Chapter 14: Stellar

Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, woke with a hangover that had become as much a part of his routine as his crown. The sun filtered through the heavy curtains of his chambers, but even the light felt like an insult—too bright, too intrusive. He groaned as he rolled over, feeling the weight of his life pressing down on his chest like the thick furs draped over him. His head throbbed from the wine of the previous night, his mouth dry as a desert, and his stomach roiling from the excess of food and drink. His nights always ended this way now, but it wasn't always like this.

Once, Robert had been a man of action. He'd fought wars, swung his war hammer with the strength of ten men, and loved with a passion that made him feel like he could conquer the world. But now? Now, he was king. The Iron Throne, a seat he had never truly wanted, had robbed him of everything he once loved—his freedom, his joy, and worst of all, Lyanna Stark. Everything he had ever done, every battle he had fought, had been for her, for the woman who had filled his heart with fire. But she was gone. She was dead, buried beneath the cold stones of Winterfell, and all he had left of her was a ghost in his memory.

The Targaryens had fallen, Rhaegar had died, yet nothing felt like a victory. What was the point of all of it, when Lyanna was still dead? When Ned, his brother in everything but blood, had returned to the North and left him alone to rule a kingdom he had never wanted? Ned had a family now, responsibilities in the North, and Robert had the Iron Throne—a gilded cage that smothered him with its responsibilities. He didn’t belong here, surrounded by courtiers and sycophants, by Varys the spider and Littlefinger with his smirks. Only Jon Arryn, his foster father, truly remained close to him, the one man who had tried to guide him through the labyrinth of kingship. But even then Jon’s disappointment had become a fixture in Robert’s life, as constant as the weight of the crown.

Robert sat up with a grunt, throwing the furs aside. A servant, skittish as a rabbit, appeared with a cup of watered wine. He waved the boy away and reached for the strong stuff, pouring himself a flagon of Arbor gold. It burned his throat on the way down, but it numbed the sharp edges of his thoughts, softened the bitter taste of reality.

He hated this place—King’s Landing, with its stench of sewage, its tangled politics, and its endless reminders that he was king, not the man he once was. He missed the freedom of Storm’s End, of the Eyrie, the camaraderie and the joy of the battlefield. There, he had been Robert Baratheon, the Stormlord, a man with a purpose. Now, he was just a king, and what was a king but a puppet with a crown?

The day wore on, dragging him into a council meeting he had no desire to attend. He wouldn’t have gone if it wasn’t for Jon, if he wasn’t one of the last people he wished to disappoint further. Jon Arryn had insisted, his voice tired but stern. “You are the king, Robert. You must act like it. The realm needs you to be a great king the way I know you are, not a man lost in drink and whores.”

Jon was the only one who still spoke to him like that, as if he were still the Robert of old, as if there was something great in him yet. And so, here he was, sitting at the head of the Small Council, half-listening as Varys droned on about how the bounty on the head of the surviving Rhaegar’s spawn had sent mercenaries into a frenzy. Good, he thought to himself. He just wishes it would have been him with his loyal hammer that would take the life of the son of the rapist, of the son of the one who took wild and beautiful Lyanna from him.

His mind continued to wonder, as it often did these days. He wished for a flagon of wine, a plump wench to warm his lap, anything to make him forget this accursed chair and the cold duty that came with it. Gods, how he hated it.

His thoughts drifted to Lyanna again, as they always did. She would have despised this life too, he thought. She had been wild, untamable, not made for courtly intrigues and silken lies. She had been a wolf, fierce and free, and the gods had taken her from him, leaving him with nothing but ashes. They were perfect for each other and Rhaegar had to ruin it all.

Fucking Targaryens, may they all die.

The crown was a mockery, a burden he had never wanted. He had fought for her, for Ned, not for this, not for a throne, not to marry Cersei and have blonde-haired-haired green-eyed children.

Sometimes, he would imagine it, Lyanna still there, children with dark hair with either blue or grey eyes, children as wild, as beautiful, as strong as the two of them.

“Your Grace,” came the soft, oily voice of Varys, cutting through his thoughts. “There is something you must see.”

