**YEAR 2085 AFTER THE LONG NIGHT**
**THE PROPOSALS**
One year has passed since the journey through Essos.
A year of memories, of shared stories, of nights around the fire recounting adventures. The images of Volantis, Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, Pentos, Norvos, Qohor remain fresh in their memories. The slaves, the women, the spyglasses, the fights, the prophecies, the devotion, the daggers.
The children have grown.
AEGON is 17 years old. His silver hair, longer than ever, falls over his shoulders like a cascade of moonlight. His violet eyes, once curious, now hold a new depth. They have seen slaves. They have seen injustice. They have seen the world as it is.
ORYS is also 17 years old. His dark hair, always rebellious, frames a smile that is no longer as easy as before. Women still look at him, but he no longer feels flattered. Something has changed within him.
VISENYA is 15 years old. She is tall, fierce, beautiful. Vhagar, her dragon, has grown with her. Now she is an imposing beast with emerald green scales. Visenya is no longer a girl seeking fights. She is a woman who knows what she wants.
RHAENYS is 15 years old. Sweeter than her sister, but with an intelligence that observes everything. Meraxes adores her with devotion. Rhaenys is no longer just the observer. Now she is the one who understands. The one who sees beyond.
And the messages have not stopped arriving.
For months, ships from every corner of the world have docked at Dragonstone.
From Braavos, with their purple sails and proud captains.
From Pentos, with their fat magisters and promises of gold.
From Volantis, with their tigers on banners and their arrogance of an ancient city.
From Qarth, with their spices and enigmatic smiles.
Kings, mages, lords of coin.
All with the same purpose:
To offer men, ships, and gold in exchange for expeditions to Valyria.
Dareo and Elera have received each emissary with courtesy, with wine, with kind words. But without commitments.
—We will think about it —they always say —. When we are ready.
The children watch from the shadows, fascinated.
—We could have our own army —Visenya says one night, in Aegon's room —. With all that gold and those men... we could do whatever we wanted.
—It's not about that —Aegon replies, looking at the Qohor dagger he always carries —. It's about Valyria.
—And you want to go?
Aegon hesitates.
His violet eyes lose themselves in infinity.
—I don't know —he admits —. But they do. And they are willing to pay.
**THE SYMPTOMS**
But something strange begins to happen.
Something no one notices at first. Something that hides in details, in the small things overlooked when life is normal.
Dareo coughs.
A dry, deep cough, born somewhere in his chest that won't go away. The maester's syrups do not calm it. Rest does not relieve it. The cough continues. Always continues.
Elera tires.
Climbing the fortress stairs, something she always did effortlessly, now leaves her breathless. She has to stop halfway, lean on the wall, breathe deeply.
—Are you alright, Mother? —Rhaenys asks one afternoon, finding her like that.
—Yes, daughter —Elera lies, smiling —. Just age.
At first, no one pays attention.
It must be the winter cold. It must be the fatigue of years. It must be age.
But the symptoms worsen.
One afternoon, Dareo tries to train with Aegon in the courtyard.
Wooden swords. Basic exercises. Nothing demanding.
But after a few minutes, Dareo falls to his knees.
His breathing is a wheeze. His face, pale.
—Father? —Aegon kneels beside him, frightened —. Father?
—I'm fine —Dareo lies, trying to get up —. Just... just dizziness.
But his hands tremble. His voice, weak.
Aegon does not believe him.
That night, when the fortress sleeps, Aegon climbs to Aerom's tower.
The ravens watch him pass. Their black eyes follow him. They caw softly.
—Grandfather —Aegon says, finding Aerom by the window —. Something is wrong with Father. And Mother too.
Aerom does not turn.
He only looks at the night.
—I know, child —he says, and his voice is a broken whisper —. I know.
**THE DIAGNOSIS**
They call the maester.
The man is old, older than Aerom almost. His back is hunched, his hands tremble, but his eyes still see clearly. He has healed generations of Targaryens. He has seen almost every child in the fortress born. He has seen too many die.
He examines Dareo first.
Listens to his chest with the wooden trumpet. Palpates his throat. Asks him questions about the cough, about the pain, about sleep.
Then he examines Elera.
Does the same. Listens, palpates, asks.
His face, when he finishes, is a mask of gravity.
—It's the Valyrian Sickness —he says.
Silence.
A silence so dense it seems solid.
—What is that? —Visenya asks, breaking it.
—The same illness that killed so many after the Fall —the maester replies —. The poisoned air of the ruins. The corrupt magic that still floats in those places. Those who spent too much time there... carry it within. Like a seed. And sooner or later, it awakens.
Aegon feels the world stop.
—But they didn't go to Valyria —he says, voice trembling —. Not so many times... Not like those who died...
