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i.
The boy is sleeping in your arms and you are a monster.
He called you Father today. Not the formal "Ser" or "Griff" that you'd insisted on in front of others, but Father. You had been helping him with his swordwork when he'd stumbled and skinned his knee on the gravel. When you'd knelt to examine it, he'd thrown his arms around your neck, buried his face in your shoulder, and said it: "It's alright, Father. I'm not hurt."
The boy shifts in his sleep and his hand curls into your tunic, seeking warmth. Nine years old and small for his age—you've tried feeding him better, tried building his strength, but he's delicate and breakable. Like his father was breakable, in the end. Like everything beautiful is breakable.
You stroke the boy's silver hair. It is not quite Rhaegar's silver, a shade too dark and untouched by gold, but close enough that in certain lights you can almost pretend. You've washed it since he was small enough to still fit in a basin, since before he learned to say your name.
"Griff?" Rhaegar's eyes look at you from a child's face.
"All is well." You've gotten good at lying in the last few years. "Go back to sleep, Chick."
"Had a bad dream."
"What about?"
"You went away and left me alone." Aegon's grip tightens. "Don't go away."
"I'll never leave you." I'll do something worse.
The boy brightens and throws his arms around your waist. You return it mechanically, your hands spanning his narrow back. You could snap him like kindling. The bones would break so easily under your hands. Would it even hurt? Would he even understand what was happening before it was done?
The witch had been very clear about the ritual's requirements. A life for a life. Blood for blood. The law of equivalent exchange; one cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost.
You should feel worse about this. Should feel something other than this cold, calculated certainty. But you've been dead since the war, been a ghost wearing Jon Connington's skin, going through the motions of living while everything that has ever mattered rotted in the ground.
Reassured, Aegon settles back into sleep. You press your face into his hair and he smells like the lavender soap Septa Lemore makes him use. His head rests on your shoulder. His breathing is soft against your neck.
It is a fair exchange, you think; your son for his father, the child you raised for the man you love.
ii.
The streets of Volantis are packed with all sorts of people at every hour of the day. You see slaves with their backs bent, you see noble ladies in bright colored gowns, you see portly merchants, you see whores lined up by the doors of pillow houses.
The boy's hand is in yours. His palm is sweaty, you know that he gets nervous in crowds—he doesn't like the press of bodies, the foreign voices, the way people stare at his hair.
"Can we go home?" he asks.
He means the rented manse up the hill with its cramped rooms, the space where you and Haldon and Septa Lemore play at being his family.
"Soon."
"You always say soon." His hand tightens in yours. "You're lying."
Smart boy. Too smart, sometimes. You've taught him to question, to think, to see through deception. Now the boy was as good at spotting falsehoods as you are at spouting them.
"I'm not lying. We'll go home after one more errand."
"What errand?"
"Just something I need to see. Won't take long."
The old quarter of Volantis is made up of ancient Valyrian structures, leftover bones from before their great empire fell. Most of Volantis lives in the newer districts with the clean wide avenues and towering manses. The old quarter and its warren of narrow alleys and collapsing temples is inhabited only by those too poor or too mad to live anywhere else.
You'd already come here last night with your burden wrapped in sailcloth. Volantis had no shortage of corpses—slaves worked to death, beggars who died in the streets, the nameless dead that washed up on the riverbanks. You'd chosen carefully: a young man from the pillow houses, with the same fine features you remember. The witch said it mattered, that the vessel should match what you're trying to recall. His Lyseni looks should suffice, even if you could note flaws where Rhaegar had none.
You'd dragged the corpse into the temple. Laid it on the old altar stone. Covered it with a cloth because you couldn't stand looking at the slack face, the empty eyes. It's still there now, starting to smell in the Volantene heat.
Then the other components:
Something belonging to the deceased.
You have that. A lock of Rhaegar's hair, stolen from Queen Rhaella's chambers some fifteen years ago when wine made you bold. Silver-gold and fine as spider silk, wrapped in a scrap of purple velvet. You've carried it close to your heart for many years, a holy relic, a piece of the god you worship.
A sacred space.
The temple, empty except for the dead man on the altar.
A blood relative of the deceased.
That's walking beside you now, gripping your hand. You are the worst thing that ever happened to this child.
iii.
The temple was fashioned out of slippery black stone. The roof had fallen in sometime in the last century, leaving the interior open to the sky. Weeds grew through cracks in the stone floor. The statue of a forgotten god lay toppled and broken, face worn smooth by rain and time. Its entrance is a gaping mouth, the doors have rotted away decades ago, leaving just the stone frame.
