There was a startling difference between the Summerhall they had left in the present to the Summerhall of the past. The walls were not soot or lichen-lined, the glass in the windows was not broken, and the entire wing on their left was intact.
"I know that everyone says you have father's long Stark face," began Robb, eyes stuck on the king, "But damn if you don't look like him, Snow."
Jon did not answer, staring greedily at long-lost family members. It was Sansa who took the time to nod and verbally agree, eyes darting from Aegon V's long, handsome face to his eldest son, the disinherited one. Duncan had the colour from his mother's Blackwood side of the family: thick black hair – hair that the Starks shared through their own connection to the Blackwoods; the handsome face and square jaw that Robb had – that their father had, as well.
"Betha Blackwood," began Bran idly, "had an older sister named Melantha. She married Willam
Stark—"
Jon sucked in a sharp breath. "Our great-great-grandmother."
Robb curiously looked around the hall. "Can they see us?"
Bran shot him a look. "Of course not."
"And nothing here will harm us?" Robb pressed, looking at Bran. "When the fire comes?"
Bran shook his head. "We're safe."
"Then let's spread out," suggested Sansa, catching onto Robb's unspoken suggestion. "Watch the people – look at the sigils, see who is here – who they speak with, what is being said."
"I'm – I'm going to them," said Jon, breath hitching on the last word. His dark eyes hadn't left looking at his relatives.
Sansa and Robb shared a pained glance; Sansa placed a hand on Jon's arm. "Of course, Jon. I'll join you – I know the southern courts best."
Robb gave a sharp nod, spinning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd, a partially ghostly figure of dull colours despite his red Tully hair, mingling with the bright fabrics and press of the Targaryen court.
Jon and Sansa slid toward the wall and up along the side, away from most of the crowd until they were a few paces from the royal family, almost perpendicular to the dais. Duncan – ridiculously tall and handsome – had a gentle smile on his face and was partially leaning down to whisper in his wife's ear. Jenny's tanned skin flushed, and she sent her husband a flirtatious look in response.
"They look so in love," mused aloud Jon.
There were musicians in a corner, reed and wood instruments and a lute, and several courtiers began to dance before the dais. Rhaella looked longingly out at the crowd, but her hands remained pressed on her extended belly as she sat next to Aegon, who was looking out at the court with a mild, pleased look on his face.
"He doesn't look insane," continued Jon, a furrow on his brow.
"They never do," replied Sansa quietly, thinking of Cersei, Baelish, Ramsay. Her eyes narrowed on the two royals. "He looks content, though. Not... scheming."
Jon hummed in agreement and then nudged Sansa in the side. "Look," he hissed.
Sansa turned and both watched as a tiny slip of a woman, barely coming to Jenny's shoulders – and Jenny wasn't tall herself – approached the dais. She wore an unadorned dress without sigils stitched anyway, in a coarser brown fabric. She was tanned, weathered with lines on her face around her brown eyes. Her brown hair was pulled back but left loose; Sansa couldn't tell if the woman was young or old – it was as though with each step the woman took, something shifted and changed.
"Syntyche!" greeted Jenny with a beaming smile. She reached forward and took the woman's hands in hers. "Oh, you decided to come, how wonderful!"
"My princess," the woman greeted with an equally beaming smile, her voice low and husky. Her
unremarkable eyes turned to Duncan. "My Prince." Duncan chortled. "Witch."
"Isn't this marvellous? How kind of goodfather to host a banquet in his great-great-grandchild's honour," continued Jenny, glancing back at Aegon. "He's been very pleased – having a child will make Rhaella happy."
The woodswitch, Syntyche, frowned. "Nothing will make her happy."
Jon and Sansa shared a nervous glance at the ominous tone of the witch's voice.
Jenny laughed. "Come, Syn – you're always so serious! This is a grand party, is it not? That child will be the Prince Who is Promised—"
"Maybe. Maybe not," shrugged Syntyche. "The Gods informed me that the Prince will be born from his line – but not when."
Duncan frowned. "Syntyche... father needs this. A promised prince against a great danger? One who will bring the light against the darkness? Father has been fielding reports of unrest in the Saltpans for moons now—"
"That war will come soon enough," interrupted Syntyche with a dark look in her eyes. "But the Prince will not fight in it."
