Chapter Text
The towers of Harrenhal rose like blackened bones against a weeping sky, their shadows long and crooked across the yard. Even after years, Lucerys found no comfort in the place. It seemed to breath wrong with the wind whistling eerily through the cold halls and the shadows clinged to tightly to the stone walls. The fire torches along them didn't do much to keep warm or light the way.
Aerys burned in his arms, eyes flicking too quick beneath his closed eyelids.
“Gods, my sweet boy…” Lucerys murmured, pressing his lips to the child’s damp brow. The heat had not lessened. If anything, it clung more fiercely now, as though it had taken root beneath his son’s skin. “Stay with me, ñuha zaldrīzes. Only a little longer.”
Aerys stirred faintly, a soft, broken sound escaping him, half whimpering pitifully as his breaths slowed. His small fingers curled weakly into the fabric of Lucerys’ sleeve, seeking without strength.
Lucerys’ throat tightened, his heart aching painfully at the sight. His nose twitched at the distressed scent emiting from his son and he hated how powerless he was right now.
He shifted upon the narrow bed, drawing the boy closer, careful not to jostle him. The chamber Lady Alys had given them was quiet, dimly lit by a single taper that flickered restlessly in its iron holder. Shadows crawled along the walls, stretching thin and strange.
He did not like it. He did not like any of this. It had been days afterall since this had started with no help in sight.
The dreams had begun a fortnight past; dragon dreams, Aerys had called them in his fevered murmurs. Fire and sky, wings blotting out the sun, voices in the flames. At first, Lucerys had thought them nothing more than childish fancy, the sort that came to all dragonriders in time. It was wishful thinking till his husband reminded them of another, Helaena too had those, though vague and too tangled in riddles to glean anything important.
But then again she had never suffered from the fever.
It had took hold of his boy with relentless grip and had been unyielding despite administration of the most effective herbs and timeless care. No maester’s draught nor cooling cloth had broken it. That was when they knew that this was different.
And so they had come here.
To her.
Alys Rivers.
The infamous woods witch of Harrenhal and the bastard sister of Lord Harwin Strong. Though no one said that aside from hushed whispers as the Lord was known to be protective of his sisters and would not tolerate such malicious gossip.
Lucerys glanced toward the door, as though he might will it open by force of worry alone. Alys had taken her time in the hall below, speaking in low tones, her dark eyes fixed too keenly upon Aerys as though she saw more than flesh and bone. There had been something in her expression...something unreadable.
It had unsettled him deeply as he could not gauge the woman's true feelings as she was merely a beta and thus scentless.
He bent his head again, brushing sweat-damp curls from Aerys’ brow. “You are too hot,” he whispered, voice trembling despite himself. His hands were peeled from the constant wet cloth he had handled in the last few days but he could not care less. “Far too hot, my heart. This will not do. Ao āeksio sȳrī kostagon se naejot ivestragī ñuhon muña sōvēs, ao ziry iksos iā?”
(You must get well soon and not worry your mother so much, do you hear me?)
Aerys did not answer. His lashes fluttered, his breath uneven.
Lucerys exhaled shakily and pressed his palm to the boy’s cheek, grounding himself in the simple act of touch, smiling when his boy leaned into it. He could feel it, the instinct thrumming beneath his skin, the cursed and blessed bond all mothers had with their children... the pull was deep and beyond simple understanding. The urge to soothe, to shield, to keep. It had only sharpened since his children were born, carved into him as surely as any blade.
An omega’s nature, they would say. Some with reverance while others with disdain.
Let them.
He would bear a thousand names if it meant his children were safe.
The latch clicked and Lucerys’ head snapped up.
Lady Alys slipped into the chamber as silently as a shadow, the door closing behind her with a soft, deliberate sound. She carried a small cup in one hand, steam curling faintly from its surface. Her gaze went at once to Aerys.
“He worsens,” she said, not unkindly.
Lucerys’ grip tightened. “You said the fever would break.” He was thankful when she did not react to the crack in his voice.
“I said it might.” Alys crossed the room, unhurried, though there was purpose in every step. “This is no common illness, my Prince. You know that as well as I.”
He did. He hated that he did. Now, he would have been grateful if it had been just dragon dreams.
“What is it, then?” he demanded, the words softer and more desperate than he wished to be. “Tell me plain. I would rather truth than riddles.”
Alys studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes keen as ever. Then, gently, she held out the cup.
“First, you will give him this.”
Lucerys hesitated only a heartbeat before taking it, bringing it to his nose. The scent was strange; musky and bitter, with something faintly sweet beneath. Not unpleasant, but not familiar either.
“Will it harm him?” he asked, gently taking hold of Aerys' nape to pull him up the bed.
“No.” That was all she said.
Lucerys shifted Aerys carefully, supporting his head as he brought the cup to the child’s lips. “Come now, my love,” he murmured, voice soft as silk and trembling. “It is just a little sip. For me.”
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then Aerys stirred, brow furrowing faintly. His lips parted, and with gentle coaxing, he swallowed a small sip. Then another.
