Chapter 17: swelling

Two letters, two letters were all needed to create Chaos, to brittle peace and bring in the heart of men uncertainty and fear.

Serwyn, castellan of Hayford, tutor to the last truly blooded Hayford, a baby and the last of her line sat alone in the hall of the Hayford family’s keep, the firelight casting wavering shadows on the cold stone walls. It had been a long, restless night, and the Castellan of Hayford could feel the weight of troubled thoughts pressing on him like a mailed fist. The words of his wife, Ceryse, echoed in his mind, like the creaking of old wood in the wind: "The realm is changing, Serwin. Something stirs in the south."

There was always some whisper of change. This was Westeros—if not a war, then a feud; if not a feud, then some uprising among the common folk. He had weathered worse, he told himself. He had withered the ninepenny war. He had weather Robert’s rebellion. He had weathered the loss of people he had helped raise since they were babes. But this time, the winds seemed darker. The news from King’s Landing was dire, to say the least. King Robert had caught the queen, Cersei Lannister, in a compromising embrace with her brother Jaime.

It seemed that the first letter that he originally seen as insult directed at Tywin and at Robert wasn’t false. It was true or it seemed like it which made it worse.

A second letter had come days later explaining that the king had caught The queen and her husband acting as Targaryens of old. He would have not believed it if he hadn’t been confirmed by his wife returning from Kingslanding.

He wondered if Tywin would believe it even after his supposed children were caught in a way Siblings shouldn’t be caught in.

Would a man as powerful, as proud as Tywin Lannister accept the idea that he was a cuckold, that his only true-blooded child was an ugly stunted dwarf?

The consequences of this revelation had rippled through the court like wildfire, burning every noble family’s carefully laid plans. It was such a scandal that even away from Kingslanding, even though it only had been days, all at least in the crownlands knew what had happened in the capital.

Serwyn knew better than most that scandal at court was a dangerous game. The wrong words could turn friend into foe, and loyalty, if it existed at all, was a fragile thing. The rumors swirling from King’s Landing were thick with blood and betrayal, and if Cersei’s disgrace was not enough, the king’s rage was said to be like a hammer seeking a nail.

A soft knock broke through his thoughts. The door creaked open, and his steward, Maester Rolland, stepped inside, a scroll clutched in his hand.

“My lord,” Rolland began cautiously, his eyes betraying the nervous energy that filled him, “another raven from the capital. The king’s orders.”

Serwyn motioned for him to come closer, his lips pressed into a thin line. The maester unraveled the scroll, the wax seal already broken, and began to read aloud.

"Lord Serwyn, Castellan of Hayford, tutor of Lady Ermesande Hayford is hereby summoned to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the Iron Throne and offer counsel in these troubled times. By order of King Robert Baratheon..."

The maester’s voice trailed off, but Serwyn needed no more. The king was demanding all his vassals flock to the capital, and with the storm brewing between the Baratheons and the Lannisters, no one could be spared. For a moment, Serwyn allowed himself to imagine what the court would look like now—a snake pit, each viper ready to strike, and in the center of it all, Robert, a lion brought low by a woman and her brother.

He stood from his chair, his boots heavy on the stone floor. “Prepare the men. We ride at first light.”

Maester Rolland bowed, but his hesitation caught Serwyn’s attention. “Speak, Rolland.”

The maester's face was grim. “The queen’s family has not taken the king’s discovery lightly. The Lannisters are moving. Word is they’ve been gathering banners to their cause in the west. They say Tywin is furious, and you know what that means.”

Serwyn knew well enough. Tywin Lannister’s fury was a legend unto itself. What happened to the Reynes and the Tarbecks was etched in the mind of everyone in Westeros, at least those who weren’t fools And the lion did not strike until he was certain his claws would draw blood. If the Lannisters were gathering their banners, the peace of the realm was in even graver danger than he had thought. "If Tywin strikes at the king, we’ll all be caught in the storm."

Serwyn hoped it is not what would happen. He hoped that reason would trump over pride for the greater good of all. He dearly hoped it.