"So, he is the Prince—"
Syntyche cut Jenny off sharply. "I can only see what the God's grant me, Jenny, you know that. I cannot enforce their will onto our world. The Prince Who Was Promised will appear when he is meant to, and not a moment sooner." She paused. "But I do not think the last of the Blackfyres is the darkness he is to fight."
"Fuck," swore Jon with a quiet exhale, just as Sansa's hand shot out and tightly grabbed at Jon's arm, nails digging in.
Syntyche stiffened.
"What? What is it?" asked Jenny, turning to face the woodswitch. Her eyes were wide. "Syn – do
you see something?"
Duncan, alert, cut his eyes through the room and quietly ushered his wife and her companion from the dais, barely catching his father's eyes as he nodded to a darkened corner. The trio stepped into the shadowy corner, hidden partially by tapestries that no longer existed in Sansa and Jon's time. The two Starks hurried after them – if the witch had a vision from the Gods, then they needed to know.
But Syntyche's eyes were wide, and almost unseeing – in a way that the Stark's eyes would go when warging, or when Bran would greensee – despite never losing their colour. But her eyes were duller, a flatter brown than before.
Jon moved closer.
"There is something... something coming..." murmured Syntyche.
Duncan leaned forward. "What is coming? Is it a danger to House Targaryen?"
Syntyche frowned, eyes darting around the hall. "It—"
She paused, tilting her head to the side, and then quickly spun, facing Jon and Sansa. Sansa yelped in alarm and Jon tried to stumble back, but Syntyche's hand and sharp nails grabbed Jon's and there was a pop, a pressure in his ears that burst, and suddenly everything was brighter and louder —
Instinctively, Jon reached out and took Sansa's hand in his – she cried out in alarm – Somewhere, behind them, Bran shouted their names—
Robb's red hair bobbed through the crowd as he pushed through the ghostly figures of the court, turning them briefly into shadowy wisps as he dove for his siblings—
And then Duncan shoved Jenny behind him, a hand on his dagger as he demanded, "Who're you?" staring directly at Jon, Sansa, and Robb once he flung himself at the two, sending Jon and Sansa careening into the wall at Jon's left, his shoulder slamming hard against the stone.
"The Gods preserve us," whispered Jenny, eyes wide. "Where did you come from?"
Syntyche's mouth was pressed into a hard, thin line. "You are not supposed to be here."
"Seven hells," hissed Robb into Sansa and Jon's ears. "Seven hells, they can see us!"
"And hear you," replied Duncan dryly. His hand slowly slid away from his dagger, but he kept his wife behind, despite her curious peering around his body.
Syntyche was staring at Jon. "You..." Jon, in return, swallowed nervously.
Duncan's eyes darted between the two, a frown on his face. "Come. Let us speak somewhere privately."
He turned, hand reaching up and pressing down on a tiny dragon motif at the corner of a stone. It clicked, and the stone slid inward, and then the wall went sideways, leaving a tiny gap and a secret tunnel.
Robb muttered, "Arya never found that one. She's going to be pissed."
Duncan ushered Jenny in first, Syntyche following her. Wordlessly, he gestured, and Jon followed the two women with Sansa clutching his arm. Robb followed, glancing back over his shoulder at Bran, who stared at them, pale-faced, ghostly now against the effervescent courtiers of the past.
The wall slid shut behind them as Duncan stepped into the tunnel.
Duncan stared at the three Starks, having stopped pacing long enough to run his hands through his messy black hair. "Let me understand this correctly: you three are currently in Summerhall in the future, but you, yourselves, are from a further future, having died and come back to life."
Jon winced. "Erm, aye."
They were in an antechamber that overlooked the hall, high above and closer to the glass dome. The catwalk they spotted earlier connected to the antechamber and gave them an unobstructed view of the events below while none could see them, thanks to the clever placement of stained
glass, lattice, and murder holes.
"You should not be seeing the past," muttered Syntyche, eyes on them. "It is done for you – you cannot change events." Her frown deepened. "Or become part of them."
The Starks looked at each other, and Sansa cleared her throat. "Aye, that... is something we are confused about as well. Our brother has greensight, and was trained under a great greenseer—"
Syntyche scoffed. "There are none alive now, nor in your time—"
Jon's mouth tightened. "Brynden Rivers still lives."
Syntyche's mouth snapped shut and Duncan leaned forward, eyes wide. "My great-uncle...?" Jon winced. "He's... he's more weirwood tree than man, or so our brother tells us..."
