✦ New Faith ✦ Aegon Targaryen

○ The end ○

♡

I watch as Ser Davian cradles Maiarys, her small form swallowed by the golden blankets. The flickering torchlight dances across her pale, perfect skin, her face serene and unknowing. I feel a pang in my chest—love, fear, and something darker. I tell myself she will be safe, but nothing feels safe anymore.

The guards escort her away, their polished armor clanking in unison, and I turn to Aegon. His hand finds mine, a little too tight, trembling slightly. He reeks of wine, but I don’t mind. I need him close. Together, we walk toward the front gates, where the end of it all waits for us.

Sunfyre perches at the gates, his golden scales glimmering in the fading sunlight. He shifts restlessly, his wings twitching as though sensing the tension. Above us, Dreamfyre and Tessarion circle the skies, their cries sharp and haunting. Aemond sits atop Vhagar, her shadow stretching over the Keep like a shroud, while Helaena hums softly as she rides overhead.

The air is heavy, the silence suffocating.

And then, they appear.

First Syrax, golden and resplendent, breaking through the clouds. Caraxes follows, his long, serpentine body casting an eerie silhouette, and behind him, Moondancer glides like a ghost.

They descend in unison, landing with a force that shakes the ground. Rhaenyra dismounts first, her silver hair braided for war, her violet eyes aflame with defiance. Daemon follows close behind, his hand resting casually on Dark Sister, though there’s nothing casual about the way he looks at us. Above, Baela remains astride Moondancer, her young face hard with determination.

“Good morrow, sister,” Aegon greets, his voice thick with drink and mockery. “A pleasant flight, I hope?”

“Spare me your theatrics, brother,” Rhaenyra snaps, her voice sharp and cold. “Where is my son? Where is Jacaerys Velaryon, the rightful heir to the throne?”

The words cut through me like a blade. The rightful heir. I bite back a laugh. Vearys was the rightful heir, my son, my sweet boy—until he was taken from me.

“You shall not speak of heirs!” I snarl, my voice shaking with rage. “My son was the heir to the Iron Throne before you stole him from me!”

For a moment, Rhaenyra falters. A flicker of guilt crosses her face, so brief I almost miss it.

“The death of your son…” she begins, her voice quieter now, “was no order of mine.”

“Liar!” I scream, my voice raw and jagged. “I’ll have your tongue for your lies!”

Aegon steadies me with a hand on my arm, his touch as much for himself as for me. His lips twist into a cruel smile. “Come, dear sister. If you want your bastard son, follow us.”

We lead them through the Keep, our footsteps echoing in the cavernous halls. Every step feels heavier than the last, the weight of what’s to come pressing down on me.

When we reach the throne room, I glance at Aegon. He nods once, and I raise my hand.

“Now!”

The Kingsguard spring into action. They seize Rhaenyra, her shouts of fury reverberating through the room. Daemon fights back savagely, Dark Sister slicing through two knights before they overpower him. Blood stains the floor, the metallic scent thick in the air.

I watch as Rhaenyra struggles against her captors, her screams piercing, but I feel nothing.

Aegon stumbles toward the Iron Throne, his movements unsteady but purposeful. He collapses onto the jagged seat, his laughter low and broken. I follow, standing by his side, my hand resting on the arm of the throne as we survey our fallen enemies.

“Dear sister,” Aegon begins, his voice dripping with venom, “your naivety has always been your greatest weakness. You truly believed your bastard son was here?”

Rhaenyra’s face pales, the realization hitting her like a blow. “No,” she whispers, shaking her head. “No…”

Daemon’s voice cuts through the tension. “You’ll regret this, you drunken fool,” he spits, his eyes burning with hatred. “The realm will not forget—”

“Enough!” My voice slices through his words, sharp and commanding. I turn to Aegon, and he flicks his Valyrian steel dagger toward me.

I catch it easily, the weight of it solid and cold in my hand. The room feels impossibly still as I step toward Daemon. He meets my gaze with defiance, even now, his lips curling into a sneer.

“It wasn’t personal,” he says, his voice low and steady. “It was for meant Aemond.”

The blade slides across his throat in one clean motion. Blood spurts, warm and vivid, painting my hands red. Rhaenyra’s screams pierce the air, raw with anguish, but they sound distant, almost unreal.

I turn back to Aegon, handing him the bloodied dagger. His fingers close around it without a word.

“Stop this,” Rhaenyra cries, her voice breaking. “This has gone too far. It must end!”

“Indeed it must, sister,” Aegon replies, his voice eerily calm.

He turns to Sunfyre, who waits at the entrance, his golden scales glowing in the dim light.

“Dracarys,” Aegon whispers.

Sunfyre roars, the sound deafening, and his flames engulf Rhaenyra in an instant. Her screams are lost in the inferno, her figure consumed by fire and smoke.

I watch her burn, expecting to feel something—satisfaction, triumph, relief—but there’s nothing. Only the emptiness remains, gnawing at the edges of my mind.

The throne room is silent now, the only sound the crackling of the flames. I turn to Aegon, his face pale and drawn, his eyes hollow. He looks at me, and for a moment, I see the boy he once was, lost and frightened.

I go to him, wrapping my arms around him, and he clings to me like a man drowning.

“I love you,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

“And I you,” he replies, his breath hot against my ear.

We hold each other as the ashes settle around us, two broken souls bound by madness and grief. The Iron Throne looms behind us, a jagged monument to our victory—and our ruin.