The hall felt colder now, the fire doing little to chase away the chill. Serwyn turned toward the window, the night black as pitch beyond. He had hoped, against his better judgment, that the king’s rage would blow over, that Robert would drink himself into a stupor and leave the handling of this scandal to his councilors. But that hope had been dashed. The Iron Throne was more brittle than ever, and even the smallest stone cast into these waters would bring down waves of destruction.

The smallfolk would suffer first, of course. They always did. Serwyn had heard whispers from his own tenants of discontent—smallfolk rarely cared for the games of lords, but they always felt the blade when the time came. The realm could be on the brink of war, and the commoners in Hayford and across Westeros were beginning to notice the signs. There were fewer traders passing through, more bandits on the roads. It was the sort of quiet panic that built slowly, until it wasn’t quiet anymore.

Serwyn moved back to his chair, sitting with his elbows resting on the heavy table. His eyes flickered to the maester. “What of the rest of the realm? Are the lords choosing sides?”

Rolland cleared his throat, his hands twisting the edge of the scroll nervously. “Many houses are hedging their bets, my lord. It is too early to tell. It happened so recently. Even then, we can be sure that the North and the Vale would heed the king’s call due to the links between Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. It is not a certainty for the riverlands but they would probably follow due to the fact that the hand and the lord paramount of the North are allied by marriage to House Tully. The Reach, they would probably be watching, waiting to see if the crown or the Lannisters make the first misstep, waiting to see the best moment to intervene. The Stormlands would of course obey. Same thing can’t be said with The Ironborn and Dorne.”

Serwyn knew that the Dornish hated the Baratheon Dynasty due to the horrors that had befallen princess Elia and her children.

Baelon probably hated Robert due to his defeat when he had rebelled.

The game had begun. Serwyn knew that there were no truly neutral players in the game of thrones. Everyone had a stake. Everyone had a price.

“My lord,” Rolland interrupted Serwyn’s thoughts once more, “there’s more.”

Serwyn’s eyes narrowed. “Speak.”

The maester looked at him with a sort of grave hesitation, the words on his tongue weighted with dread. “It’s said... the king has ordered the execution of Jaime Lannister.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“An execution?” Serwyn repeated, incredulity creeping into his voice. “The Kingslayer?”

Rolland nodded, and Serwyn felt the ground beneath him shift, as if the very stones of his hall had begun to quake. Killing Jaime Lannister was no simple act of vengeance; it was a declaration of war. Tywin would see it as an unforgivable affront to his house.

Serwyn stared into the flames, his thoughts racing. Jaime Lannister’s head on a spike would light a fire that could not be put out. Robert was a fool, a bull charging blindly into a trap. The Lannisters would not bend. They would break him and anyone else in their way.

"We ride to King’s Landing," Serwyn said again, his voice firmer now. "But we do so cautiously."

He thought of his own men—his loyal knights, the soldiers who had served his family for generations. Would they be enough? Could he truly defend Hayford if the realm crumbled around him? Could anyone?

There was no easy answer. The realm was a powder keg, and Robert had just lit the match.

“Maester, send ravens to our bannermen. Tell them to prepare for anything. I fear the winds of war are upon us.”

Rolland bowed and hurried from the room. Serwyn was left alone once more, but this time the silence felt heavier, more oppressive. His gaze wandered to the sword that hung over the hearth, an ancient blade of Valyrian steel passed down through his family. It had tasted blood in the wars of the past, and soon it would again.

The fire crackled in the hearth, a lone spark shooting into the air and disappearing into the darkness. The same darkness that was descending on Westeros.

And Serwyn, for all his planning, knew he was but a man caught in the middle of a storm far larger than himself.

In the distance, thunder rolled heralding the beginning of a storm.

*scene*

The stars above Astapor shimmered, weaving through the golden branches of Aegor's ephemeral trees. From where Varello stood, the view felt like something beyond the world. The sky, bathed in light both natural and divine, spread out before him, resembling a masterpiece painted by unseen hands.

He lifted his cup, the mixture of wine and pressed Panacea swirling inside, a brew born of miracles. The liquid caught the light, glowing like a captured sun. He thought for a moment as the cool drink slid down his throat. “Divine,” he mused. A word as filled with meaning as it was stripped of it.