"A thousand eyes and one." Duncan leaned back, and Jenny reached forward to rub his arm comfortingly. His eyes narrowed on them. "And he taught your brother this ability? To use it to spy on House Targaryen—"
"No!" burst Jon, shaking his head. "We're not here... to... to spy—" "We kind of are," muttered Robb.
"But to learn the truth of what happens," finished Jon, ignoring Robb. "What happens?" echoed Jenny. "Something happens tonight?" Sansa cut a sharp glance at Jon, who floundered.
Syntyche sighed. "These events are yet to come for us but have already happened for you." There was something weary, broken in her. "We are already dead."
"I'm sorry," murmured Jon, looking away.
Duncan looked thunderstruck. "We die? Tonight?" His eyes darted toward his wife, who peered back at him, a pinched look on her face. "How?"
"We... we don't really know," replied Jon. "A fire, we think. But... those who survived never spoke of the Tragedy at Summerhall."
"The Tragedy at Summerhall," echoed Duncan, his mouth pulled into a scowl. "How many..." "All but a handful," answered Sansa quietly.
"But what do Starks care for this?" asked Jenny, causing everyone to look at her in surprise. She gave a tiny huff of laughter at Duncan, Jon, and Robb's stupefied looks. "Look at the man, Duncan," she said, gesturing at Jon. "Have you seen someone less Stark? I suppose he could be from your mother's family, but..."
"No, you're right," said Jon quietly, looking down. "My mother was a Stark." Jenny preened. "See?"
"But my father..." Jon swallowed. Knowing Rhaegar was his father was one thing; admitting it out loud after keeping the secret was another. Robb put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "My father was a
Targaryen."
Jenny gasped, hands pressed tight against her abdomen.
Duncan began assessing him with new eyes, lingering on his hair and long face. He brightened. "Are you ours, then? Our..." he did some mental math. "Grandson?"
Jon gave a tiny, slightly wet, laugh. "No. Gods – I wish. I think things would have been very different if I was."
"You are the son of the one about to be born," said Syntyche quietly, eyes locked on Jon; Duncan and Jenny whipped their heads back and forth between the two. There was something sad on her face.
Jon nodded. "My father, Rhaegar Targaryen, will be born tonight."
Something shuttered across Duncan's face, even as Jenny stepped forward and enveloped Jon in a
tight hug. He stiffened in shock. "Oh, you're family, Jon!"
Syntyche looked at Jenny fondly but then turned back to Jon as she released him. "But that does
not explain why you are here."
"It's a long story," sighed Jon, glancing at Sansa who nodded.
Syntyche pursed her lips, mouth open, but Duncan placed a hand on her shoulder. They looked ridiculous – like the Mountain next to Tyrion Lannister with their height differences – but Syntyche closed her mouth.
"We have time," said Duncan, a look on his face that Jon didn't recognize. There was something princely in him when he commanded, "Speak."
And so, Jon did.
Hours later, the three Starks plus Duncan, Jenny, and Syntyche were mingling with the crowd and courtiers, now no longer in the great entrance hall but in the west wing of Summerhall – which, in the future, was entirely burnt. There were rows of long tables stretching along the length of the room with a head table at the front for the royal family. Behind the head table were floor-to-ceiling glass doors that doubled as windows, overlooking a tiered garden, slowly encased in elongating shadows made by the red mountains behind as the day progressed.
"Father's plan was to throw a feast and follow it with a toast to Rhaella," explained Duncan as they made their way down one of the far aisles made by the tables. He paused a few times to politely address some lords who spoke to him but continued to usher the group forward. "I don't think that will change."
Sansa was frowning after one of the latest lords who spoke to Duncan. "Did you notice that they don't notice us?"
Duncan turned back. "Pardon?"
Robb nodded. "I saw that too – I think you are the only ones who can tell that we're here. Everyone else moves around us if we walk, and their eyes slide right over us like they can't focus on us at all."
"Because you're not here," explained Syntyche. "You are a ghost of Summerhall, Robb Stark. Your brother maintains the gate between the past and present, allowing for slippage between the two – echoes, truly."
"But then why can you see us?" asked Jon.
Syntyche gave him a tight, sharp smile. "Because it is the will of the Gods."