—They went when they were young —Aerom says.
Everyone turns to him.
Aerom is in a corner, leaning against the wall. His grey eyes, sunken, look at his grandchildren with an ancient pain.
—In the early years. When the air was more contaminated. When the poison was pure. When we all tried to recover what was lost. They went. I let them go.
The children remember the stories.
The failed attempts. The soldiers who never returned. The ships that came back empty.
—There is no cure —the maester says, and his voice is a verdict —. Only time. And time... is running out.
Visenya clenches her fists.
—And those messengers? —she asks, with fury —. Those who come offering gold and men? Did they know the air no longer kills?
—They know —Aerom replies —. That's why they come now. Because you can pass through. Because the poison is no longer immediate. But the sickness... the sickness was already in your parents for years. From when the air was pure poison.
The children look at each other, horrified.
Their parents' journeys. The expeditions. The attempts to reclaim Valyria.
Everything has a price.
And now, that price had come due.
**THE DAYS THAT REMAIN**
Dareo and Elera worsen quickly.
As if the news had accelerated the process. As if the illness, once hidden, now felt free to devour them.
Dareo can no longer get out of bed.
His body, once strong, has wasted away. His hands, once firm, tremble uncontrollably. His voice is a whisper. But his eyes... his eyes still shine.
Elera barely speaks.
She spends most of her time asleep. When she wakes, it's to ask about her children. To make sure they are well. To smile at them one last time.
The children watch over them day and night.
They take turns being with them. Giving them water. Holding their hands. Not leaving them alone for an instant.
Aerom comes down from his tower.
He hasn't come down this much in years. He spends hours with them. They speak in private. Long conversations the children do not hear. Secrets only they know. Things of the past. Things of the future.
One night, Dareo asks to see Aegon and Orys.
Elera asks to see Visenya and Rhaenys.
It is time.
**DAREO WITH HIS SONS**
Dareo's room is dark, lit only by a single candle.
Dareo lies in bed, pale, wasted. His face is that of a man no longer of this world.
But his eyes still shine.
Aegon sits to his right. Orys to his left. The two, beside their father, holding his hands.
—Sons —Dareo says, with a weak but firm voice —. I have loved you more than anything.
His voice breaks.
—More than Valyria. More than any dream. More than my own life.
—Father... —Aegon begins.
—Let me speak. There isn't much time.
He takes Aegon's hand with a strength he should no longer have.
—You, my son, are special. You know it. Valerio chose you. Dragons are never wrong. Never. You will be great. Greater than me. Greater than all of us. But remember: do not look back.
—How?
—We looked back. All our lives. Dreaming of Valyria. Wanting to recover what was lost. And while we looked back, the world rotted. People suffered. And we did nothing.
He squeezes his hand with strength he no longer possesses.
—Do not make our mistakes. Look forward. To the future. Build something new. Something better. The world is broken. You can fix it. You have the power. You have the dragons. You have your siblings. Bring order, son. In the world. In yourself. That's what we didn't do. By looking to the past.
Aegon weeps.
Tears run down his face, uncontrollable.
—I will, Father. I swear it.
Then Dareo looks at Orys.
—And you, son. You don't carry our blood, but you carry our heart. You are as much mine as any. We chose you. Loved you. Raised you. And I regret nothing.
Orys weeps too.
—Take care of your siblings. And let them take care of you. Protect them. Love them. Never abandon them.
—I will, Father —Orys squeezes his hand —. I swear it.
—Good. Now... leave me with your mother.
The brothers look at each other. Rise. Leave the room.
Behind them, Dareo closes his eyes.
**ELERA WITH HER DAUGHTERS**
In the other room, Elera is propped up in bed, supported by pillows.
Her face is gaunt, but when she sees her daughters enter, she smiles.
—My girls —she whispers, opening her arms —. My beautiful girls.
Visenya, who never cries, cries.
She throws herself into her mother's arms, embracing her tightly, as if she could hold her back with the strength of her love.
—Mother, don't go —she pleads —. Please, don't go.
—I have to go, my love —Elera strokes her silver hair —. But first, listen to me.
She looks into Visenya's eyes.
—You are pure fire. Never let yourself be extinguished. Never let anyone extinguish you. But remember: fire also gives warmth. It doesn't only burn. Love. Protect. Illuminate. Don't let anger control you. Use it, yes. But don't let it use you.
Visenya nods, speechless.
Then Elera looks at Rhaenys.
—You are the peace. The one who unites. The one everyone seeks when the world hurts. Don't lose that. Never. In the dark days, you will be the light. The one who guides. The one who holds.
Rhaenys cries silently, embraced with her sister.