Robert’s eyes flicked up, his irritation barely hidden. “What is it now, spider?”

Varys glided forward, holding a parchment sealed with a wax mark that Robert did not recognize. “A letter, Your Grace, an important one. Its contents… well, I believe it would be best if you read it yourself.”

Robert took the letter from Varys’s hand, eyeing it suspiciously. His instinct was to ignore it, to toss it aside and go back to his drink, but something in Varys’s tone unsettled him. The other members of the Small Council—Renly, Petyr Baelish, Stannis, and Jon Arryn—looked on with varying degrees of interest. Jon leaned forward, concern etched on his face.

“Robert,” Jon began, “perhaps I should—”

“I’ll read it,” Robert snapped, breaking the seal with a sharp tug. He scanned the letter, the words seeming to burn themselves into his brain. As he read, his hands tightened on the parchment, crumpling the edges. His breath quickened, rage boiling up inside him like magma threatening to erupt.

A bastard… Targaryen bastards. The words echoed in his mind, louder and louder until they drowned out everything else. His wife, Cersei, a bastard of Aerys? He had married a Targaryen, the very bloodline he had sworn to destroy. If the letter was true, it would meant that he had married Rhaegar’s bastard sister, that he had married one of Aerys’ spawn. The thought was unthinkable, a betrayal so deep that it felt like a dagger to the heart.

“No…” Robert muttered, his voice hoarse. “No, it can’t be.”

Jon Arryn was at his side now, his hand on Robert’s shoulder. His voice wasn’t as assured as it always seemed to be. It seemed that Jon had read the letter and was as shocked as him “Robert, listen to me. This letter could be a lie, a trick to sow discord. We must not act rashly.”

But Robert barely heard him. The rage was too strong, the possible betrayal too great. His mind was a storm, swirling with memories of Rhaegar, of the Targaryens, of the war he had fought to rid the world of their kind. And now… now he had possibly been deceived, made a fool of, forced to lie in bed with the very thing he hated most.

He shoved Jon’s hand away and stood abruptly, the chair screeching as it was pushed back. “Where is she?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Where is Cersei?”

Jon tried to stop him, but Robert was already moving, his heavy footfalls echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Behind him, he could hear the hurried steps of the Kingsguard, the murmurs of the council members, but he didn’t care. His thoughts were consumed by one thing: Cersei had to answer for this. She had to deny it, to tell him that the letter was a lie.

But deep down, a terrible dread gnawed at him, whispering that the letter was the truth. He tried to crush it. He failed.

He reached Cersei’s chambers, not bothering to knock as he threw open the doors with a force that rattled them on their hinges. What he saw on the other side made his blood freeze.

Cersei was there, her back to him, lips locked with Jaime’s. Her twin. Her dress was loose, falling from her shoulders, her golden hair tangled in her brother’s hands. They pulled apart at the sound of the door crashing open, but the damage was done. The sight of them—his wife, his queen, and his Kingslayer brother—confirmed every dark suspicion that had crept into his mind.

The world around Robert seemed to fall away, leaving only the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears. He stood frozen, staring at the scene before him, unable to move or speak. The betrayal was too much, too deep. He felt himself stop breathing. He felt as if the world itself had stopped. The letter had been true.

Lyanna was dead. The Targaryens were dead. And now, everything he had fought for, everything he had built, had been for nothing.

His voice, when it came, before the hatred, the anger, the urge to kill, the familiar fury that had made him known as the demon of the trident drowned reason was little more than a whisper.

“Gods… why?”

*scene*

Yunal had always known peace. His world was small, yet it was filled with warmth, with the tenderness of the land and the people who called it home. His village, a collection of simple mud-brick huts, lay nestled in the golden plains of Lhazar. The wind would whisper through the tall grasses, carrying with it the scent of wildflowers and the sound of bleating sheep. The sun, warm and kind, would rise every morning, and Yunal would wake to its gentle embrace, knowing nothing but the simplicity and joy of his life.