The Northerners in the group shared an uneasy glance but continued to follow until they reached the head table. Duncan helped Jenny sit, two seats down on his father's right, with Duncan taking the seat of at his right hand; opposite, on Aegon's left, was an empty seat for his wife, then Rhaella, followed by the Hand and a few others. Syntyche sat next to Jenny, at the end of their side of the table.
"You know," commented Sansa with a frown as her eyes skipped over familiar sigils from the Crownlands, Stormlands, Riverlands, the Vale and the Reach, "I still don't understand why Summerhall and not King's Landing. This is the royal family – it makes no sense to leave the protection of the capital."
Jon frowned as well, looking over the crowd and saw what Sansa had earlier: other than Ser Duncan the Tall, the only other kingsguard in attendance was a very old, grey-haired knight who escorted a curly black-haired woman toward the head table.
Prince Duncan, who was still within earshot of them, shrugged with a wary glance at his father, who stood to greet his wife. Realizing he would be occupied, Duncan hurriedly hissed, "Father said he wanted to usher in a new era of dragons."
"Dragons?" There was a worried look in Robb's eyes, an echo of strain from when he and his siblings spoke of their time in the future and Daenerys arrived in the North with hers.
Sansa remained skeptical. "Does he have dragon eggs? They're near impossible to find in our time."
Duncan shrugged again and Aegon helped Betha sit, turning to address the room. Lords, ladies, Sers, and other courtiers either found their spots at the long tables or remained standing at the fringes, along the walls. There were fewer knights and swords in the room than Jon had expected, given the royal family in attendance, and something uneasy began to stir in his stomach.
"My Lords, my Ladies, Sers, and other esteemed guests – thank you for joining us for this momentous occasion," began Aegon genially, his voice carrying. There was the slightest tension around his eyes, as although the court had settled, there was something hovering in the air.
Sansa leaned over to Jon and Robb to whisper while keeping her eyes on the king, "Aegon V's reforms were always pro-small folk, given his experiences in travelling with Ser Duncan. It meant that the nobility did not like his decisions much."
"And the nobility is what keeps him in power," murmured back Robb, blue eyes keenly assessing the crowd anew.
"My great-grandchild will soon be born, furthering the Targaryen legacy for another generation," continued Aegon. "We are here for their arrival – a new dragon in the world – and to reaffirm the Targaryen family's strength. There is a darkness on the horizon—"
The crowd began to murmur lowly, shifting in unease.
"—and we must be ready to stand and meet it," finished Aegon. "However, between now and then, please – eat, drink, be merry. The entertainment will commence after the feast."
Sansa's eyes narrowed.
"Was it just me, or..." Robb trailed off.
"No, it was not just you," answered Jon, voice low.
Servants began leading out food for the many courses they were about to eat, and talk resumed in the room. Forks and knives scraped across plates; there was a gentle tinkle and clink of dishes and goblets being moved as food and drink were consumed; there was music and the lull of voices as ambient noise.
"I'm going to go read the room," muttered Robb, leaving Sansa and Jon behind at the head table. He ducked and wove around servants carrying heavy, food-laden trays and empty ones, making his way slowly down one aisle, closest to the wall, and tilted his head in the direction of the court.
Most of the conversation was inane, but here and there, he received tiny glimpses of worry or frustration, people speaking in hushed tones about Targaryen madness or unflattering terms toward Aegon while speaking positively about Jaehaerys and Aerys. Robb shuddered.
"Are we able to get up and walk around then?" asked a lord, glancing up at the end of the first long table when Robb was about to turn and make his way up the opposite side.
Robb froze, eyes darting toward the man – blond-haired, purple eyes. A Dayne.
The man was looking directly at Robb, a frown on his face even as he looked around the room. His
frown deepened. "Why are you standing?"
"My lord, who are you speaking to?" asked the woman at his side, placing a hand over his. Robb looked at her, as did the Dayne. The Dayne blinked, eyes jerking back to Robb. "I'm not really here," Robb found himself saying with a tiny shrug.
The Dayne's head turned slowly to the dais, where Jon and Sansa, still standing, clustered together near Syntyche; but it was Duncan and Jenny who kept glancing at them – while everyone else ignored them. The Dayne then turned back to Robb and gave him a slow nod before turning back to his meal and wife.
"Nothing, sweetling," he murmured, back stiff as Robb rounded the table and continued walking.