“That’s it,” Lucerys whispered, relief threading through him, fragile and fleeting. “Kirimvose, ñuha dārilaros.” (Thank you, my darling)
When the cup was empty, he set it aside, gathering Aerys close once more, rocking him ever so slightly. The motion was instinctive, soothing as much for himself as for the child.
“Now tell me,” he said again, quieter this time.
Alys did not answer at once. She moved nearer the bed, her gaze fixed upon Aerys as though listening to something only she could hear.
“There is power in him,” she said at last. “More than there ought to be.”
Lucerys stilled, heart thudding in his chest at the omnious words.
“All our children have dragons’ blood,” he said carefully.
“Yes.” Alys’ lips curved faintly, though there was no mirth in it. “But this… this is older and wilder. It is something powerful and does not sit quietly.”
A chill crept through him, slow and insidious.
“The dreams,” he whispered.
“The dreams are not merely dreams.”
Lucerys tightened his hold, pressing Aerys closer to his chest as though he might shield him from words alone. “Then what are they?”
Alys’ dark gaze gaze lifted to his, fire from the heart flickering in them. “Windows,” she said. “Or perhaps… doorways.”
The chamber seemed colder for it. He did not understand her answer but he knew what magic of old Valyria was and to think it had manifested now when lost for many centuries and in his boy no less.
Lucerys shook his head at once. He refused to accept it. “No. He is but a child.”
“And yet,” Alys said softly, “the fire answers him.”
Silence fell between them, heavy as stormclouds.
Aerys shifted in his arms, a small sound escaping him, less strained now, though the heat had not wholly left him. Lucerys bent quickly, brushing another kiss to his temple, clinging to that small mercy. “He will be well,” he said, as if saying it might make it so. “He must be.”
Alys watched him, something almost gentle flickering across her face.
“For now,” she allowed.
Lucerys’ heart stuttered. “For now?” he echoed, voice barely more than breath.
But Alys only turned away, her gaze drifting toward the narrow window where the night pressed close against the glass.
“We shall see what tomorrow brings,” she said before collecting the empty cup and leaving the room.
Lucerys did not like the sound of that. Not at all. He gathered Aerys tighter in his arms, holding him as though he might anchor him to this world by sheer will alone, and prayed quietly and fiercely that whatever door had opened would close again just as easily.
Lucerys lingered only a moment longer beside the bed before he forced himself to rise.
It did not come easily.
Aerys’ fingers had slackened in his sleeve, his breathing at last easing into something less ragged, though the heat still clung stubbornly to him. Lucerys smoothed damp curls from his son’s brow, pressing a final, lingering kiss there.
“I shall return soon,” he murmured, though whether for the boy or himself, he could not say. The door creaked softly as he slipped out into the corridor, pulling it close behind him. The air beyond the chamber felt cooler, sharper against his skin, yet it did little to ease the unease that had settled deep within his bones.
He did not see the shadow that shifted in his wake and hurried to the door.
For a time, there was only stillness.
The quiet, hollow kind that Harrenhal seemed to breed in abundance. Then a soft scrape in the silence as the door eased open once more, slow as breath. A small figure slipped through and let the door slip shut behind them.
Elaena Targeryen.
She moved with all the careful stealth of a child who believed herself unseen, barefoot upon the cold stone, silver hair falling loose and wild about her shoulders. Her lilac eyes gleamed in the dim light, bright with purpose, with mischief, with something just a touch too fierce for one so young.
Clutched in her hands was a small wooden cup… and a dagger that caught the candlelight with a dangerous gleam. She shut the door behind her with a quiet click.
“Aerys,” she whispered urgently, padding softly towards the bed. “Aerys, wake up, lēkia. See what I have brought you.”
It took a moment but Aerys stirred faintly, brow knitting as though he fought through some distant haze. His lashes fluttered, breath hitching before his eyes cracked open, bloodshot and unfocused.
“…Elaena?” His voice was hoarse, scarcely more than a rasp. “You ought not—”
But the words faltered as he took in his little sister. Her wild hair. The determined set of her mouth. And the dagger.
“What have you done?” he asked, a weak sort of disbelief threading through him.
Elaena climbed up onto the bed without invitation, settling beside him with all the certainty of belonging. “I am fixing it,” she said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “You are to be well again.”
Aerys let out a faint, breathless huff that might have been a laugh on another day. “Muña is fixing it,” he corrected, though without much strength behind it. “And the witch.”
“She said there was another way,” Elaena insisted quickly, leaning closer. “I heard her. She told her sister, Rohanne, though she was not listening proper but I did. She said it could be done, only it was dangerous.”
He was not at all suprised at his sister eavesdropping on the ladies of the House.
“That means we are not to do it,” Aerys said at once, trying to push himself up. The effort cost him; his arm trembled, and he fell back against the pillows with a soft, frustrated sound. “Elaena—”
“But you are still sick,” she cut in, voice small now, though no less stubborn. “You have been sick for days. I do not like it.” Her lower lip wobbled, just so. “I do not like it at all.”
Aerys’ expression softened at once. He knew that look.