At twelve name days, he felt as though he had everything he could ever want. His days began with the soft light filtering through the cracks of his family’s home. He’d rise with a stretch, feeling the cool earth beneath his feet, and join his parents and siblings to begin the day. His father would already be up, tending to the sheep in the fields, while his mother prepared breakfast, humming softly under her breath. His grandfather would sit by the door, carving little wooden figures, always ready to tell Yunal another story of the Great Shepherd and the harmony that bound all men.

Yunal loved those mornings. He loved the way the light would dance on the horizon, casting long shadows that flickered like spirits of old. He loved the rhythm of his family, the gentle movements of life lived in balance with the world around them. He would help his mother with the chores, fetching water from the nearby stream, and then he would run off to play with the other children of the village, their laughter echoing across the plains. They would chase each other through the tall grasses, pretending to be great warriors or shepherds guiding their flocks through perilous lands. And in those moments, Yunal was happy.

He had wished that it would stay like this forever.

But wishes, like the wind, are fleeting.

The darkness came on a night much like any other. Yunal had been asleep, curled beneath a blanket in his family's hut, his dreams filled with images of endless fields and the laughter of his friends. But then came the screams—horrible, blood-curdling screams that tore through the night like a blade through flesh. He woke with a start, heart pounding in his chest, and saw his mother and father already on their feet, their faces painted with dread.

Yunal’s heart raced, the innocence of his childhood cracking as fear seeped into his bones. His mother grabbed him, pulling him close as they listened to the chaos erupting outside. The peaceful village, their haven, was being torn apart. Fires blazed against the night sky, casting everything in a hellish glow. The sounds of hooves thundered through the village, and with it came the unmistakable cries of pain and terror.

“The Dothraki,” his father whispered, his voice trembling. “The monsters.”

Yunal had heard the stories of the Dothraki, whispered in hushed tones by the elders of the village. Men on horseback, monsters in human form who thrived on death and destruction, who tore through villages like a storm, leaving nothing but ashes and corpses in their wake, who only seemed to be able to do the contrary of the Great Shepherd’s teachings. Yunal had never believed such evil could exist. Not here. Not in their peaceful land.

But now, he could see the terror in his father's eyes, and Yunal knew the stories were true.

They ran. His father pulled Yunal by the arm, his mother clutching his younger sister close to her chest, and his older sister, Lani, running just behind. The world outside was chaos—homes they had known their whole lives were burning, the scent of blood thick in the air. Villagers screamed for mercy, but the Dothraki gave none. They cut through the people like they were nothing, like they were less than the sheep they herded.

As they ran, Yunal saw his grandfather, the man who had shared with him the wisdom of their people, lying on the ground. He watched, frozen in horror, as a Dothraki blade sliced through the old man's neck, the tales of the Great Shepherd silenced forever in a gurgle of blood. Yunal wanted to scream, wanted to run to him, but his father pulled him forward, his voice sharp with fear.

"Don't look, Yunal. We must keep moving."

But how could he not look? The man who had once sat by the fire, carving wooden figures and speaking of peace, of the great Shepherd, of how all men whether they knew it or not were of his flock lay motionless in the dirt, his life snuffed out like it was nothing.

Arrows rained from the sky, darkening the heavens like a storm of death. Yunal heard the thud of them piercing flesh and turned just in time to see his father and mother fall. His mother’s scream was cut short, an arrow lodged deep in her chest, her eyes wide with shock. His father stumbled, blood pouring from his side, before collapsing beside her. Yunal froze, the world spinning around him, his vision blurring with tears.

"Run!" Lani's voice broke through the horror, and Yunal felt her hand grab his, pulling him forward, away from the bodies of their parents.

They ran, the world a blur of fire and death. They reached the edge of the village, where the plains stretched out endlessly before them, a promise of safety, of escape. For a moment, Yunal thought they had made it. For a moment, he allowed himself to hope.

But then came the sound of arrows again, the hiss of death in the air.

Pain exploded in his side, and Yunal fell to the ground, his breath stolen by the shock of it. Blood poured from the wound, staining the earth beneath him. He gasped, his vision swimming, and turned to his sister, praying, hoping that she had escaped.

