Amidst the shattering, flickering visions of the flame, the scene shifted abruptly, dragging Euron into another long-buried memory.
He saw King Aerys Targaryen, a man in his middle years, riding a beautifully caparisoned warhorse. The shadow of madness was already creeping into his brow, but mostly he wore the confidence and unquestionable majesty of a king.
He was riding personally to Duskendale simply because Lord Denys Darklyn had openly refused to pay his taxes to the Iron Throne.
Aerys II was convinced that his supreme royal authority, backed by a single Kingsguard knight and a few dozen elite guards, would be enough to cow the man into submission.
But inside the gloomy hall of Duskendale, negotiations quickly dissolved into a shouting match. Aerys's commands clashed violently with Lord Darklyn's stubborn defiance. Neither would yield.
Finally, Aerys's patience snapped, and rage swallowed his reason. He surged to his feet, pointed a trembling finger at Lord Darklyn, and roared to his handful of guards: "Heed my command! Arrest this traitor immediately! Execute him where he stands!"
He had completely forgotten—this wasn't King's Landing. He was deep in Duskendale, where the Darklyn power ran deep. He wasn't surrounded by a mighty legion, but a pitifully small retinue. The royal majesty he believed to be untouchable held no magic here.
The only response to his roar was a cold hand signal from Lord Darklyn.
In an instant, Darklyn soldiers poured out from the shadows, easily crushing the King's weak resistance. Aerys II, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, went from giving orders to wearing chains in the blink of an eye.
A more brutal scene unfolded before him—his loyal protector, Sir Gwayne Gaunt of the Kingsguard, didn't even have time to draw his sword before he was tackled by Darklyn's master-at-arms, Ser Symon Hollard. A blade flashed, and right before Aerys's horrified eyes, Sir Gwayne's head was hacked clean off.
In that moment, the King's dignity was trampled into the dirt, and the seed of madness was quietly planted.
---
In the broken, swaying fire-memory, time accelerated—
The once-proud ruler of the Seven Kingdoms was now the lowest prisoner in the damp, stinking dungeons of Duskendale. Lord Denys Darklyn showed no mercy for his station; instead, he heaped humiliation upon him. He threw the King into the filthiest, most foul-smelling cell, fed him slop unfit for pigs, and allowed his sadistic gaolers to torture him at will.
They scoured him with salted whips, seared his skin with red-hot irons, and even pinned him down to piss on his head—
Lord Darklyn intended to break Aerys's spirit, to force him to sign a humiliating treaty.
But he never imagined that while the extreme physical torture didn't make Aerys yield, it pushed his mind to the other extreme. Aerys II had truly gone "mad."
In a perspective that felt like a soaring crow—shared by Euron and Gwendolyn—they followed Aerys's consciousness, which had also taken the form of a spiritual raven. They flew over the towering, icy Wall, reaching the legendary Land of Always Winter.
There, they saw an endless, silent army of wights marching through the snow, and felt the bone-chilling cold of death. A maddening, obsessive whisper began to gnaw at Aerys's mind like maggots in the bone:
"Burn them all..."
"Burn them..."
"Only fire..."
As if to make Aerys believe it without question, the vision showed him the dead rising again—impervious to swords and axes, yet turning to ash instantly under the green kiss of wildfire.
"Burn! Burn them with fire! Burn them all! Burn everything!"
By day, Aerys II suffered the physical torture of Denys Darklyn and his gaolers. By night, his soul suffered the endless torment of ice and fire in nightmares from beyond the North.
Six months later, when the daily double-torture reached its peak, Aerys II's sanity finally snapped completely. When he was released from Duskendale, he was no longer the arrogant but rational king he had been.
A true "Mad King" was born.
He believed fire was the only answer to the eternal winter, the only way to purify the world.
He would burn everyone he deemed deserving of death.
---
The flames swallowed the scene, ash drifting away as a new vision coalesced in the twisting heat waves.
This time, it showed Aerys II as he was now—completely consumed by insanity.
Aerys was trapped in a web of nightmares and paranoid delusions, unable to escape.
In one terrifyingly clear dream, Aerys saw Cersei Lannister—Tywin's daughter—wearing a Targaryen crown, sitting arrogantly upon the Iron Throne made of black swords.
It was this terrible omen that caused Aerys to explode in rage when Tywin proposed a marriage between Rhaegar and Cersei. He stared at Tywin with eyes burning with madness and contempt, his voice shrill and cutting: "You are my most capable servant, Tywin, I do not deny that. But one does not marry the daughter of a servant to the heir of the master!"
In another, more ancient and scorching dream, Aerys clearly saw dragons. Three dragons! They were the holy symbol of House Targaryen's power. They circled a silver-haired Targaryen woman of the purest blood, set against the backdrop of a distant city across the Narrow Sea.