“Nor do I,” he admitted quietly. “But—”
“I brought what is needed,” she pressed on, holding up the cup and dagger as proof. “See? I am not foolish. I listened.”
That, more than anything, gave him pause. Elaena was many things; bold, troublesome, far too clever for her own good but she was not careless. Not when it mattered to those she loved.
Still the thought did not sit with him well.
“If Muna learns of this—”
“He will not,” she said firmly, lilac eyes hard in the fire, just like their father's.
“He always does.”
She hesitated then, no doubt remembering the many times her mischief had been caught by their parents.
“…only if we fail.”
Aerys stared at her. There was something to be said about the stubborness that ran through their family. It did not help that there was a certain terrible logic to that. He let his head fall back against the pillow, closing his eyes briefly as a wave of heat and dizziness washed over him. The world swayed unpleasantly, his thoughts slow and thick.
He was so tired.
So very tired of burning and burning.
When he opened his eyes again, Elaena was still there, watching him with hopeful gaze, fierce but also afraid.
His little sister.
He had never once denied her anything she truly wanted.
“…it is a bad idea,” he said weakly.
“I know.”
“Muña will be wroth.”
“I know.”
“We do not know what we are doing.”
Elaena’s chin lifted. “I will not harm you.”
Aerys exhaled, something between defeat and fondness threading through him. “Very well,” he murmured. “But only a little.”
Her face lit as though the sun itself had chosen to shine within that dim chamber.
The dagger was too large for her small hand.
Still, Elaena held it with careful determination, her tongue peeking faintly between her teeth as she worked. “Hold still,” she instructed, as though he were the younger of the two.
“I am not the one wielding a blade,” Aerys muttered petulantly, though he did as bid. He sometimes hated himself at being pulled in so easily with his sister's schemes.
The sting came quick and sharp. He hissed softly as crimson welled against his palm, bright against fever-pale skin. Elaena caught it in the wooden cup, her movements surprisingly steady for one so small.
“Only a little,” she echoed, mimicking his earlier words.
“Only a little,” he agreed.
When it was done, she set the dagger aside and fumbled with the small bundle of herbs she had stolen. They were crushed clumsily between her fingers, then dropped into the blood-filled cup, where they darkened and bled their scent into the air.
Neither child noticed the faint lines etched into the bottom of the wood. Not at first. They lay dormant and waiting, glowing fainting under the herbs.
Elaena stirred the mixture with her finger, frowning in concentration. “It does not look like much,” she admitted.
“Most medicines do not,” Aerys said faintly.
She brightened at that, taking it as reassurance.
“Drink,” she urged, pressing the cup into his hands.
Aerys hesitated only a moment before obeying. He raised it slowly, the scent sharp and strange, and took a careful sip.
It tasted wrong. Metal and something bitter beneath. He swallowed anyway.
“There,” Elaena said, relief already creeping into her voice. She seized his free hand, squeezing it tightly. “You shall be well now. You must.”
Aerys managed a faint smile.
“I hope you are right.”
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then there was a ringing and Aerys frowned, hands coming to press against his temple. The sound was humming at first and then sudden and loud enough that it seemed to split the world in two.
Aerys’ breath hitched.
The chamber lurched violently, the walls seeming to bend and stretch as though made of smoke. Shadows twisted, lengthening unnaturally, crawling across the stone like living things.
“Elaena—” he gasped, fingers tightening painfully around hers.
“I am here,” she assured at once, though her voice wavered now, fingers trembling in his. “I am here, Aerys—what is happening?”
There was a roaring fire and crumbling stones. He could hear it, loud and endless, like a dragon’s breath tearing through the sky or underneath a mountain.The light flared, blinding—
Aerys’ vision swam, darkness creeping in at the edges. His grip slackened despite himself, his body going cold even as the fever raged.
“Do not leave me, lēkia! I'm sorry! I'm sorry...” Elaena cried, her voice rising, small and terrified now though her brother could no longer hear her.
Elaena gasped, horrified and so very afraid as the white of her brother's eyes spread over the violet before rolling completely in his head and his body gave up, thumping into the bed. “Aerys—!”
The shadows surged as she leaned over him, pushing her face into his neck and wrapping herself tightly around him.
The air cracked—
And with a thunderous, echoing bang, the world gave way to pieces.
The door burst open.
“—Aerys—!”
Lucerys’ voice broke against the emptiness.
The bed was empty as he ran to it. The sheets still rumpled and warm to touch. The cup lay overturned upon the floor, its dark contents spilled and seeping into the cracks of the stone. Beside it, the dagger gleamed in the firelight with its edge stained red.
For a moment, Lucerys could not move, stomach hollowing as his head throbbed. He could not breathe.
Then tears spilled down his cheeks as his legs gave out beneath him. He clutched the sheets in his hands, nails digging in. “No.” The word came out strangled.
“No—no, no—”
His gaze darted wildly, as though his children might simply appear again if he looked hard enough. “Aerys?” he called, louder now. “Elaena?”
Nothing answered him.
There was only the hollow silence of Harrenhal.
And the faint, lingering scent of dragonfire and smoke.