It was a strange sensation, to live in a world where the word “divine” had gone from meaning oppression to freedom, from impotence to power. He sipped again, gazing down at the streets of Astapor, where people—once slaves, now free—celebrated under the moonlit sky. Their joy echoed up to him, a chorus of voices carried by the breeze. They laughed and danced, under a snowy sky as if the heavens had descended upon them, and perhaps in some way, they had. Their prayers had been answered by the one who rose from the ashes of slavery with the might of a god. Aegor had turned the world on its head, tearing it from its ancient roots of oppression.

Varello hadn’t believed in gods. Sermons, prayers—he had despised them. What was the point? Prayers hadn’t saved his family, hadn’t wiped away his tears when he lost the ones he loved. Prayers didn’t give him the strength to survive. If they had, would there be slaves? It was always the weak, the servants, the slaves, who shed the most blood at the altars and for what had he rightfully thought.

He took another sip, feeling the weight of those memories stir within him. ‘Before Aegor, there was only one thing Varello had ever truly believed in—power.’ Power was supreme, the one constant he had seen in the world. Power had allowed the Good Masters to rise above, to subjugate, to crush. Power had been what had allowed them their cruelty. Power had also been what had allowed Aegor to bring them to their knees and free the masses, to slaughter them.

Varello’s reflection stared back at him in the cup’s surface—unrecognisable. Gone was the hollow-eyed slave with ragged hair and sunken cheeks. In his place stood a man who looked as if he had been carved from the same ethereal beauty that the gods themselves must envy. His skin glowed with youth and vitality, his blonde hair thick and lustrous. His imperfections, once a constant reminder of his life of suffering, had been erased by the Panacea’s touch.

He had power now, he thought with a mix of awe and fear. And yet, he both feared and revered what power could do. More than that, it was Aegor’s power, not truly his. It was something that had been given to them all but he knew perfectly that what was given could be so easily taken back. Power so vast it was almost terrifying, was what had freed them. But power, the very thing Varello had coveted, was also the thing he feared most. What could a man, no, a god, like Aegor do with such power? The day Aegor had set ablaze an entire pyramid in Astapor, Varello’s blood had run cold. Could anyone stand against him if they wanted to? Could he survive such wrath? He had known the answer immediately.

The memory still haunted him—the sight of divine flames licking the sky, consuming the ancient stone like dry parchment. Where other people had been mesmerised, he had been fearful because while it had been the good masters at that time, nothing had guaranteed that one day, it wouldn’t be them too set ablaze by unnatural might. Aegor could have destroyed Astapor in its entirety had he wished. He could have turn himself into an emperor, a true one with a crown made and consecrated with the lives of those weaker, not like the one he had been begged to accept.

He had wanted to leave. Astapor, with its red tiles and its horrors, where gods were born, and slavers died. Astapor, where one man held the power to reshape the world as he saw fit. He had begged his sister to leave with him, to flee the city while they still could. But she, Yseia, had refused. She had dared to proclaim herself Queen of Astapor, rallying supporters who believed they too could carve out power for themselves in this new world.

"Foolish," Varello had told her then. He had wanted to shake her, to make her see the truth. Aegor was no man. She could gather a crown of blood and steel, but what would it matter when Aegor could obliterate them all with a thought? All the other pretenders and her. This was not a battle they could win.

He cast his gaze down at the crowd, the people who once starved now feasting like kings. ‘Power, it revealed true nature and the nature of man was something he had ever held the illusion of being kind’. He had always believed so. And yet, Astapor had proven him wrong. Where was the selfishness? Where was the cruelty he had come to expect from men once they were given power? He wasn’t talking of Aegor only but also of all those who once had been slaves too. Men were bitter and most of the time when hurt chose to hurt others so that in it, they could feel a semblance of the power the person who oppressed them, who made them suffer had. He had seen none of it here, not under Aegor’s rule.

Those people helped each other. Those people were kind to each other. It felt too good to be true yet it was.

Maybe in a sense, this was one of the reasons why he didn't completely dismiss anymore the idea that Aegor may be something divine or alike because this was something he believed couldn't have come without divine impetus.

His thoughts turned again to Yseia, to the day she had rejected his pleas. How she had laughed at him when he begged her to abandon her ambitions. She had told him she would rather die chasing a dream than live as someone else’s slave again. Better to die with a crown of her own making than live under another’s heel, she had said. And, gods help him, she had meant it.