—And you two —Elera says, joining their hands —. Take care of each other. Protect each other. You are sisters. You are blood. There is nothing stronger than that. Not dragons. Not magic. Not time. The love between sisters is forever.
—We will, Mother —Rhaenys promises.
—We swear it —Visenya adds.
Elera smiles.
For the last time.
—Now go. Your father and I... want to be alone.
**THE TWO**
Dareo and Elera, alone.
The rooms are connected by a door they always keep open. He looks at her from his bed. She, from hers. They cannot touch. Cannot embrace. Cannot say goodbye as they would wish.
But their eyes say everything.
—We did well, didn't we? —she asks, voice barely audible.
—Yes —he replies —. We were afraid. We made mistakes. Many. But they... they are perfect.
—They aren't perfect —she smiles —. They are ours.
Dareo smiles too.
—I love them.
—Me too.
—Always.
—Always.
That night, Dareo and Elera die.
Together.
As they lived.
**AEROM'S GOODBYE**
The door opens slowly.
AEROM enters. His gloved hands tremble. The ravens, for the first time, have not followed him. He is alone.
Dareo and Elera look at him from their beds. Pale. Wasted. But smiling.
—Father —Dareo says, with weak voice —. Come in.
Aerom walks toward them. Each step seems to cost him immense effort. He sits between the two beds, where his children can see him.
—Look what you have done —Aerom whispers —. Look what you force me to.
—Don't cry, Father —Elera says —. You've cried enough in this life.
—It's not fair —Aerom replies, and his voice breaks —. I should have gone first. I am the old one. I am the one who has lived too long. You... you were supposed to live.
Dareo extends a hand. Aerom takes it between his gloved ones.
—Father, listen to us —Dareo says —. It wasn't your fault.
—How not? I took you to Valyria. I encouraged you to go. I...
—We chose to go —Elera interrupts —. We chose to try. Again and again. You warned us. Told us Valyria was dead. We wouldn't listen.
—But I should have...
—No —Dareo says firmly, though his voice is barely a whisper —. You should have nothing. You were a good father. The best.
Aerom weeps. Without shame. Without control.
—I love you so much —he says —. So much.
—We know —Elera replies —. And we love you.
Dareo squeezes his father's hand.
—Now you have to take care of them. Of Aegon. Of Visenya. Of Rhaenys. Of Orys.
—I will —Aerom promises —. I swear it.
—And don't blame yourself —Elera adds —. Never. You were a great father. You gave us everything. Love, protection, pride. That's what matters.
Aerom nods, speechless.
—We're going with Mother —Dareo says, smiling weakly —. With Aere. With our siblings. With the children we lost. All together.
—Take care of them up there —Aerom whispers —. Until I arrive.
—Take your time —Elera smiles —. We're in no hurry.
The three laugh. A fragile, broken laugh, but real.
Aerom kisses Dareo's forehead. Then Elera's.
—Thank you —he says —. For everything.
—Thank you, Father —they respond in unison.
Aerom rises. Walks toward the door. Before leaving, he turns.
—I love you.
—And we love you.
The door closes.
Inside, Dareo and Elera hold hands.
—Ready? —he asks.
—Yes —she replies —. With you, always.
**THE GRIEF**
The children find them at dawn.
Timid sunlight enters through the windows. Birds sing outside. The world continues, indifferent.
Visenya enters her mother's room first. Sees her peaceful face, her hands crossed over her chest. She knows.
She screams.
A heart-wrenching scream that echoes throughout the fortress. That wakes the servants. That makes the dogs whimper. That reaches the cliffs, where the dragons respond with roars of pain.
Rhaenys collapses.
She falls to her knees beside the bed, embraces her mother, rocks her, talks to her. As if she could still hear. As if she could still wake.
Orys freezes at the door.
Looks at his dead mother. Looks at his broken sisters. Doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know what to say. He has never felt so small.
Aegon says nothing.
He enters his father's room. Looks at him. His serene face. His still hands.
He only looks.
But his eyes... his eyes are empty.
Aerom enters.
The old man, the mage, the one who has seen so many die, enters the room. Sees the bodies. Sees his broken grandchildren.
And for the first time in decades, AEROM WEEPS.
Not silently, like the old who have learned to contain pain. He weeps loudly. Pain accumulated over years. For Aere, his wife, the woman he loved. For his children, Eleris, Errol, Nemerys, Aegar, his grandchildren, dead at sea. For all he lost.
And now for Dareo and Elera.
He falls to his knees beside them.
—My children —he moans —. My poor children.
The children embrace him.
The five embrace.
A shattered family, united by grief.
**THE FUNERAL**
They burn the bodies, as Valyrian tradition dictates.