But now that the man had interacted with him, Robb could feel other eyes on his back; he slowed his walk and took in those who were glancing at him, periodically, their grips tightening on their knives and forks as he neared.
Robb's own eyes dipped to look at their colours and sigils, the names coming to him from a distant place, with Luwin's voice in his ear: the thick, curly black hair and ravens of the Blackwoods, the purple and argent sword of the Daynes, a black portcullis grill over sand for Yronwood, the silver scythe on a black field from the Iron Islands of House Harlaw, the runes of House Royce, and even the red apple on gold for the Fossoways.
Their eyes lingered and followed Robb around the room, making him hold his breath and take care in where and how he approached the tables, who he paused and listened to; it only took him a few
moments to realize... They were houses descended from the First Men.
There weren't many at the Summerhall court, particularly the Northern houses, but there were enough that between them and the Targaryens – Robb shivered – there was a sense of something hovering in the air, something... magical. Something otherworldly, beyond their ghostly attendance.
Robb's unease grew and he hurried back to Jon and Sansa, to tell them what he discovered, just as desserts were served and the meal ended. "There's something else going on here," he hissed, blue eyes darting around the hall. "Those with First Men ancestry can see us; most of the others here are unhappy about the king's policies and are supporters of his son."
Sansa's eyes narrowed in thought, and Jon opened his mouth to speak but the king stood, and he snapped his mouth shut instead.
"Now that the meal has concluded, let us enjoy some music and dance," cried Aegon, extending a hand to his wife. Betha smiled and rose, taking his hand. They were the first to make their way from the head table to the tiny space between the lengthy tables – split two and two, with a wider central aisle – and began to dance, the only people until Duncan and Jenny joined them, and then a few others.
As the court stood from their tables, servants rushed to quickly dismantle them and pile them toward the back, leaving the dancing space larger. Then, more joined in the line for the steps of a vaguely familiar routine that Robb didn't remember much of, until the king and queen returned to their head table, a laughing Duncan and Jenny on their heels.
"Ah, dear sister! Are you not dancing?" called Duncan to another blonde at the table, far opposite to where the Stark stood, making them crane their heads in that direction.
The blonde woman rolled her eyes and the black-haired man at her side smirked. "Duncan, do shut up."
When Duncan turned his eyes to the man beside her, he grinned, "Don't look at me, goodbrother. What Rhaelle wants, she gets."
Sansa gasped, hand reaching out and grabbing Jon's arm. He hissed. "Rhaelle Baratheon, Robert's grandmother!"
"And others," muttered Robb. "I counted a few other Targaryens in attendance –"
"My cousins," interjected Duncan smoothly, coming near them. "Vaella, and Maegor. Vaella's mother is around here, somewhere, too..."
Jon's eyes frantically darted around the room even as Sansa muttered, "Prince Duncan – surely – so many Targaryens in one place – surely that's not a good idea...?"
"My brother and sister remain in King's Landing, with their son Aerys," explained Duncan slowly, carefully. He eyed the Starks. "Even if this... 'tragedy' of Summerhall takes place, the Targaryen line is secure. My aunts Daella and Rhea still live – although married into other houses with children – and Rhaelle has a son with her Ormund—"
"That's not the same," muttered Robb. "We are six siblings in total, and we all died—numbers won't secure a dynasty."
Duncan paused.
"Everyone who must be here is here," interrupted a deeper, smoother voice, causing the group to turn.
Aegon V stood behind his son; his hands gently clasped behind his back where Ser Duncan the Tall lingered, eyes watchful. But the king only looked at Jon. "Young Jon Snow – please. Walk with me."
Jon shared a glance with Robb and Sansa but pulled away from the group to walk at his great- great-grandfather's side. The king moved toward the back glass doors, stepping out of the warm, overheated hall with the dancers, lights, and sweating bodies. The air outside Summerhall was cool and fresh and Jon took a deep breath, scenting moss, and leaf decay.
They were silent as they strolled along the terrace, parallel a balustrade. Aegon moved slowly, carefully, with all the time in the world as the revellers behind laughed and japed alongside musicians and schemed and plotted just as easily. Duncan was a looming, silent presence behind them, but Jon did not feel discomforted by the Lord Commander.
Finally, Aegon asked, "Did you know, when I was younger, I had dragondreams?" Jon shook his head. "No, Your Grace."