Varello smiled ruefully into his cup, the golden liquid swirling in rhythm with his thoughts. That was before they knew Aegor’s mercy, before they understood the kind of power he wielded—a power not of tyranny, but of creation. Aegor had planted the divine trees, gifted them the Panacea, brought them into a world of healing and abundance.

Aegor wasn’t like the good masters or something worse. He wasn’t a boot on the back of their neck. He had been the contrary to what they had expected.

Yseia, She had been wrong, but would she ever admit it? Of course not.

“Councillor Varello” came a voice from behind him, sharp and familiar. He didn't need to turn to recognize it. When you speak of the vulture, you hear its wings.

He let out a breath, more an annoyed sigh than a greeting. “Sister,” he replied, his tone devoid of warmth.

He didn't want to play one of her mind games right now. He wished to be left with his thoughts, allowed to relax for a moment.

“Councillor,” she repeated, the word coated in honey and barbs alike. Her voice was pleasant, but he could hear the underlying edge. Yseia always had a way of speaking, hiding the sharpness behind her charms.

Varello’s eyes left the cup and met hers. Blue eyes clashed with blue eyes, though hers lacked the serpent-like slit that he held, the one that made people give the idiotic surname of snake eye. She stood beside him now, close enough to touch, but they did not. They never did. Siblings in name only, it seemed.

She used the title councillor as both an insult and a recognition. After all, he had only become a member of Aegor’s council because of her. It was through her connections, her maneuverings, that he had been chosen as a representative of the people.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying the festivities, brother,” she said, her voice light but cutting. “One would think you weren’t pleased with our victory, with the boy saviour’s victory.”

The words dripped with mockery, though it was faint enough that only someone who knew her well would catch it.

Varello didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his thoughts drifted back to their conversation from months ago. The night he begged her to leave, to give up her foolish ambition. He could still hear her words in his mind, could still see the determination on her face.

She had known it was foolish to chase a crown, and yet, she had refused to live in fear. Better to die chasing freedom than live under another’s control, she had said. Better to die trying than to never try at all.

But that had been before Aegor’s kindness, before they had seen the full measure of his power. Aegor wasn’t like the Good Masters. His rule wasn’t built on cruelty or fear.

Aegor’s power wasn’t born from iron or steel, or from the rage of men. It was something else entirely—raw, divine, unfiltered. A power that could reshape the world with a thought, or burn it to ash in an instant.

And yet, Yseia had craved power. She tolerated Aegor because it suited her, because it gave her more than she could have ever dreamed of as a slave. But she would never be satisfied with it. It was her nature, to grasp at more, at what she didn't have, at power, trying to grasp at everything so that she'd never be less than nothing.

“You must have profound thoughts, brother, to look so somber at a celebration,” Yseia said, her voice a mockery of concern.

Varello smiled at her, a smile that hid his real feelings—a polite, distant smile, one that said more than words ever could. I know you are smile seemed to say. I know what you want. But I don’t trust you.

“Somber? Me, sister? You are mistaken. It's the opposite. After all, why would I be sombre with our king back victorious over the Dothraki savages?” His voice couldn’t be more false than it did because he didn't truly care about the Dothraki or the suffering they brought on others.

They were gone, never would be able to be a threat in any kind or form to him. As long as he had the benefits of being ruled by Aegor, why should he care about anything else?

It wouldn’t stop of course doing what was expected of him, what Aegor would wish for buy saying that he cared, truly cared? It might be wrong. He only cared about himself and unfortunately his sister too.

She looked at him almost with offence as if he was insulting her or she thought he was doing so.

“A dog would have been lying better,” she told him.

“I guess it's an unfortunate thing I'm not one then,” he told her before taking a drink from his cup, the mix of wine made him feel both rejuvenated and lightheaded, almost as if he was at a cross between consciousness and unconsciousness, almost as if the world around him had taken a dreamlike tint to it.

He could understand why the ones below were celebrating.

He prepared to take another sip but unfortunately, his cup was removed from his grasp, now in one of the hands of his sister.

The woman looked at him in the eyes as she drank from it and not a little. Cunt he whispered internally.

He watched her eyes widen, her pupil becoming so wide that it made her look for an instant like a mad woman.