"Griff." Aegon tugs at your hand. "This place smells bad."
"It's alright. You're safe." Another lie, you're so full of them you might choke. "Come."
You lead him deeper into the ruin. Broken columns rise to your left and at the center the altar waits.
The boy stops when he sees the body. "Who is that?"
"Someone who's going to help us." You put your hand on his shoulder. Feel him trembling. "Don't be afraid."
"Why is he here? Why did you bring me here?" Aegon tries to pull away but you hold firm. "Griff, I want to go home. Please. I want to go home."
"Listen to me." You kneel, making yourself meet Rhaegar's eyes. "I need to tell you something important about your father."
That gets his attention. He always wants to hear about Rhaegar. "What about him?"
"There's a way to bring him back."
Hope lights in those purple eyes. "Really? We can bring him back?"
He looks like Rhaegar. Gods help you, he looks so much like Rhaegar. The same fine bones, the same elegant features, the same mouth that will break hearts when he's grown. You are worse than the Usurper and Clegane both. They would have killed without this sickening pretense of care.
"The law of equivalent exchange," you say gently. "To obtain something, something of equal value must be lost. Your father was a prince, a future king. To bring him back requires..." You swallow, the words long to stay stuck in your throat. "Requires a prince to take his place."
The child must be willing, the witch had been plenty specific about that as well. Your little griff must walk onto the altar himself, must offer his throat and want the blade.
"He won't," you'd said.
"He will if you ask him." Her smile had been terrible. "Sons always obey their fathers."
Understanding dawns slowly in Aegon's face. You watch it happen; confusion giving way to comprehension giving way to horror.
"No." Aegon shakes his head. Backs away from you and your hand falls from his shoulder. "No. I don't want to. Griff, please—"
"I know it's frightening—"
"I don't want to die! I want to go home! I want Septa Lemore! I want—"
He's crying now, great heaving sobs that shake his whole body. You pull him close again even as he tries to push away. Hold him while he fights you with the strength of a child, which is no strength at all.
"Shh. Shh, little one. I'm not going to make you do anything."
"You're lying!" He hits your chest with small fists. "You're lying, you always lie, you said we were going home and now—now—"
"Aegon. Listen to me." You grip his shoulders. Make him look at you. "I have never lied to you about what matters. Never. And I'm not lying now."
"Then let me go! Let me go home! Please, Father, please—"
Father. You're going to be sick.
Your stomach heaves but nothing comes up. You've been empty for days. Can't eat. Can't sleep except in snatches where you dream of youth and wake with your face wet and your chest cracked open.
You force yourself to stroke his hair, the silver strands feel so soft under your palm. You hold him tight, this boy you've raised, this child you've taught to read and ride and hold a sword. His sobs quiet to hiccups after a fashion. He's exhausted himself, gone limp against you like a rag doll. You tilt his face up. His eyes—Rhaegar’s eyes—are swollen, his nose running. He looks younger than nine.
"Do you remember the story I told you? About the king who went to war knowing the battle would kill him?"
He sniffles. Nods.
"He knew the realm needed him, knew his men needed him to be brave even when he was frightened. A leader doesn't run from hard things, does he?"
"No, a king serves." You've drilled these very words into him since he could talk. "A king puts the realm before himself. A king makes hard choices. A king sacrifices."
"Exactly." You wipe his face with your sleeve. "And you're meant to be a king, Aegon, a true king. Which means you have to do hard things, frightening things that might hurt but serve a just cause."
"But I don't want to be a king." Aegon's breath hitches. "I just want to be with you. I want to go home and study with Haldon and practice my sums and I want things to be like they were. Please, can't they just be like they were?"
You close your eyes. "No, they cannot."
Silence. Just the sound of their breathing and the distant noise of Volantis beyond these walls and the buzzing of flies around the corpse on the altar. You can see him struggling, see the child who wants to live warring with the prince you've shaped him to be.
"If it was him," he says slowly, "if my father was here instead of me and someone said—said the realm needed him to..." He can't finish.
"He would." You can be truthful with this boy for once. Rhaegar would have walked to his death singing if he thought it served some greater purpose. "Your father understood that being the heir to a kingdom meant sacrifice. You're his son. You have his courage and his nobility, I've seen it in you every day."
"Do I?" He looks up at you, wants to be told he's good and worthy. "Really?"
"You're so much like him it breaks my heart. He would be so proud of what you're about to do." You can barely force the words out. "It will not hurt, I promise. I will give you something to drink and you'll just fall asleep. It will be like going to bed and when you wake you'll be somewhere better, a place where brave princes go to. Your father will find you there someday and tell you how proud he is."
