Inferno

Aegon stood in his tent, staring blankly at the flickering candlelight casting dark shadows across his face. The canvas walls shifted slightly in the cool evening breeze, but he barely noticed them.

He had been marching his army hard for two weeks, and they had stopped for the night, allowing his men a few precious hours of rest. He, however, had not found a single moment of peace. His mind was consumed by a singular thought.

Margaery. His wife, his queen, had been taken.

And the one responsible: Maekar.

He clenched his jaw, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. His plan had been to march to King's Landing, to take back his throne. But after Margaery was taken, and after receiving word that Maekar was in the Stormlands, he had changed his course. Now, he was marching east, towards the Stormlands, with a different goal in mind: to rescue his queen and kill his brother.

"My king," a voice broke through the silence. Aegon turned to see his uncle Oberyn standing behind him.

"Our scouts have spotted Maekar's army," Oberyn continued. "It has grown to thirty thousand strong. The Stormlands have indeed fallen to him, Your Grace."

The lords who stood nearby nodded in agreement.

Aegon looked over at Arthur Dayne, standing silently with the newly appointed Kingsguard, Loras. Arthur seemed a shadow of his former self, especially after the death of Ser Barristan.

Barristan who had failed to protect Margaery.

Aegon gritted his teeth, fury burning in his chest. He slammed his fist onto the table. "We march through the night," he said, his voice low.

The lords in the tent exchanged uneasy glances. Oberyn shifted his weight, clearly hesitating. 

Lord Florent spoke up, his voice cautious. "Your Grace, the men are tired. They've marched hard for days. If we force them—"

Aegon cut him off, his voice rising sharply. "He has my wife!" His eyes blazed as he glared at them. "My queen, your queen!" he screamed, the anger and pain in his voice reverberating in the small space. His hands shook slightly, his breath coming in harsh bursts as he struggled to control his rage.

Oberyn raised his hands in a placating gesture. "We understand, Your Grace, but—"

"No!" Aegon shouted, his face flushed. He stepped away from the table, pacing back and forth like a caged lion. "I have one hundred thousand men behind me, and he has a mere thirty thousand!" His eyes locked onto Oberyn's. "We march tonight. I will not wait another moment while Maekar holds her."

"Your Grace, my men... they're exhausted. To march through the night without rest will weaken us further," Lord Hightower said, trying to reason.

Aegon's eyes narrowed at the words, his lips curling into a cold, mocking smile. "Too weak, you say?" he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Very well, those too weak to march can do so further back—at the rear." His voice rose, filled with scorn. "Let them march behind those who still have the courage and strength to fight for their king."

A heavy silence fell over the tent. Hightower's expression shifted, a flicker of anger crossing his face. The lords could see that Aegon was beyond reason.

Finally, Willas, who had remained quiet until now, spoke up, his voice gentle but filled with sadness.

"And Margaery, my king?" Willas asked softly, his eyes meeting Aegon's.

Aegon fell silent, the question hanging heavily in the air. For a moment, his gaze softened, his mind drifting to thoughts of his beloved Margaery—her laughter, her gentle smile, the way she comforted him when the darkness inside threatened to overwhelm him. His heart ached, the fear of what might have happened to her gnawing at him like poison.

Garlan Tyrell spoke up, his voice filled with bitter contempt. "That bastard," he spat, "he has truly shown his true nature."

"Wasn't his usurping the throne enough for you to know his nature?" Oberyn asked with a smirk.

"Something is not right," Randyll said, breaking his silence. "The bastard is marching towards us."

Jon Connington scoffed. "He is a fool," he said dismissively. "Thinking like his savage uncle and his savage family."

But Randyll shook his head, his expression unyielding. "Or perhaps there is some truth in the rumors... of the dragon."

Aegon felt his heart lurch, a feeling of unease taking hold.