“Was it good?” he asked her, my drink he meant.

“Maybe he should be called the god of wine and drinks instead,” she answered, a drop of gold on the right side of her lip.

“I'm sure that we wouldn’t even have to fight with the rest of the world to destroy slavery if he began selling this,” she continued.

“Slavery ending over drinks,” Varello thought out loud. “I would have call your words idiotic and fantasies were things different.”

Golden trees making fruits capable of healing any ailments, snow falling in Astapor, a boy who could with a thought make the heavens rage, who had eradicated the Dothraki and turned a desert into a green paradise that stretched and went beyond the horizon, beyond his sight.

Fantasies had stopped being such for a long time or maybe life had turned into one.

They stayed silent for a moment, the sound of the people of Astapor a melody in the background.

“I thought I would hate him,” his sister spoke at his side. “He makes it hard to. Instead I feel pity.”

“A mortal pitying a god,” Varello chuckled. “Such wonder.”

“He's too kind. In truth, I see more like a slave than a god, than a king. He may have freed us but in doing so chained himself.”

“Are you going to tell me dear sister that you found empathy for someone else other than you? Would you tell me that it is only proof that you were better suited for his crown?” he spoke.

“Not at all, Brother. In fact,” she whispered “I want him to keep it, this Crown that chained him to us, that allowed each and every one of us to live like kings and queens, without any want. I want him to keep his crown so that he would make sure that none would threaten us.”

“More than that, why would I need a crown to rule?” she finished.

A rule without a crown? He felt his eye widen his realization. Of course, why had he expected anything else?

“You want to become the Second, don’t you?” he asked her even if he already knew the answer.

Aegor had said that he had wanted to make people vote, choose all of them together for someone than more than being a representative would handle the matters of Astapor that didn't necessarily need to be handled by him.

A king who wasn’t a king. A king by the people and for the people, a part, an important one of the new administration Aegor was planning to make.

Aegor had called it the executive, the president but the people of Astapor had begun calling it the second. The first was of course Aegor.

“I will become the Second, Brother.” She spoke as if there were no other possibilities. “With Aegor as the king and with the perks he brings, with you already a councillor due to me and with being the Second, we will be the most powerful siblings, families in Paradise, in the city a god was born in and had chosen to call home. We would both be able to influence what Astapor would become, to influence him.”

“You want something from me. If you expect me to help you, you're mistaken. As a representative, as one of the members of what Aegor called the legislative, I must not infer with the judiciary and the executive.”

“I don’t need your help to win. No, I need your help after when I win. look at this paradise,” she told him.

“Look at it brother,” she repeated. There was something in her voice making softer. It was as close he knew of that his sister would ever beg.

“We can make it greater, not only Astapor, brother,” she whispered.

“The two of us who were slaves. We will have the power to carve and shape the world itself, together. Let the boy saviour be both god-king and slave. Let us be Kings and Queen In every way that matters but name.”

He should have expected it. Of course, his sister still craved power, of course, she'll try to use him. The worse was that it could see it clearly yet her words felt a panacea in his mouth, the taste too divine and making him want more.

“You could have left after we were freed. You could have not cared about me. We may siblings but in truth we are more strangers than anything else yet you wanted to leave with me and when I didn't, you stayed at my side.”

Varello looked at her, their gazes losing to each other. He saw no lies in her eyes “This is why I use favours to make you a representative because you proved me one thing. You're my family and family count on each other. I just want you to continue to be my brother.”

He knew she was manipulating him yet saying that her words didn't have any impact would be wrong. She was looking at him like she once did, before that happened with a good master and what came wasn’t his older sister anymore. He thought about it, hesitating.

Finally, he took his decision. Just as Varello was about to respond, the night itself seemed to still. The celebrations below quieted, a hush falling over the streets like a blanket of snow.

Out of the corner of his eye, Varello saw something bright, something immense and soft, glowing above from one of the Pyramid.

His breath caught in his throat. Aegor had arrived. There was something in the air, something he didn't quite recognize but that was palpable and powerful, a force that seemed to hum through the city like the beating of a great heart. The golden light of the divine trees seemed to glow brighter, as if welcoming the return of their creator.

all else ceased to matter.