Aegon peered at Jon. Then, Aegon hummed thoughtfully and continued. "Yes, there was once a time in my life that I had seen things that had yet to happen or things that already happened. Things that would never happen."
"Never happen?" echoed Jon, eyebrows meeting as he frowned. Unease crept up his spine.
"Like this," elaborated Aegon quietly. "For many years, I dreamed of Summerhall. Of fire, dragons. Of you, Jon. My grandchild—" he quirked his lips at him. "Several generations great, of course."
Jon blinked back in shock.
Aegon turned back to walk, Jon trailing alongside him. "But in my dreams, you never came. You
were supposed to, I think. But you never did. Not until now, this time."
"What... what happened in the other dreams when I didn't arrive?" asked Jon, heart thundering as
fear coursed through him.
"Darkness, Jon. An entire world covered with darkness and ice, lorded over by men with white skin and blue eyes," murmured Aegon, eyes distant as he stopped and stared out toward the marshes. "A world dominated by the dead, where nothing living existed."
Jon inhaled sharply. His eyes were wide.
"I would see you, and your siblings, at Winterfell," continued Aegon. "I'd see you fight, with... with others I do not recognize but think I do – I see their reflections, hints of them in people in King's Landing."
"Then you see us lose," muttered Jon bitterly. His hands clenched at his sides; eyes dark as they peered toward the marshes as well.
Aegon paused. "I do," he eventually said. "And that darkness spills across Westeros to Essos and beyond."
Jon let a loud exhale nearly fold him in two as the words were delivered like a punch to his gut. Gods, we failed that badly... he thought, a tight grimace on his face. That last stand at Winterfell had truly been the last of humanity if everyone else fell.
A gentle, comforting hand, a weight of commiseration, landed on Jon's shoulder. His head jerked up and he stared at Aegon. There was understanding and sympathy in the man's eyes.
"You are here now, Jon. That is something different, and—" the man smiled, "I think the sign we needed."
"Sign?"
Aegon turned away but left his hand. "For so long, I have relived this evening. Wondered if it was the right decision to make."
Jon narrowed his eyes. What decision?
As if sensing the question, Aegon looked at him, that gentle smile still on his face. "The only decision that can be made, Jon, is the one I make tonight. And I hope you can understand it. Because..."
Something flickered in Aegon's eyes – sadness, weariness, determination, guilt, anger – and his hand left Jon's shoulder.
"Because this?" he gestured back at the crowd through the glass windows. "This is all for you, my child, my grandson."
Aegon reached forward and cupped Jon's face, the same eyes peering into Jon's as he murmured, "Forgive me, Jon, for the burden I am placing on you. But you are the only one who can bear it."
"What—"
Aegon pressed a gentle kiss of benediction and affection on Jon's forehead and Jon's eyes teared up. Why did this feel like a goodbye and promise all at once? Jon blinked furiously as Aegon's features swam, unshed tears in his eyes. He gave a startled, bubbled laugh at the thought of Jon Snow crying over a Targaryen – a dead one at that – and furrowed his brow, eyes darting all over Aegon's face.
"Always remember, Jon," murmured Aegon against his forehead, lips brushing the skin there. "You are just as much a dragon as you are a wolf. You are ice and fire, and within both, you can find balance."
Aegon drew back, his smile now sad. His hands dropped from Jon's cheeks, only to rise to his own head and the golden circlet that rested against his forehead and under his hair. It was slender, simple – very different from Robb's iron and metal inlay crown of winter with spikes – and unadorned, free of jewels and pretense. It suited Aegon V, Viserys II whom Bran had spun a tale of in Braavos, and that of Viserys' older brother Aegon III, the gloomy and dour Targaryen king. Jon was beginning to sense a pattern, here.
The crown glittered in the pale moonlight and reflected the light coming from the chandeliers and sconces inside the hall. On the inside rim of the circlet, High Valyrian words ran, lightly etched so much so that they were hard to read.
Aegon caught his gaze and murmured, "Nyke jāhor jurnegon nykeā ñuhoso, nykeā nyke jāhor mazverdagon mēre. I will find a way, or I will make one."
Jon's eyes tightly closed. It felt like his throat was swollen and thick, and his nose was stuffed.
Aegon reached out and put the circlet in Jon's hand. "Keep this safe, Jon. It is yours, by right, anyway."