This vision convinced him that the true dragons would return, but they required the union of the oldest, purest bloodlines.
Driven by this paranoid belief, he sent his most trusted brother, Lord Steffon Baratheon of Storm's End, and his wife Cassana, across the sea to Volantis. They were to find a bride of noble, ancient Valyrian blood for Prince Rhaegar at any cost, to birth the prophesied "True Dragon."
In yet another dream, Aerys saw one of his descendants wearing a crown at a grand wedding, only to be poisoned by traitors and dying on the spot. Since then, he let no one near him with a blade. He refused to cut his hair or nails. A voice told him that no one around him could be trusted!
---
The fire twisted and swirled again, pulling Euron and Gwendolyn's consciousness into another vortex of time.
When the scene stabilized, they found themselves floating in a cold, secret stone chamber—a place they recognized. Deep within Harrenhal.
Inside the chamber, the "Mad King" Aerys II stood facing his son and heir, Rhaegar Targaryen. Flickering candlelight cast their shadows long against the rough stone walls, dancing like distorted ghosts.
Aerys's voice was hoarse and urgent, breaking the silence. "The prophecy passed down through House Targaryen—The Song of Ice and Fire. Do you remember it?"
Rhaegar's expression was solemn. He answered without hesitation, "It is etched in my heart, Father. I believe in it deeply. At first, I thought I was the Prince That Was Promised... later, I came to believe the burden falls to my children. I have already decided to name my firstborn Aegon. For 'the dragon has three heads'—we need three children, just as the three dragons on our sigil. Aegon shall be the Prince of the prophecy."
Aerys cut him off sharply, a fanatical green light flickering in his eyes. "Then divorce Elia Martell! She cannot give you the Prince of the prophecy. She can bear no more children!"
Rhaegar's eyes widened in shock, his instinct to refuse rising up. "That... we swore an oath before the Seven..."
Aerys waved his hand impatiently, as if brushing away a fly. "I have seen the true meaning of the Song of Ice and Fire! Fire is our Targaryen blood, the blood of the dragon! And Ice..." He paused, emphasizing the words, "Is the blood of the Starks of the North!"
"The Stark blood?" Rhaegar murmured. A wild, beautiful figure that had been haunting his dreams lately suddenly flashed in his mind.
"Yes!" Aerys's voice was ironclad. "You are Fire. The Stark bloodline is Ice. You must marry Lyanna Stark!"
Hearing the name, a look of undeniable—even relieved—joy flashed across Rhaegar's face, but reality quickly set in. "But... what about Elia?"
"Divorce!" Aerys's voice was cold and ruthless. "Right after the tourney, you must divorce her!"
Immense pressure warred with secret desire in Rhaegar's heart. He tried to buy a moment of respite. "Father, let me... think. I need time..."
"Your marriage is not for your personal pleasure!" Aerys shouted, cutting off his retreat. "It is for the survival of the Seven Kingdoms! There is nothing to think about! It is decided!"
---
The fire exploded outward, sparks scattering like panicked moths, snapping the two observers back to reality.
Euron and Gwendolyn woke at the same time, breathing heavily, as if they had just struggled up from deep water.
In the room, the candles and the hearth fire were dancing frantically, casting wild, ghostly shadows on the walls.
Gwendolyn's red robe was slightly disheveled, her body slick with a fine sheen of sweat. Her cheeks were flushed with the afterglow of both passion and the revelation of divine secrets.
Euron leaned down, kissing her lips gently. His fingers traced her smooth spine as he whispered, "Tired?"
Gwendolyn shook her head. Damp strands of red hair stuck to her forehead, but her eyes were still lost in the shock of what she had seen. "Not tired."
After a moment of silence, Euron looked at the fire, which still jumped uneasily. "Tell me... was what we just saw real?"
"The holy fire never lies," Gwendolyn said with certainty, though a deep worry crept into her voice. "However, the truths it shows can be misunderstood by mortals. Like Aerys II... a pitiful man who completely misread the prophecy. How tragic."
She buried her hot cheek against Euron's chest, but confusion remained in her eyes. "It was overwhelming. We saw the buried past, felt the turbulent present, uncovered a shocking secret, and even stepped into the fragments of the Mad King's dreams... I was just wondering," she looked up, staring directly into Euron's eyes, "who possesses such power? Who could drag Aerys II into such deep and terrifying dreams?"
Euron knew the answer likely pointed to the legendary Three-Eyed Raven, but he couldn't share such a deep secret with the priestess of the Lord of Light. He simply gave a meaningful smile, his fingers caressing her arm as he steered the conversation elsewhere.
"Perhaps... we should ask the Lord of Light himself, right here in the fire?"
Gwendolyn: "..."
In the stone room, only the sound of the popping fire remained.