He glanced at Yseia, her face was now turned toward the light, and wondered what thoughts lay now behind her calculating eyes.

*scene*

The night sky above Astapor shimmered with stars, and the gentle glow of Aegor’s golden trees illuminated the city below, casting everything in a soft, otherworldly light. Nileyah sat on the balcony of Aegor’s quarters, her fingers gently combing through his silver hair, which fell in waves past his shoulders. The city breathed beneath them, the distant sounds of laughter, the patter of feet on cobblestone streets, and the muffled hum of life drifting upwards like a lullaby.

The people of Astapor were celebrating Aegor and his army comeback, the fact that they had been victorious over the Dothraki.

She also had heard tales, whispers that he had brought back from the dead people who had been killed by Dothraki, how he had stopped death from claiming any of his soldier.

Already, she knew what would come and dreaded it, people who would aks for the ressurection of their loved ones.

Nileyah won’t say that she doesn't understand but a part of her wondered deep down if some things no matter how much they hurt shouldn’t stay the way they are.

Of course, in the end, it would all depend on Aegor and no matter what he would choose, she would be there behind him.

It was night and there was peace in Astapor—a peace that felt almost as fragile as the snow that still fell softly from the sky, drifting lazily through the air. Aegor had brought the winter to them, a gift of beauty and wonder to a city that had known only the searing heat of the sun. It hadn’t stopped snowing since he had done so, and no one complained. The people had fallen in love with this miracle, their laughter echoing from the streets below, the children’s joy unmistakable. Nileyah could hear their voices as they played in the snow, their shouts of happiness filling the night air.

She smiled to herself as she worked, her hands moving with practiced care. Aegor’s hair, even after his journey, even after the battles and the bloodshed, was immaculate. Soft and silver as moonlight, it seemed to glow under her touch. So perfect,’ she thought. He looked like a boy in this moment, not a god at least to her. He looked like an innocent child.

Aegor leaned against her, his body relaxed, almost limp, as if for the first time in a long while he could let go. His head rested against her chest, his eyes closed, lips parted slightly in an almost peaceful expression. She could feel the warmth of his small frame, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.

There were no words exchanged between them. There didn’t need to be.

Nileyah took her time, her fingers carefully braiding sections of his hair, weaving them together like threads in a tapestry, her motions slow and methodical. She knew he found it as calming as she did. She used a comb made of polished bone, gliding it gently through the strands before wrapping them into small, tight braids. She worked with the same care one might use when handling something precious, fragile, Because he was precious to her,’ she thought. This child was in every way the most precious thing she had.

A child a part of her whispered who had eradicated the Dothraki.

No more Khalasars would raid villages, no more innocent Lhazareen would be slaughtered, no more slaves would be taken by their hands. Aegor had broken the wheel that had spun endlessly, crushing countless lives beneath it. He had shown that his dream m, one of a world without chains was more than possible

And now, here he was, sitting quietly on the balcony, his head against her chest, as if he were simply a boy who needed comfort.

The thought brought a pang of sadness to her heart. He is still a child, he's human,” she reminded herself. For all his power, all the wonders he had performed, he was still human unlike what the people of Astapor thought young—too young to bear the weight of what he had seen, of what he had done. He shouldn’t have had to stain his hands. But he had. Because who else could? Who else could have achieved what he had?

She worked in silence, weaving his hair into intricate patterns, her fingers gentle and sure. The night air was cool, but not cold enough to bite. The snowflakes fell lazily, dusting the ground with a soft blanket of white. Down in the streets, the people celebrated, their voices mingling with the crackle of bonfires and the distant strumming of lutes. There was music in the air, faint and sweet, carried on the wind like a distant memory.

From the corner of the balcony, she could hear Missandei’s quiet chatter as she folded linens, humming to herself as she worked. The rest of Aegor’s household moved through the room behind them, their presence a comforting background to the stillness of the night. They were here, just out of sight, always nearby, always ready.

Nileyah’s fingers worked with care, smoothing down stray strands of Aegor’s hair, twisting them into neat braids. She wondered, for a moment, if he would ever truly have the childhood he deserved. Would he ever play in the snow with the children in the streets? Would he ever run through the fields, carefree, with others his age?