Jon's eyes popped open. "Your Grace—"
"For you, Jon," said Aegon, now crownless, as he stepped back and away. Ser Duncan moved forward, shadowing his friend and king. There was something urgent in the king's manners now. "This has all been for you, Jon."
He strode away, leaving Jon blinking after him. After a shocked moment, Jon sprung into action, dashing across the terrace and back into the wing. A large pyre had been placed in the center of the room, and several red-robed pyromancers from King's Landing were moving around the large wooden teepee while the few guards Jon, Robb, and Sansa had previously spotted bordered the edges of the room, eyes hard or uneasy.
Jon sidled up to his siblings. Sansa had her arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring pale-faced at the pyre and Robb's lips were pursed in a heavy, unhappy look that was eerily like Ned Stark's.
Aegon had strode toward his wife, bestowing a gentle kiss on her knuckles as he took her hand. They stepped forward toward the pyre, overseeing as Ser Duncan helped bring individual, small gold-gilded chests to line up in front of the pyre, facing the crowd.
The pyromancers each chose a chest – seven men for seven chests – and tipped the lids back to reveal something oblong on a velvet cushion.
"Are those...?" Robb trailed off, eyes wide. "Aye," replied Jon quietly. "Dragon eggs."
Each was different in colour and texture that they could see from where they stood: one was the purest, deepest black; another white with red veins; another a shimmering, turquoise blue with gold flecks; a smoky, stormy grey with gold veins; sunny yellow with an under a sheen of purple; an ombre of cream to light brown and finally, a dark brown; and finally, soft green with spotted and speckled gold and brown. The eggs were placed around the base of the pyre, carefully designated locations of cardinal points and directions, of Andal worship, or the points of a star. Sansa slowly reached out and gripped Robb's hand, squeezing it tightly, eyes locked on the scene.
One pyromancer took a torch to the wood and it lit with a quick and loud whoosh, flames billowing bright and yellowy-orange. The dragon eggs were obscured by the flames and the plumes of smoke that rose and danced in the breezeless room.
"My friends," called Aegon. "Thank you for your attendance. Let us celebrate the birth of new Targaryen blood – the continuation of our line!" His eyes skipped over to Jon. "For the best of us to come."
Jon frowned, his uneasiness roaring back. At his side, Robb shifted; instinct in them both warred against common sense. Something was happening. About to happen. And, then, several things happened at once:
The flames on the pyre grew stronger, the ceiling obscured by thick, grey smoke and the crowd murmured and back away, pressing against the guards and sides of the room. It took the shape of a dragon extending its wings and someone screamed.
Rhaella cried out, bending over as liquid dribbled down her legs and pooled at her feet as her water broke. Ser Duncan went to her side, a calm, resigned expression on his face.
Aegon glanced back at Jon, and despite being too far to be heard – especially over the crackle of the flames, the voices of the court – Jon heard him say, perfectly clear as though he was beside him: "A life for a life, Jon," and then he and his wife stepped into the pyre, their forms disappearing into the flames.
What was a strong bonfire turned into a raging inferno, the flames reaching the ceiling and staining it black.
Prince Duncan, at Jon and Robb's side, paled and hollered, "FATHER!"
The screams reached fever pitch and bodies began crushing one another in their race to escape,
pounding on the doors or going to the back glass wall.
"No, wait—!" cried Jon, turning as the first knight broke the window.
Others copied them, and as people poured onto the terrace, the fresh air swept into the room and fed the flames. A pyromancer was caught in the surge, his screams swallowed quickly.
Flames licked across the top of the ceiling, along wooden bannisters and crept across the tables that were once laden with food and drink, every single inch it took feeding the fire and stoking it to greater heights. Something, somewhere, creaked and groaned.
"This is a bloody stone castle!" complained Robb, looking around. "It shouldn't burn!"
"Even stone can burn," replied Sansa, thinking of Winterfell, even as she clutched at Robb's side. "Everything else inside of it is fuel."
Rhaella was gone; Ser Duncan had carried her out through the broken glass, but that path was now blocked as a beam fell from above and blocked the escape route. People turned to the doors, instead.
Prince Duncan was fighting against the crowd, trying to get to the overwhelmed pyre but the old knight in armour and a white cloak held him back. "My Prince, you mustn't!"
"Father!" screamed Duncan, tear streaks down his cheeks, ignoring the kingsguard. "FATHER!"