The boy studies your face, looking for the lie. You're not lying about this either. It won't hurt, you'll make sure of that at least.
"What if we waited? What if we found another way to bring him back? There has to be another way, there has to—Oh, please, Griff, please, I don't want to die, I don't—"
Gods, this hurts more than you thought possible.
"Why does it have to be me? Why can't someone else—I'm just—I haven't even done anything yet. I haven't been a king or—or helped anyone or—I've just been studying and learning and trying to be good and now I have to—"
You hold him while he cries. While he begs. While he tells you he's scared, he doesn't want to die, please don't make him die, he'll be good, he promises he'll be good, just please don't.
"Listen to me. Listen. Do you remember what you told me? When you first asked about your father? You asked me what kind of man he was and I told you he was good and brave, that he put the realm before himself. You said you wanted to be like him, was that a lie?"
"No, but—"
"Then this is how. This is your chance to show you're truly his son, I know you have it in you." Each word is a knife in your chest but you need to keep pushing—you've come too far to stop now. "Being brave doesn't mean not being scared. Your father was scared at the Trident, I know he was. But he rode out anyway, because he had to."
He's quiet for a long moment, just breathing in shaky gasps. "Will you tell my father about me?" he asks finally. "He'll know what I did? When he comes back?"
"Yes."
"Will you tell him I was brave?"
You pull him close again because you can't look at your son's face anymore. "I'll tell him you were the best and bravest prince that ever lived. I'll tell him—I'll tell him you died a hero king."
He seeks comfort in your shoulder, holding on desperately. "I'm scared," he whispers.
"I know."
"Will you stay with me? The whole time?"
"Yes. I won't leave you, I promise."
"And you'll remember me?"
Your throat closes, you make him look at you again. "Every day for the rest of my life."
He nods and wipes his nose. This is your beautiful boy and you're about to kill him. "I'll do it."
Seven hells. Seven hells and all the gods damn you.
"That's my boy." You kiss his forehead and it tastes like lavender. "That's my brave boy. I'm so proud of you."
He starts crying again but doesn't pull away. Just presses his face against your chest and sobs while you hold him and tell him it's alright, it's alright, you've got him. Your face is wet but you don't know when you started crying.
After a fashion, the witch emerges from the shadows where she's been waiting. Aegon startles but you keep your hand on his shoulder.
"Don't be afraid. She's going to help."
The woman's eyes are black from edge to edge—the price she paid for her power, she'd told you. To see the paths between life and death, you had to give up seeing anything else. "A willing heart." Her voice is old, dry as sand. "The spell will hold. Good."
You lift Aegon and carry him to the altar, lay him down on the cold stone beside the corpse. He won't stop looking at you, keeps Rhaegar's eyes fixed on your face. What a dutiful lamb you've raised.
"I'm right here." You kneel beside the altar, take his small hand in yours. "I've got you, Chick."
The witch brings a clay cup filled with something dark that smells bitter. "Drink this, child. It will make you sleep."
Your boy has to use both hands to lift it and the first sip makes him gag. "I know," you murmur. "I know it tastes foul, but drink it all. Be brave just a little longer."
Tears stream down his face, but he is obedient, your boy, he drinks every last drop from the brew. The potion works quickly in his small body; the cup clatters to the stone floor, his words slur. "Griff? I feel strange. I feel—"
"That's supposed to happen. Just let it." You brush the hair from his forehead. His eyes are starting to glaze. "It will be over soon, I promise you."
"That's good." Aegon's eyes are half-closed and his breathing has slowed. "I don't like… like this—"
His hand goes limp in yours and the witch reappears at your side, carrying a blade. It is Valyrian steel, dark and rippled like water. She'd shown it to you yesterday, made you understand what it was for.
You take the knife from her hands and it is a quick, clean thing. The way you'd slaughter a sheep.
Blood flows, more blood than you thought such a small body could possibly hold. It pours from the throat, floods the altar, runs in rivers down the carved channels in the stone. Aegon doesn't move, doesn't even twitch. Thank the gods. Thank all seven gods and the old gods too. The potion held and he felt nothing. He felt nothing. He felt nothing.
Your hands are covered in your son's blood, hot and thick and so red. It's everywhere. On the altar, on the floor, on your clothes, on your skin. It is still flowing, how can there be so much? He was just a boy. Just nine years old and small for his age and there shouldn't be this much blood in him, there shouldn't be—
The witch is chanting and her unholy words echo off the walls, becoming a chorus. She takes the lock of Rhaegar's hair and lays it on the corpse's chest. You cannot help but watch as she takes Aegon's small hand. You watch still as she cuts his palm, lets even more of his blood drip onto the corpse. You watch as she does the same to the corpse's hand and presses the two wounds together.