But she hadn’t.

Lani lay on the ground beside him, her eyes open but unseeing, arrows jutting from her neck and back. Her blood pooled around her, mixing with his own, and Yunal felt something break inside him. The pain of the arrow in his side was nothing compared to the anguish of seeing his sister, the girl who had always protected him, who had always been there, lying dead beside him.

He tried to reach for her, tried to call her name, but his voice failed him. He prayed for this nightmare to end, he prayed to the great shepherd and was unanswered. His body felt heavy, too heavy, and his vision began to fade. The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was the Dothraki—men on horseback, their faces twisted into smiles of cruel delight. They were happy, Yunal realized with a sickening jolt. They were happy to destroy, happy to take everything from him and no god cared enough to stop them.

And then there was nothing but darkness.

But death did not bring peace. No, what awaited him on the other side was a darkness so deep, so consuming, that it devoured everything he was. There was no rest, no release. Only pain—maddening, all-consuming pain that tore at his soul, shredding his mind until he was nothing but agony.

The darkness was alive, twisting around him, squeezing him until he couldn’t breathe, until he couldn’t think. His mind was a storm, a cacophony of screams and torment that echoed endlessly in the void. Time ceased to exist. Reason slipped away. There was only the pain, the unrelenting torment that clawed at him, dragging him deeper into the abyss.

He screamed, but there was no sound. He wept, but there were no tears. He was nothing. He was lost.

And then, through the darkness, came light.

It was gentle at first, a soft glow that cut through the void like a blade of mercy. But then it grew, brighter and brighter, until it burned away the darkness, until it consumed the torment, cleansing it with its warmth. Yunal felt himself pulled toward it, drawn into its embrace, and as the light wrapped around him, the pain began to fade.

The light took shape, and before him stood a boy—a boy with silver hair that shimmered like moonlight, with eyes the color of amethysts, glowing with a power and grace that Yunal had never seen. He was beautiful, perfect, like a god in human form.

Yunal felt the boy’s care, felt his love wash over him like a balm, soothing the wounds of his soul. He no longer felt the pain. He no longer felt the torment. All he felt was peace, peace and awe as he gazed up at the boy.

How could such a perfect being look at him, broken and lost as he was, with such kindness? How could such a being of light see him as something worthy?

Maybe the tales of his grandfather weren’t just tales. Maybe the Great Shepherd truly existed, and maybe this boy—this god—was his messenger or the god himself.

As Yunal’s thoughts began to fade, as he drifted deeper into the light, he smiled. For the first time since the darkness had claimed him, he felt hope.

And then there was nothing but light.

*scene*

Grey Worm stood on the crest of the dune, his dark eyes cast toward the distant horizon. The sun had long been blotted out by a thick veil of clouds that swirled like a maelstrom above them. Yet, even with the sky tearing asunder, the winds howling as if carrying the cries of the damned, and the earth beneath him trembling in agony, he felt no fear. He felt only the light.

Aegor's light.

The divine child, the god who had freed them from their chains, had gone to face a darkness that no mortal could withstand. Yet Grey Worm and the others—Aegor's army stood still, waiting, knowing with certainty that he would return. For Aegor had promised them a new world, a kinder world where no man, woman, or child would suffer beneath the yoke of another. A world where everyone would be free.

Grey Worm’s faith had once been nothing. He had been an Unsullied, a soldier stripped of belief, emotion, and hope. But Aegor—Aegor had taught him that faith had value. That sometimes, faith was all that was needed for the impossible to be made real. Aegor was proof of that. A slave, like Grey Worm, reborn as a god—not to rule or oppress, but to guide and protect. To care for those who had nothing. It was a faith that Grey Worm had never thought he could ever have. Yet it now filled him completely.

He had seen it in the eyes of the others too—the men and women who stood with him, their gazes fixed on the heavens, waiting. There was no doubt in their eyes. No hesitation. Only faith. They knew Aegor would return. They all knew he would win. He had promised them freedom, and he had never broken his word. He had taught them to believe, and now that belief was their strength. Grey Worm knew, with every fiber of his being, that Aegor would not fall here. Not now.

