Aegon POV

  It was well past midnight on the ninth day when the shadow came again.

  In the dream, Aegon knew they were losing. The world was a swirl of colors around him—the brown of riderless horses galloping around, the dull silver on the armor of the dead knights piling on the ford, the faded gold in their limp, sodden banner.

  But mostly the world was red. The shallow river ran red beneath him; red caked his armor, and hot red blood stinged at his eyes. He looked up from where he knelt on the ground and saw the figure move as if in a blur, then the dark sword came hacking down at him, shearing clean through his gorget. And suddenly Aegon sat up in his sheets as if emerging from beneath a wave, a heaving gasp on his lips.

  It was a dream, he told himself, his breaths coming short and heavy. Just a dream.

  He was sweating too, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin. When he brought a hand to swipe away the sheen on his brow, he felt his blue hair matted against his forehead. With his heart still hammering from the nightmare, Aegon looked around the tent, searching for… something. Though his eyes could barely break through the darkness, he noticed nothing out of place.

  The tent itself was small and tidy, with just his travel mattress and a small sitting space where rugs and pillows—if he had brought any—could be used to host others. It was no place fit for a king, but even kings had to make due when on journeys such as his.

  Outside, he could hear the wind as it whistled through the canopy, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. The camp fire of the guards on watch duty was like a pin prick of light against the canvas of his tent, but knowing they were there set him at ease regardless. Finally breathing freely, Aegon let his head fall back on the pillow, trying to forget the dying dream and the sense of uneasiness it brought him.

  Then a gust of wind blew past the flaps of his tent, a cold breath that made him shiver under the covers. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. The wrongness he’d felt even in the dream settled on his tent like a weight, and Aegon shot up again, eyes immediately darting to the darkest corner of the tent.

  And there she was. A writhing mass of black mist in the vague shape of a woman, lounging on the ground as if she hadn’t a single care in the world. Had it been the first time Aegon saw her, he would’ve named it a demon from the deepest of the Seven Hells, and either tried to pinch himself awake or raised the alarm in the camp.

  But he’d been waiting for her. Eager, even. It was about time she showed herself again.

  “Quaithe,” Aegon called, pulling back the covers to rise to his feet.

  The wraith’s dark face twisted into a smile. “Young Aegon.” Despite the grotesque appearance the woman came to visit him with, her voice was that of an angel, high and lilting like a mother’s lullaby. “I have been following your progress. You are very close now.”

  Aegon huffed. “We had better be. I’ve felt like a fool for a week now, traipsing around this forest like a lunatic. My kingsguards would never say it, but I’ve seen the looks the rest of the men have been shooting me, the whispered conversations.” With his sheets wrapped around his shoulders, he shuffled across the tent and flopped down on the ground in front of her. Then he gave her his best smile. “Had it been anyone else who told me, I would be calling you a liar by now.”

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Quaithe chuckled. She rose in one graceful movement and came to stand in front of him. “Did you doubt me, my dear?” she asked, shadow hands brushing his cheeks.

  “No,” he whispered, leaning into her touch, cold though it was. He gazed up at her lovingly, as he had done since he was a young boy. “Never, Quaithe.”

  She smiled. The face of the wraith didn’t move, but after all these years, he could tell. He knew her like no one else, just as she knew him. “Nor should you. There is a small cave two days east of your camp, the entrance hidden behind half a century of vines and bushes. That fool man thought it a good place for his eternal rest.”

  “Bittersteel died with the sword?” Aegon frowned. “Doesn’t the Company still carry his gilded skull along with the other captain-generals? I’ve seen it myself. Harry insists on taking them on the first ship to land when we invade.”

  Quaithe laughed again. He would have worried about waking up the others, but no sounds would leave the tent while she was inside. “Another man’s head. Believe me, there wouldn’t be enough gold in the world to coat Aegor Rivers’ thick skull if you mined the earth dry.”

  He nodded. Quaithe was never the biggest supporter of the company and its founder.

  The tent returned back to silence as she stood next to him, running her fingers through his hair. She always did that, ever since the first time she came to him, when he was just a child looking for a mother’s shoulder to cry to and not a king. Thinking back on those times reminded him of something else, and Aegon had to swallow his nerves before finally speaking.

  “Quaithe.” Aegon took her shadow hands into his own and stared into her red eyes. She was still smiling behind her dark mask, he knew, a soft loving thing. “Will… will I finally see you when I return to camp?” He hated how his voice wavered, hated how weak he sounded. Nothing like a king should. But he was desperate. “You promised… you have been promising for years.”

  “Oh sweet child.” She bent down and laid a kiss on his head. “We will be together before you leave for Westeros, I swear. I am still in the east now, but I will come, and with a present too.” Stroking his hair one last time, she let go of him. “I must go now, but I will need my treat today, Aegon. It has been too long.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly, standing up and undoing the bandages on his right arm. “Always.” She smiled at him. When the bandages were undone, the arm he kept hidden even from his most trusted men was revealed. Dark veins ran from the crease of his elbow up and down his arm like a spider’s web, stopping just below his shoulders and going all the way down to his wrist. Aegon was quick to avert his eyes from it.

  Quaithe noticed. “You still flinch away,” she said, her voice flat.

  Aegon grimaced. “It’s nothing.”

  “Are you ashamed of it?” she asked. “Of me?”

  “No,” he was quick to answer. “Gods no, Quaithe. That’s not it. It’s just… they wouldn’t understand it. No one would.”

  “Does it not make you stronger and faster? Does it not let you win even against that pet knight of yours?”

  Aegon let out a small chuckle. “Not yet, if you believe it. No one can, especially now he has his sword back. And I tried.”

  She huffed. “Maybe you will, after Blackfyre is found. It is the sword of kings, Aegon. It belongs to our house, and now, to you.”

  “Of course,” he said. Aegon doubted he could beat him, in truth, but a man could dream. And he wasn’t about to take one of Quaithe’s gifts for granted. Taking a breath, he raised his arm up to her. “It’s late, and I have to be awake early tomorrow. Let’s just do it.”

  She took his arm with both hands and brought it near her face. Kissing her favorite spot, she whispered, “Only because you allow it, my king.”