The pyre rises on the black sand beach, where Valerio sleeps. Dry wood, perfumed oils, offerings from loved ones.
The flames consume Dareo and Elera.
The fire crackles, dances, devours. The smoke rises toward the grey sky.
The dragons roar.
Valerio, first. His roar is deep, ancient, like a lament of stone.
Vhagar and Meraxes respond. Their voices, younger, sharper, join the chorus.
The other dragons, the wild ones in the mountains, also roar. Valax, Aerion, Vhaelar, Serion. All. As if they knew. As if they felt.
The Celtigar and Velaryon families are present. Also the inhabitants of Dragonstone. Fishermen, merchants, craftsmen. All have come to bid farewell to their lords.
All remain silent.
Aerom speaks.
His voice, deep, broken, resonates in the silence.
—Today we lost two of our own. Two brave ones. Two hearts. Two souls who gave everything for this island. For this family. For these children.
He looks at the four siblings.
—But their blood continues here. In these four young ones. They are the future. They are the hope.
The children do not speak.
They cannot.
—And we, those who remain —Aerom raises a gloved hand —, will protect them. Always.
The ashes rise toward the sky.
The dragons roar one last time.
And Dragonstone weeps.
**THE INHERITANCE**
Days pass.
The pain does not leave. It stays. Settles in every corner of the fortress. In every room. In every glance.
But life, stubborn, continues.
Days after the funeral, Aegon finds something among his father's things.
A scroll.
It is hidden in a secret drawer of Dareo's desk, along with other important documents. He recognizes it instantly: it is his father's handwriting.
He opens it with trembling hands.
*Aegon: if you are reading this, I am no longer here.*
*Do not be sad. I lived well. I loved well. I was afraid, yes. But I also had courage. I had doubts, but also certainties. I had everything a man could wish for: a wife who loved me, children who admired me, a home I built with my own hands.*
*And you... you have to live better.*
*Do not look back. Do not look at Valyria. Do not look at the ruins of what we were. Look to the future. The world is broken. You saw it in Volantis. You saw it in the burned villages. You saw it in the eyes of the slaves.*
*You can fix it. You have the power. You have the dragons. You have your siblings.*
*Bring order, son. In the world. In yourself.*
*That is what we did not do. By looking to the past.*
*Do not make our mistakes.*
*I love you.*
*Dareo.*
Aegon reads the letter once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then he folds it carefully. Keeps it close to his heart, beside the Qohor dagger.
He does not show it to anyone.
Not yet.
**THE WEIGHT**
That night, Aegon walks alone on the cliffs.
The wind blows strong, cold. The sea roars below. The stars, millions, twinkle above.
Valerio follows him with his gaze.
The dragon is on the beach, curled up, but his golden eye follows his rider. Always. He knows. Always knows.
—What do I do now? —Aegon asks the wind —. How does one bring order to the world?
The wind does not answer.
But something inside him does.
His father's words. His mother's. His grandfather's. All together, mixing in his head.
"Do not look back."
"Bring order."
"The world is broken."
"You are the fire."
"You are the peace."
"Take care of each other."
Aegon closes his eyes.
When he opens them, there is something different in his gaze.
Something that wasn't there before.
A certainty. A direction. A purpose.
**THE PROMISE**
That night, the four siblings gather in Aegon's room.
Candles flicker. Shadows dance. No one speaks at first. They are just there. Together.
Finally, Visenya breaks the silence:
—What do we do now?
Her voice is a whisper, but everyone hears.
Aegon looks at her.
—What they wanted. Live. Grow. Protect each other.
—And Valyria? —Orys asks —. The messengers? The gold?
—That can wait. Now... now we have to be together.
Rhaenys nods.
—Mother said I was the peace. But peace is useless if there's no one to share it with.
Visenya clenches her fists.
—I'm going to burn all those who hurt us.
—No —Aegon says —. We're going to do something better.
Everyone looks at him.
—We're going to build something no one can burn.
They look at each other.
And at that moment, without words, without formal oaths, without ceremonies, they make a promise.
Never to separate.
Above, in his tower, Aerom watches.
The ravens surround him, silent, motionless. Perched on the beams, on the window, on the floor. Their black eyes shine in the darkness.
—The Valyrian sickness... —Aerom murmurs — was no accident.
His voice is a whisper, but the ravens listen.
—Someone sowed it. Someone wanted to weaken us. Someone wanted to see us fall. And I know who.
His eyes shine blue.
For an instant, frost forms on the window glass.
—But not now. Not yet. They need time. Need to heal. Need to grow.
He looks at his grandchildren, embracing in the room.
—When they are ready... they will know.
The ravens caw.
—I know —Aerom replies —. The time approaches.
But for now, he only watches.
And waits.