"Duncan!" cried Jenny, jostled by the crowd. It tore her from near the Starks and Syntyche's side, causing the woodswitch to cry out in dismay as her form was swallowed.
"Jenny!" Duncan threw himself away from the kingsguard and into the crowd, trying to find his wife.
Jon's eyes met Syntyche's. There was resignation there.
Someone managed to break open the door, but all it did was feed the fire as more air swept into the room. People were coughing, stumbling, falling where they once stood as they tried to navigate their way out of the wing and somewhere safe.
"Syn!"
Duncan pushed through the crowd, a pale Jenny in his arms. They were streaked with soot and sweat, and his blue-purple eyes were wide and wild. The fire crept closer to them as a burning
tapestry fluttered to the floor, catching the edge of a tablecloth.
There was something flat in Duncan's eyes when he turned to the Starks. His lips trembled. "Jon." "Duncan..." Jon trailed off.
"Do what you must, Jon," said Duncan. He paused to cough, clutching Jenny tightly. She did not rouse, her chest barely moving. "You are the Prince Who Was Promised, and father gave his life for you to face your destiny."
"Duncan, no, I—"
Duncan coughed again. He tried to smile, but it was a grimace. "Ensure our deaths are not in vain."
"Prince Duncan," murmured Sansa, with teary eyes.
He shook his dark head. "Go!"
The three did not, and his eyes darkened. Flames licked closer to them.
"GO!" he shouted, stumbling as he coughed and fell to his knees, curling protectively around Jenny. Syntyche placed a hand on his shoulder as she stood by his side.
Jon tugged at Sansa's hand and the three raced through the wing, dodging tables and passing harmlessly through flames that didn't touch them, pillars of smoke that didn't cause them to cough. Something loudly cracked as they reached the broken doors of the wing. They paused, glancing back. Duncan, Jenny, and Syntyche's forms were swallowed by a wave of flame, and Jon felt his heart clenched for his great-great-uncle and his wife.
"The eggs!" cried Robb. "The dragon eggs, can you see them?"
Jon straightened, craning his head and neck.
The floor underneath the pyre had collapsed, despite being stone, into a sinkhole. Some wood littered the hall floor, but most had gone through the hole, including the eggs. Flames eagerly spread through the gap made, racing through new, fresh hallways and rooms. There were caverns and passages underneath – maybe servant's quarters or the dungeons – and the fire eagerly swallowed those as it continued to burn.
Jon shook his head, turning back. "Nothing."
"We should go!" cried Sansa, eyes wide. She was trembling. "Back to Bran!"
They turned and ran, passing a few gasping servants and one or two stragglers, collapsing against a wall as smoke overwhelmed them. Sansa had tears on her cheeks, eyes pained as she took on those who would die at Summerhall, knowing they could not help them.
They arrived back at the great hall, in the entrance, and saw Bran get to his feet as they approached. He had been sitting on the edge of the raised dais there. His eyes were wide when he saw them.
"What happened...?" he asked, eyes flickering at the red glow behind them, the tendrils of smoke creeping across the roof.
"Not now!" shouted Jon, lunging for his younger brother. "Get us out of here!"
Bran nodded. As soon as they all were touching Bran's skin, somewhere, the ground around them lurched up and sideways, vertigo sending them spinning as the hall went dark, smoke suddenly filling their lungs and burning their throats.
Then Sansa opened her eyes and skidded back as she crab-walked away from the fire Arya had been tending until her back hit the dais behind them.
Robb, kneeling before Bran, lurched sideways and retched.
Arya was staring at them, frozen where she crouched. "Seven hells, Bran, what did you do?"
Rickon nodded, adding, "You've been sitting there for hours. It's been so boring."
"Hours?" rasped Robb, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth. Rickon wordlessly handed him a wineskin that Robb gratefully took.
"It's near the hour of the bat," agreed Arya, eyes dark and worried. She focused on Robb, then turned to Sansa, who sat in the shadows, trembling with her arms wrapped around her.
"Jon."
All eyes swung to Rickon, but he was staring at something in Jon's lap. "What's that you've got in your hands?"
Eyes followed Rickon's, and Jon, blinking, flexed his hand against the cool metal. He stared down, mouth open, and the circlet Aegon had handed him on the terrace, smooth to the touch and free of soot from the fire.
The Valyrian inscription caught against the weak light from Arya's fire.
I will find a way, or I will make one.
Chapter End Notes
TBC...