No, she thought. They would never treat him as a normal child. He was Aegor, the boy who had freed them all, the god who had brought the Good Masters to their knees. He would never be like the other children. They would see him as something more—something untouchable. They would look at him with awe, with reverence, but never as an equal.

That saddened her.

She began to hum softly under her breath, an old lullaby from her homeland. It was a simple tune, one her mother had sung to her when she was small, the kind of song that wrapped you in warmth and carried you off to dreams. She sang quietly, the words barely above a whisper, but the melody hung in the air like the snowflakes falling gently around them.

Aegor didn’t stir. He remained still, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and steady. His chest rose and fell with each breath, the tension in his small body having melted away as soon as he had leaned against her.

She could feel the weight of his exhaustion. It radiated from him like a quiet hum, though he would never say it aloud. She knew. She always knew.

Her fingers moved to the last section of his hair, braiding it carefully, her touch light as she worked. The snow continued to fall, each flake catching the light of Aegor’s trees, glowing like tiny stars as they drifted to the ground.

The winter he brought still clung to Astapor, and the people adored it. It was an impossible thing, a miracle in itself, and yet Aegor had made it so. Snow in the desert,she thought with a soft smile. Who would have believed it?

She finished the last braid, tying it off with a small ribbon, her fingers brushing gently against his scalp.

“There, all done,” she whispered, though Aegor didn’t respond. His eyes remained closed, his breathing even, his small form relaxed against her.

She knew it wouldn’t last. Aegor had told her that he needed to address the people of Astapor andg because of that she knew soon, he would wake up.

For a moment, she simply sat there, her hands resting on his shoulders, letting the quiet surround them. The snow continued to fall, the music from the streets below drifting up to meet them, soft and distant.

Nileyah’s thoughts drifted back to the battle, to the war Aegor had fought, to the blood he had spilled. He had succeeded where no one else could. He had ended the Dothraki threat. But at what cost? How much would he have to make spill?

She knew the answer. Oceans of it. She had once heard that killing altered the soul, that it was In a sense paying a price. He had paid the price, with his hands, with his soul. He had done it for the people, for the innocents, for those who could not protect themselves. But he had still paid the price.

She looked down at him, her heart swelling with pride and sorrow in equal measure. He is incredible, she thought. No one else could have done what he had done. No one else could have freed them, no one else could have given them this paradise.

And yet, she wished it hadn’t been him. She wished he hadn’t had to carry the weight of the world on his small shoulders. But the world had chosen him, and he had risen to the challenge.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” she whispered, though she knew he couldn’t hear her. She knew that he had fallen asleep. His chest rose and fell, his breathing soft and even, as if he were in the deepest of sleep.

She smiled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“Rest now, my Lāra Vala*,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the city below. “You’ve done enough for now.”

And at that moment, under the snow-filled sky, in her arms, under the gaze of the members of his household and Nileyah with the city of Astapor at peace, Aegor slept for the first time in days—not as a god, but as a boy.

*scene*

Cold mist formed as I exhaled, snowflakes drifting gently from the heavens, swirling as if caught in an unseen dance. I could feel all of them watching me, their eyes heavy with expectation, hope, and belief.

There was a time, not so long ago, when such attention might have unnerved me, left me hesitant. But not now. Now, I felt at ease, fully aware of the power I held within me. I opened my eyes, taking in the sight of my Astapor—glimmering, ephemeral trees glowing under the starlight, their branches swaying as if in harmony with the cosmos. My people, the ones I had freed, the ones who believed in me, stood there waiting, their hearts full of faith. These were the people who had died for me, the ones who would die for me again if I asked them to.

Now that I was back in Astapor, their voices—those who had died and returned, those who had survived—rang even clearer than before. It was as though I could hear their very souls, carried on the winds that swept through the city.

I took a step, and the air itself became my platform. I walked upon it as if it were solid ground, each step deliberate yet effortless. I didn’t need to focus, didn’t need to consciously use my magic. It came as naturally as breathing, as though the world itself bent to my will without resistance.

Looking down at them, my people, my city, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu. It had only been months since I awoke in this strange world, a world so different yet so similar to the one I knew. So much had changed since then—changed for the better, by my hand. And yet, there was still more to do, more to build, more to free.

