PYROPHILIA ▸ Aegon the Conqueror

Epilogue

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EPILOGUE

- 37 AC –

DRAGONSTONE WAS COVERED in snow. The hills that stood tall next to the castle were painted white and Aegon could barely make out the small figures of the men – his guards – which were spread across it. It had been years since the last time he had seen snow, never before in Dragonstone or King's Landing. The North had allowed for winter to pass them by, embracing the whole Seven Kingdoms. Aegon couldn't help but wonder whether the deserts in Dorne were covered in white as well.

Aegon raised the silver cup from the table and took a large gulp of wine. It tasted sour and old, its taste no longer satisfying him, but it was a habit of his, one he could not let go of. Wine made things easier for him, smoother. It always has.

There were about twenty different dishes of food laid on the large table, too much food for Aegon to eat alone. For the last few weeks, his table had always been full and after leaving them almost untouched, he would call for his servants to clean the table and thank them for the wasted feast they provided. They would nod their head, a weak smile painted on their face. The next day, the table would be full again.

He had wished to question them, but had decided not to. There were only so many ways to show gratitude to a dying man, who was forced to watch his days go by, locked away in the pile of stone that was Dragonstone. Their efforts would cease shortly anyway.

It was a strange feeling, knowing you will die. Your body felt tired and sore, your heart seemed to beat a little bit slower. His mind was not easy to follow through with his actions, always drifting away from the present. In a way, it felt like he was already dead, waiting for the Gods to come and take him away. And sometimes he would even wait for it, patiently and willingly, praying for his motionlessness to end. The man that now spent his hours sitting in a chair alone, his grandchildren that came and went being his sole company, was once a warrior.

There was the lingering aura of a Conqueror in the room when others spoke to him, when his sons would come to visit, or when their sons would ask him about his life as King. But it was so faint Aegon could hardly even tell it was there in the first place. Others looked at him in awe, seeing his old age as a symbol of a man who'd achieved greatness, but he was no longer a man worthy of awe. He was but a shadow of the great man that people whispered about in terror and respect. He was like a corpse decaying away into oblivion. His name would remain, his efforts would remain, the glory he once gained in the name of his House, but Aegon Targaryen wouldn't. And soon enough, he would not be but a memory in books, the creator of something that had brought to him more damage than good, the founder of his own misery.

It was a fitting day to die. Everything was so peaceful. The snowstorms had paused for the day, his men were once again training, the kids once again playing and people once again living. It seemed like a good day to die, he had thought. A day when people would grieve for him less. He couldn't help but think whether his absence would mean anything more than the death of a symbol, whether anyone would truly mourn Aegon Targaryen, not the Conqueror, but the man. He certainly knew Visenya wouldn't. The blurred image of a girl who would popped in his mind. He tucked it away, along with all the others.

"Father." He hadn't even noticed Aenys walking in. His son took a careful elaborate look around the room, before setting his gaze on him. He looked down at the plate, laid in front of him. It was empty.

"Thank you for coming." His voice was hoarse and tired, sleeplishness apparent in the way it came out.

Aenys stood next to the door like a soldier, unmoving and with a straight posture. His arms were crossed behing his back, allowing the embroidery of his tunic to truly shine. Aegon barely caught a glimpse of the black and red sigil on it. He had once wished to change it, the constant reminder of Rhaenys' loss to heavy for him. But it had been three dragons that gained the Seven Kingdoms. In a way, he thought Rhaenys would rather die a thousand times more than have her name be erased like that.