"A life for a life," she intones. "Blood for blood. By the law of exchange, I bind these two. What is taken, let it be returned. What is lost, let it be found. What is dead—"
The temperature drops and your breath comes out in clouds. The witch flares so bright you have to look away.
"—let it live again!"
iv.
The light becomes unbearable. Purple-white and searing. You throw your arm over your eyes but it doesn't help. The light is inside your skull, behind your eyes, burning through you.
Wind rises from nowhere, howling through the ruined temple, tugging at your clothing and hair. The sound of it is like no other you've ever encountered, it is music and voices. It is the sound of blood rushing through veins, of hearts beating, of lungs drawing breath. It is the sound of life.
You lower your arm because you have to see.
The slave's corpse on the altar has changed. The common Lyseni features have shifted in one degree or the other; the jaw seemed more narrow, the cheekbones were higher, the brow more pronounced. The hair had lightened to that perfect Targaryen silver-gold, spreading across the stone like spilled moonlight.
You know these features. Have seen them in dreams and waking both for eight years. Have carried them in your heart like a sickness.
Gods. Gods. It's him.
The witch collapses, dropping to a heap on the altar's steps. She's shaking and there's blood running from her nose and ears. She presses her forehead to the cold stone floor in reverence.
"Azor Ahai," she coos. "Welcome back to the world, Great One. Welcome back—"
"Be silent."
That voice, you know it better than your own. Have heard it in memory so many times you'd worn it smooth to the point where there was no crevice left for uncertainty. But hearing it now you realize how your memory was just a poor copy of the real thing. Mere memory cannot capture the richness of it, the musicality, the way it could make common words sound like poetry. A voice so beloved, one that you thought was lost forever to rubies and river water and Robert Baratheon's warhammer.
The body—Rhaegar, you have to think of him as Rhaegar now—sits up. The movements are jerky and uncoordinated, little more than a newborn learning its limbs. He looks at his hands, turning them over again and again. Flexes the fingers. Makes a fist. Opens it again.
"This isn't—" His voice catches, he tries again. "These aren't my hands." He touches his face. "What is this? What's happened to me?"
Purple eyes sweep the ruined temple, taking in the broken columns and the stars and you.
"Jon?" After eight years of silence it's Rhaegar's voice speaking your name again. "Jon, is that—what—"
He tries to stand and stumbles, his legs don't work right just yet. He catches himself on the altar, and his hand lands in Aegon's blood. He jerks back and stares at his palm—still warm, still red, still fresh.
"Jon." Your name again. "Jon, what—where am I? What happened? I was—the river. I remember the Trident. Gods, the warhammer—" His clean hand goes to his chest, searching for the wound, finds the slave's rough tunic instead.
For the first time in forever you manage to smile again. Your love has returned and he'll be so grateful for this second opportunity at life. You brought him back, you will give him the throne and his revenge against the usurper. He'll love you now. He has to love you now.
You cross to him and he looks up at you with those eyes, those purple eyes that are Aegon's eyes as well. "I know this must be confusing." The words tumble out all at once in your happiness. "But I've done it. I've brought you home. We can take back what was stolen. The Iron Throne, your birthright, everything the Usurper took—"
"Whose blood is this?"
And there it is. The tone you remember from when he was displeased, when someone had failed him or disappointed him. But this time it will be different. This time when you explain, he'll understand. He'll see that everything you did, you did for love of him.
"Does it matter? You're here, that's what matters. You're alive, Rhaegar. I gave you life again. Doesn't that—don't I—"
You stop because he's not looking at you anymore. His gaze has moved on from you, back to the altar, to the small form lying there in a pool of red.
No. No, don't look there. Look at me. See me.
"Who is that?"
"It doesn't matter—"
He's moving away, stumbling back toward the altar on legs that don't hold him. You reach for him but he shakes you off. This isn't how it's supposed to go. He should be grateful. He should be happy.
"Rhaegar, please, just listen—"
But he's not listening. Your prince falls to his knees and then he's gathering Aegon up, cradling him against his chest, and the boy's head lolls back, exposing the gaping wound you made.
"Who is this? Jon, who is this child? Why is he—why would you—"
The words you had have fled you, it seems like your throat has closed and your tongue has gone stupid. All you can do is stand there like a fool while Rhaegar cradles Aegon's corpse. Your son's life is still dripping from your fingers, you ought to wash them.