"There are rumors of its sightings in the Crownlands," Randyll continued, his voice even but his eyes scanning the reactions around the tent. "Over King's Landing, flying towards the Riverlands. Some say it was seen at Casterly Rock itself, and now the Westerlands have gone silent."

A tense, unsettling quiet fell over the tent. Nervous murmurs arose, lords exchanging uneasy glances as the implications of Randyll's words sank in.

"He lies," Aegon heard the voices whisper, creeping through his mind, harsh and repetitive. He closed his eyes, trying to shut them out.

"He lies. He lies. He lies," they echoed, the whispers growing louder, more insistent. Aegon gritted his teeth, forcing his eyes open to face the gathered lords once more.

"Perhaps the usurper feels confident because he possesses the queen," Connington said, almost grasping for an answer to dismiss the unsettling thought of a dragon. His words were met with nods of agreement; they quickly latched onto the idea, a glimmer of comfort amidst the uncertainty.

Aegon seized on that, his voice rising above the murmurs, firm with resolve. "How could Maekar possibly have a dragon?" he declared, his eyes narrowing as if daring anyone to challenge him. "If he had one, he would have come for me sooner."

Oberyn, however, spoke up, his voice calm, though his eyes showed a flicker of unease. "Perhaps, my king, we should consider the possibility that—"

"No," Aegon interrupted, his voice edged with irritation. He could not let his doubts take hold. He would not falter here, not now. "If it is not bonded to me, then it is nothing but a rideless beast," he said, the words spoken more for himself than anyone else, as if to push away the fear clawing at him.

"The king's words ring true. Maekar could not possibly have bonded to a dragon," Connington said, supporting Aegon.

"Enough of this," Aegon commanded. "We march after midnight. Now leave."

The lords slowly nodded, exchanging uneasy glances before making their way out of the tent. Oberyn lingered for a moment longer, as if wanting to say something, but thought better of it and bowed his head, slipping out into the night after the others.

As the tent flaps fell shut, Aegon stood alone in the dim space, the flickering shadows on the canvas walls seeming to taunt him with their whispers. He sank heavily onto a nearby bench, his shoulders slumping as the exhaustion of weeks of relentless marching and worry crashed down on him.

He heard a faint rustling sound to his side, and he turned his head sharply, the candlelight catching the movement. For a split second, he saw something—a figure, an old man with a single, burning red eye staring straight at him. He blinked, and the vision was gone, vanishing into the darkness as though it had never been there.

Aegon's breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the empty space, trying to make sense of what he had just seen. He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

"Is my mind finally abandoning me?" he thought, a bitter laugh escaping his lips, a laugh that felt almost foreign to him.

The voices in his head laughed as well, their sinister mirth ringing in his ears, growing louder, overlapping—a cacophony that filled every corner of his mind.

They were happy. So very happy. He had never heard them so happy.

Aegon closed his eyes, his head falling into his hands as he tried to steady his breath.

He had to win, for Margaery.

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"This is the Grassy Vale, Your Grace," Loras Tyrell said, his voice even as he looked out over the horizon.

Aegon turned his gaze to the surroundings, letting his eyes take in the landscape. The land stretched wide before him—a vast plain of golden grasses swaying gently in the wind, rippling like waves across a sunlit sea. The sky above was half-filled with clouds, and a distant ridge of trees marked the boundary between the vale and the forest beyond. It was beautiful—deceivingly peaceful.

They had finally caught sight of Maekar's army.

He could see their silhouettes near the distant treeline, standing out against the endless expanse of the vale.

Aegon's thoughts raced as he looked at the enemy. Something felt wrong.

"Jon," Aegon called, his voice barely a whisper. "Have the scouts spotted Maekar?"

"No, Your Grace," Connington said from his side, his brow furrowed, eyes scanning the field. "He's not there. No sign of him."

Aegon paused, his thoughts twisting and spiraling in confusion. "Did he leave?" he murmured, his gaze narrowing as he focused on the distant camp. "Did he take Margaery to the capital?" His voice carried a desperate, questioning edge. "Then why leave the army... why?"

