund said. “She was taken in a raid, a year before me. I thought she was dead.”
Aegon’s grip loosened.
Edmund covered his face and wept harder, though he tried to smother the sound between his palms.
Aegon looked down the passage where the corpse had fled. The cold pressed against him from every side, but for a moment he felt something worse beneath it. Shame, hot and unwelcome.
He had called the boy a fool. He had nearly dragged him onward like baggage.
Aegon grimaced.
Then he crouched beside Edmund, lowering his voice.
“She is dead,” he said, though the words tasted cruel. “Whatever the warlock made of her is not your aunt.”
Edmund shook his head, unable or unwilling to believe him.
Aegon looked away.
He had no comfort worth giving. Especially not in a place like this.
So he gave the only thing he still knew how to give.
“Come,” he said, quieter this time. “We will not leave her like this forever, but for now, we must do what we must.”
Aegon allowed Edmund a few moments of rest before grabbing his wrist and walking again.
At last, they came upon a vast hall.
Bodies lay across the floor in rows. Boys, girls, men, women, all thin as famine and shivering in their sleep. Their lips were stained blue. Some whimpered and some clawed weakly at the stone. Others whispered names that did not belong to the waking world.
Aegon’s mouth tightened.
“Find your friend,” he whispered.
Edmund hurried through the rows, crouching beside one face after another. Then he stopped so suddenly Aegon nearly struck him.
“There,” Edmund breathed.
The boy was curled on his side, dark-haired and gaunt, his lips blue from whatever draught kept him trapped. Edmund fumbled beneath his robes and drew out a small vial.
“The same potion I used on you,” he said.
“Do it.”
Edmund poured it between the boy’s lips.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the boy coughed hard and lurched awake with a strangled cry.
Aegon was on him before the sound could rise. He slid behind him, locked one arm beneath his chin, and clamped the other behind his head, dragging him back into a tight hold. The boy thrashed wildly, heels scraping against the floor.
“Stop,” Aegon hissed. “Be still.”
The boy only fought harder.
Edmund grabbed his hands. “Aror! Aror, it is me. It is Edmund. Please, look at me.”
The boy froze.
His eyes rolled toward Edmund, wide and wet with terror. His breathing hitched against Aegon’s arm.
“Ed?” he rasped.
“Yes,” Edmund whispered. “Yes. I am here.”
Aegon held him a moment longer, making sure the panic had passed, then slowly released him. Aror collapsed forward into Edmund’s arms, shaking too badly to stand.
Estel
Estel, where are you? I need you!
Aegon’s voice echoed in her head, but she ignored it. She had given up on all veneers of civilization in favor of a primal state. Her prey knew that she knew she was on its trail. Yet for a moment Estel wondered if she was the prey instead. She couldn’t remember for how long she had played this game of mouse and mouse with the creature.
Time was immaterial in the spirit plane. The material world? Now that was a separate story entirely. She could only hope Aegon had taken her lessons to heart and was laying low and gathering information about their enemies. Estel hoped that only a few days had passed instead of a week, a year, or worse, a century.
Still, this was a necessary evil.
Then she saw it.
A blur of brown and putrescence darted across the edge of her awareness, so quick and so low that another spirit might have mistaken it for refuse blown upon some unseen current. Estel stilled at once. Her ember-bright eyes narrowed. The thing had a stink to it that did not belong merely to filth, but to neglect, cowardice, and old corruption left to fester in damp places.
She fixed upon it with sudden, delighted attention.
There you are!
The morsel sensed her notice and bolted.
At once Estel gave chase, and laughter burst from her lips as bright and sharp as shattered glass. The creature scurried through the spirit paths with frantic cunning, diving between half-formed shapes, leaping over streams of memory, worming its way through the old cracks of the unseen world.
Fast, she thought with relish. Very fast. She would grant it that much. After all, this was its turf, and it knew every crooked path that fear and decay had worn into the aether.
Yet as she pursued, Estel felt something tug at recognition.
Not the shape. The nature.
It flashed ahead again, a bloated rat with slick brown fur and a naked tail, its body twitching with panic as it fled. But beneath the vermin skin was something she knew. Something she had brushed against before in all the troubles that had dogged her master’s counsels and hindered his designs.
Cowardly. Untidy. Earthy. Reeking of nests, bad roots, old leaves, and a softness of heart forever spoiled by weakness.
The thing threw itself toward a cluster of formidable wards. Ancient barriers rose before it in layered veils, greenish and gold, threaded through with older protections that bit into the spirit plane like hooked iron. The rat reached them, shrieked once, and flung itself through.
On the other side it changed.
The vermin shape peeled away like a bad dream. In its place stood a small man with a monstrous belly and rotting yellow teeth, his hair hanging in filthy, putrid clumps about a face that looked made for bad habits and worse hygiene. He was the personification of filth and decay, wrapped in the lingering scent of damp straw, beast pens, and unwashed guilt.
Estel stopped before the wards and laughed again, low and delighted.
Now she knew him with certainty.
She had grown intimately familiar with that nature through all the aggravation it had once brought her master.
Her laughter deepened.
Then Estel, in a sudden fit of wicked inspiration, pulled a page from her master’s book.
Fire and shadow rushed over her in a whirling cloak. Her form was swallowed whole and in its place rose something dreadful. Cruel armor clothed in fire and dread shadows covered her from head to heel, black and spiked and terrible, as though forged from malice and furnaces powered by void. Through narrow slits in her helm burned molten red eyes.
The little man stumbled backward, his rotten teeth chattering, eyes widening in familiarity.
Estel lifted her head. When she spoke, her voice reverberated from everywhere at once, deep as a tomb and hot as a forge.
“Radagast!” She said. “I see you!”