The people who once bore the chains of slavery now stood tall. They looked like they had never known the yoke of oppression, but I knew better. I knew the scars ran deeper than flesh, hidden beneath the surface, buried in their hearts and minds. But even so, I had brought them peace. I had done good, and that was enough—for now.

I thought of something Nietzsche had written once, a fragment from my past life. The quote lingered in my mind: how a nihilist is someone who judges the world as it is, not as it should be. A man who sees the world for what it is and despairs, knowing that the world should not exist in this form.

This world was a perfect example. A world where cruelty and suffering were woven into the fabric of daily life, where kindness was crushed beneath the weight of human barbarity. It was a world that, in its current state, should not exist. And that is why I had resolved to change it. I would not stop until this monstrous version of the world was a distant memory, a relic of an era long past.

“I promised you,” I said, my voice amplified by magic, resonating across all of Astapor. “I promised you I would change this world.”

I paused, letting the silence fill the city. They were listening, hanging on every word.

“I did not lie. The Dothraki—slavers, killers, monsters cloaked in human flesh—are no more!”

The people stirred, their murmurs rising like the first rumblings of a storm.

“They were hundreds of thousands!” I shouted, using my magic to project the image from my memory: the vast sea of Dothraki, mounted on horseback, charging like a tide of death. “We were barely a dozen thousand... and we won! Our soldiers—your kin, your friends, your brothers and sisters—they did not falter. They did not bow before cruelty. They stood tall, and they fought back!”

Above us, the sky filled with images I conjured, scenes from the battlefield. I showed them how my soldiers formed an unbreakable shield wall, how they pushed back the relentless onslaught of the Dothraki, how they fought through injury, through exhaustion, through death itself. I showed them the heroes they had become.

The people below gazed upward, their eyes wide with awe and pride. I could see it in their faces—the belief, the reverence. These soldiers had become living legends, and I wanted them to understand one thing: **this could be them**.

“They fought!” I cried. “Even when the god of the Dothraki descended to the battlefield, warping them into abominations, when I left them to face that god alone, still, they did not falter!”

I shifted the images again, pulling from both my memories and the fragments I had glimpsed from my soldiers’ minds. Scenes of battle flashed above—the clash of steel, the roar of beasts, the resilience of men who refused to die.

“We celebrate tonight,” I continued, my voice echoing through the city, “a victory—one of many. We celebrate our soldiers, our heroes, the heralds of a new world! A world where slavery, where suffering, will be no more!”

I allowed the armor I had worn in battle to materialize, forged from the very faith of those who believed in me. Its gleaming surface reflected the fire of my soul. Behind me, wings of golden flame stretched wide, casting light over the gathered crowd. I spread my arms as if I were a preacher, delivering the divine word to a congregation.

“This is only the beginning,” I told them, my voice low but powerful. “I have given an ultimatum to every slaver city in Essos. Either they free their slaves, or we will free them by force. I want to avoid bloodshed, to give them a chance. But if they take me for a fool, if they refuse to do what is right—then I will march to their cities, and what happened to the Good Masters and the Dothraki will seem like mercy.”

The crowd stirred, their voices rising, but I wasn’t finished.

“Even then,” I said, “will you still follow me? Will you fight with me until our dream is realized—a world without chains, a world where no one is born a slave?”

The response was immediate and thunderous.

“AEGOR! AEGOR! AEGOR! AEGOR! AEGOR! AEGOR! NO CHAIN! NO CHAIN! NO CHAIN! NO CHAIN! AEGOR! AEGOR! AEGOR! AEGOR! AEGOR! AEGOR! NO CHAIN! NO CHAIN! NO CHAIN! NO CHAIN!

The chant echoed through the streets, a mantra of defiance, of hope. I had known what their answer would be, yet hearing their voices, seeing their resolve... it brought a smile to my face, a smile of pure, unbridled joy.

Their belief in me was absolute. Their faith was unshakable. I could literally feel and taste it.

This was proof that my path was the good one And so, I would not stop. I would not falter. For them. For all of us.

I gazed at the sea of faces below me, at the countless lives I had touched, and I felt the weight of my purpose settle on my shoulders like a mantle. This was my destiny. This was the destiny I chose and that made more men than god and nothing—no force in this world or the next—would stand in my way.