The wind screamed louder, the ground beneath them cracked, and the sky turned pitch-black. But through the darkness, Grey Worm saw it—Aegor’s light. It was faint, a distant glimmer in the storm of shadows, but it was there. It was always there. It was all he needed to know that everything would be alright.

And then it came—like a new star being born in the heavens. At the horizon, far beyond their sight, a light brighter than any sun flared to life. It grew, pulsating, until it filled the sky, banishing the darkness in an instant. The earth beneath Grey Worm stilled, the winds died, and for a moment, the world was consumed in the blinding radiance of Aegor’s light.

Grey Worm shielded his eyes, but even through the brilliance, he felt no fear, no pain. Only warmth. Only peace.

When the light faded, he blinked and opened his eyes to a sight that took his breath away.

No longer did he stand in the barren desert, the desolate wasteland that had been their battlefield. Around him, the earth had transformed. Green fields stretched out as far as the eye could see, flowers of every imaginable color blooming in the soft grass. The sky, once choked by storm clouds, was now a peaceful expanse of blue, dotted with white, gentle clouds.

It was paradise.

Grey Worm felt his heart swell with something he was still not used to after all those years of servitude—happiness.

And then, in the distance, he saw him.

Aegor.

The boy who had once been a slave, now walking toward them as if he carried the light of the heavens itself. His silver hair shimmered like the stars, his purple eyes glowing with a radiance that was almost too pure to look at. His divine armor, which had shone like gold in battle, was gone, replaced by the simple clothes he had worn when they had first walked in the desert following him. His wings, which had once spread behind him like the wings of a dragon, were nowhere to be seen.

Yet there was no doubt in Grey Worm's heart that this was Aegor. His god. His savior.

Behind Aegor, thousands—no, tens of thousands—of people followed. Men, women, and children, their eyes wide with wonder and awe. They looked Lhazareen. They looked at Aegor the way sheep looked at a kind shepherd, following him without hesitation, without fear. They acted as if they had been saved from a great evil, as if they were the ones who had been spared from darkness due to Aegor’s light, and they moved as if they knew, deep in their hearts, that Aegor would never lead them astray.

Grey Worm's legs moved before his mind caught up. He began walking, then running, toward Aegor, and behind him, the rest of Aegor's army followed. He could hear their footsteps, the whispers of his fellow soldiers, but his focus remained entirely on Aegor.

When he reached him, the boy smiled—a soft, radiant smile that made Grey Worm’s heart ache with emotion. For a moment, Grey Worm stood in front of the god who had saved him, lost in the presence of the one who had given him something he had never thought he could have.

"You won," Grey Worm said, his voice thick with a feeling he wouldn’t himself recognize.

Aegor’s smile widened, the light in his eyes dancing like the stars. "Did you ever doubt me?" he asked, his voice as soft and kind as the first time he had spoken to him, as kind as when he went to fight against the dragon.

Grey Worm shook his head and smiled. It was an awkward one, the smile of something that truly didn't know how to but that wasn’t less genuine. It was a real, human smile. He reached out and gently ruffled Aegor’s silver hair, the way a father might do for a beloved child. "Never," he said quietly.

Behind him, the others began to cheer. The sound of their voices rose in a wave, calling Aegor’s name, shouting their joy to the heavens. But Grey Worm barely heard them. His entire world was focused on the boy before him, the boy who had changed everything.

Aegor looked up at him, his purple eyes shining, and in that moment, Grey Worm’s conviction about the world Aegor had said he would create, that the world they all dreamed of—the world of freedom, of peace, of kindness—it would be within their reach. They had all suffered. They had all bled. But they had not done so in vain. Aegor had led them, and they had followed, because they believed in him and in return, they were given victory.

And as Grey Worm watched the boy smile, brighter than the sun, he knew that their faith had never been misplaced.

The world was still. The earth was at peace. And, Grey Worm felt truly free.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the cheering, to the sound of Aegor’s laughter, and once again in in his life, he allowed himself to continue to hope.

He allowed himself to continue to believe.