"My king," came Mace Tyrell's voice, breaking into his thoughts. He turned to see Mace and Willas Tyrell riding up towards him. Mace's face was pale, his expression weary—an echo of the man he had been before Margaery's abduction, now beaten down, his spirit broken.

"Lord Tyrell," Aegon said, his voice tight, trying to keep his composure. "What is it?"

Willas was the one who answered. "The Florents, Hightowers, and Redwynes..." he began.

It was then that Aegon saw it—the banners in the rear, banners of the three powerful Reach houses, breaking formation, withdrawing. They had stayed back during the march, taking his words to heart, and now they were retreating.

"What are they doing?" Aegon asked, his voice rising as his eyes widened in shock. The sight of the armies pulling back gripped him with sudden and fierce rage.

Connington's face grew dark as he watched the scene unfold. "They are leaving the field," he said, his voice filled with disbelief.

Aegon turned on his horse, rage overtaking him. "Traitors!" he screamed, his face contorting, veins throbbing in his neck. "Traitors!" His voice was raw, almost breaking.

Willas tried to calm his king, his face filled with worry. "Your Grace, perhaps there has been some miscommunication, a misunderstanding—"

But Aegon could not hear reason in that moment, his fury consuming him as his eyes darted between the retreating banners of his supposed allies.

Oberyn and the other lords rode quickly toward Aegon, their expressions grim.

"They are leaving," Lord Rowan said, his voice laced with dread. He turned his gaze towards Lord Tarly, who stood beside him. "This... this is treachery."

Randyll Tarly's expression darkened, his brows knitting together in fury. "They wouldn't dare," he said through clenched teeth, his gaze following the retreating troops. "They would not abandon kin," he added, as all three houses had family in all the other houses in the Reach.

"Lord Hightower is the queen's grandfather; he would never—" Arthur began to say.

"Yes, my king, Grandfather would never betray you," Loras added.

Lord Rowan shook his head, his voice trembling slightly. "Perhaps this is why the usurper is so confident... perhaps he turned them to his side."

"Turned them?" Oberyn said, his tone incredulous. "Impossible. This is but a simple misunderstanding."

"Yes, I agree with Prince Oberyn. This is but a misunderstanding, perhaps even a trick by the usurper," Connington said.

"Why else would they leave now, just as we are about to meet the usurper's forces in battle? What if they plan to strike us from the rear?" Lord Rowan argued.

Lord Tarly's face turned a deeper shade of red, the fury boiling beneath his steely exterior. "If this is true, then Florent, Hightower, and Redwyne have damned us all," he said, his voice seething. He gripped his sword hilt so tightly that his knuckles went white. "To abandon their own kin—to betray their true king—damn them to the deepest pits of the Seven Hells."

"Damn you, Leyton!" Mace screamed to his goodfather. "Traitor..."

Aegon watched as the lords argued over what they should do next, his own mind racing to think of a plan.

Then he heard it.

They all heard it.

A roar split through the chatter of the lords and the army, a sound so deep and thunderous that it seemed to resonate within their very bones. The lords fell silent, their words dying as their heads snapped upwards.

Aegon's blood went cold, and he could see the faces of the lords around him draining of color, turning pale, as though life itself was being sucked away. His uncle Oberyn, one who was always calm and collected, was trembling as he looked to the sky.

Aegon didn't need to look; he knew what it was. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. The sun itself seemed to dim, blotted out by a shadow that swept across the ground. Slowly, almost against his will, Aegon looked up.

There it was—the dragon.

It glided towards them with ease, its massive wings outstretched, black scales glinting in the sunlight. Aegon's heart pounded in his chest, the world around him fading into a blur. He could see the outlines of its scales, the green glow in its eyes, its maw opening as it roared again. It was as if time had slowed, and he was left to face the impossible reality above.

Everything else was drowned out. He couldn't hear the lords shouting in panic, couldn't hear the scrambling of horses as they were turned and driven away from the shadow that was descending upon them. He heard nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the dragon—a monster out of nightmares.

"Aegon! Aegon!"

The voice, muffled at first, finally cut through his daze. His uncle was calling for him, his voice desperate, filled with terror. Aegon blinked, tearing his eyes from the sky. He saw Arthur, white as a ghost, looking at him, his mouth moving, though Aegon could barely register his words.

The other lords, those who were near him, were riding away, fleeing from the sight of the dragon, their courage shattered. Horses whinnied in fear, the chaos erupting once again, but Aegon was rooted to the spot. He couldn't tear his gaze away.

He smirked then—a maddening smirk, one that seemed entirely disconnected from the chaos and fear that surrounded him.

"Well played, little brother," he muttered to himself, his voice nearly drowned by the rush of air, the beating of enormous wings. A dark laughter bubbled up from within him, spilling out uncontrollably—a laugh that was wild, unhinged.

The dragon's roar echoed once again, and Aegon laughed louder, his voice breaking, the sound twisted with both disbelief and a strange, unfathomable exhilaration.

Aegon watched as the dragon descended upon the Tyrell men. He barely had time to react when a wall of searing fire erupted from the beast's maw, sweeping across the soldiers in a devastating wave. The heat was unimaginable—a force that scorched the earth and everything upon it.

Aegon was thrown from his horse, hitting the ground hard. He felt the bones in his shoulder shudder on impact, but that pain was nothing compared to what came next. The flames washed over the front lines, and he felt the heat as if it were alive, biting into his skin, devouring him. His face seared from the intensity, the skin bubbling and peeling away, and he screamed, the sound lost amidst the chaos around him.

He felt his body move on its own, his limbs driven by a primal need to escape, to survive. He ran, stumbling through the smoke and ash, his vision blurred with tears as he fought to find any path away from the firestorm.

Men around him were burning, their screams a cacophony of pain that pierced through the thunderous roar of the dragon's fury. Armor glowed red-hot, melting onto the flesh of the men wearing it, fusing with skin as they fell to the ground, their bodies convulsing in agony. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, acrid and thick, coating his throat as he choked on it.

The entire front line of his army was obliterated, nothing more than charred remains. He ran, his steps uneven, his senses overwhelmed by the heat and the screams. He could barely see, barely breathe, his eyes stinging from the smoke and his ears ringing from the endless, anguished cries of the dying.

And then he looked up. Through the haze, he saw the dragon turning, its massive form circling through the sky before it descended once more. Its maw opened, and flames poured forth—a torrent of fire sweeping over the ranks where the Peakes and Fossoways had stood. Men were consumed in an instant, the fire engulfing them entirely, leaving nothing but blackened husks in its wake.

Aegon could hear them—their screams as they burned, as their bodies were reduced to ash in the blink of an eye. One man, his entire body aflame, ran blindly, his cries echoing in the inferno. He stumbled into Aegon, the searing heat of his burning flesh sending a fresh wave of agony through Aegon's body.

He fell to the ground, the impact jarring him, and he tried to rise, but the pain was too much. His limbs were heavy, useless, and he could do nothing but lie there, his skin blistering, every nerve alight with unbearable torment.

His screams joined the rest, but they were drowned out, swallowed by the roar of the flames and the endless wailing of the dying. The world around him was fire—red and orange, flickering in waves, casting a nightmarish glow on everything it touched. The flames licked at him, his armor cooking him alive, leaving him in a sea of agony. It was as if he were in the Seven Hells themselves.

Aegon could feel his consciousness slipping, the edges of his vision going dark, and he welcomed it—anything to escape the pain.

The last thing he heard, the final sound as he slipped into unconsciousness, was the infernal roar of the dragon—a sound that heralded his defeat.

Maekar had won.

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Read up to chapter 103 here :

p.a.t.r.eon.com/Illusiveone (check the chapter summary i have it there as well)