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Chapter 93 Blood II
🕑 Added 2026-02-08 12:59:06 +0000 UTCThe rocks along the shore were dark with the churn of the tide. Knights of House Hightower stood there in loose ranks, cloaks snapping softly in the wind.
No one spoke.
They shifted their footing. Wiped damp palms against leather. Drew slow breaths to steady their hearts.
Three dragons had just grounded before them like living mountains.
Closest was the Bronze Fury, Vermithor. Dark bronze scales. His vast bulk coiled like a sleeping hill of metal and muscle. Down the shore stood Vhagar, greater still, scarred and heavy, her green hide worn, her wings half-spread. Farthest of all was the blue dragon, Dreamfyre, her white horns catching the light.
No one dared approach.
Behind them, the city had already felt it.
When the shadows passed overhead, Oldtown broke apart. Hawkers abandoned their stalls mid-call. Parents dragged children indoors. Maesters hurried away. Doors slammed. The streets emptied. Only guards running hard from one end to the next.
Everyone knew the same thing.
Something grave had happened.
Lynesse Hightower stood slightly ahead of the others beside her husband, dressed in a modest, dark green gown. Her hands were folded neatly at her waist, but her knuckles were white. Her gaze moved from one monstrous silhouette to the next, then up, slowly, to the riders astride them.
“Targaryens…” she murmured.
The words came out thin.
Vermithor shifted, stone scraping under claw, angling his bulk to make the descent easier.
King Jaehaerys dismounted first.
Slowly.
His boots struck the rock with a dull thud. He stood there a moment longer than needed, one hand braced against Vermithor’s saddle. Then he turned and offered his hand.
“Alysanne,” he said quietly.
The Queen took it. The descent was awkward. She gathered her skirts tight, leaned into him more than pride would usually allow. When her feet found the stone, she leaned into her husband’s steadying arm for a long moment before straightening. The set of her shoulders spoke of a deep, bone-weary strain.
“I’m all right,” she said, though her voice said otherwise.
Jaehaerys did not let go.
Baelon was already there. He had dismounted Vhagar ahead of them and now strode closer, eyes flicking briefly toward the Hightowers before settling on his parents.
“Mother,” he said. “Father.”
Alysanne nodded once. Her gaze had already begun to drift, past them, past the shore, toward the distant white steps of the Starry Sept.
Farther back, near Dreamfyre, Prince Aegon helped Princess Gael down. He kept one hand at her elbow until her boots found purchase.
“Easy,” he murmured.
She nodded, drew her cloak tighter around herself, and fell into step behind the others, her face slightly pale.
The Hightowers moved forward as the royal family approached. Hobert dropped to one knee on the damp stone, the rest of his household following in a rustling wave. Lynesse lowered herself beside him, her head bowed in a picture of perfect deference. Ormund followed, his face carefully arranged into the somber mask his mother had rehearsed.
“Your Graces,” Hobert began, his voice pitched to carry respect and regret. “Oldtown grieves with you. We offer every comfort of our house, and… ”
“Save your courtesies, Lord Hobert.” Jaehaerys cut him off with a sound. It was sharp, weary, and utterly devoid of patience. “We did not fly here for pillows and poetry.”
Hobert’s head came up, his face paling. “Your Grace, if I might have a moment to explain the circumstances within the sept… ”
“We have heard the circumstances,” Queen Alysanne said, her voice low, trembling with a tension so great it threatened to snap. “A moment will not change them.”
Lynesse dared to lift her gaze. “Your Grace, we did everything within our power. The sickness here… it is relentless. The princess dedicated herself to the most afflicted. We urged caution, but her devotion was…”
“Her devotion,” Baelon said, his voice like a grinding stone, “is not your defense.”
Lynesse fell silent, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Hobert tried again, desperation seeping into his tone. “The maesters here are the finest in the realm. They have treated her with every art known… ”
“And where has that art gotten her?” Jaehaerys’s question was a lash. The calm was gone, burned away by fear and a fury that had festered during the long, cold flight.
“Under your very roofs, surrounded by your ‘finest,’ my daughter is turning to stone.”
A flinch went through the Hightower ranks. Ormund kept his eyes locked on the ground, his rehearsed sorrow now feeling perilously thin.
Queen Alysanne raised a hand.
“Enough.”
The word was soft. She took a breath that shook despite her effort.
“I want to see my daughter,” she said. “Now.”
For a moment, no one moved.
Her voice held no anger. Only fear. Only the kind of dread that hollowed the chest.
A mother’s grief needed no explanation.
Hobert swallowed, then bowed his head again. “Of course,” he said. “Of course, Your Grace. At once.”
Jaehaerys took Alysanne’s hand. Firm. Steady. She did not look at him.
Her gaze was fixed on the white steps of the Starry Sept.
Baelon moved to her other side without a word. Gael followed close behind, head lowered, hands clenched tight in her cloak. Aegon walked with her, one hand steady at her back.
The Hightowers rose and turned, leading them onward in silence.
This was not the hour for words.
Not the hour for defense or explanation.
A mother was going to see her dying child first.
Starry Sept
A deep, rattling ache pulsed through her left side with every labored breath. Maegelle groaned, her consciousness clawing its way up through layers of fever and exhaustion. Her left hand was a dead, cold weight at her side, useless except for a faint, involuntary twitch she could no longer control. The greyscale had claimed most of her left side: arm, ribs, chest. A creeping prison of cold stone that made each inhalation a struggle. Her whole body felt spent, exhausted.
She forced her eyes open to half-lids. The blurred shape of Septa Fryda sharpened by the bed, a damp cloth in her hands. A few elderly maesters hovered nearby, one gently probing the stony skin of her arm with a metal tool, their faces drawn and grim. Seeing her awake, Fryda leaned forward, eyes moist, and stroked Maegelle’s head with a trembling hand.
“Shhh, child. It will be all right. You must rest,” Fryda whispered. The lie meant to comfort them both.
Suddenly, a commotion rose beyond the door, raised voices, the sharp strike of boots on stone. Maegelle’s gaze, drawn by the sound, fixed weakly on the doorway.
It swung open.
A figure rushed inside.
Maegelle’s breath hitched. Clarity pierced the fog of her illness.
“M-mother?”
Alysanne stopped just inside the threshold, the world narrowing to the bed.
Her daughter.
Her Maegelle.
The vibrant, gentle princess who had chosen service now lay pale against the sheets, half her body marred by a cruel grey bloom.
A sob tore from Alysanne’s throat before she could stop it. Hot tears streaked down her cheeks. The maesters shrank back against the walls, heads bowed.
“Oh… my daughter,” Alysanne whimpered, the words breaking. She crossed the room in swift steps and fell to her knees beside the narrow bed, on the stone floor. One trembling hand reached out, then hovered above Maegelle’s afflicted arm, afraid to touch the cold, cracked skin. Her other hand cupped Maegelle’s fevered cheek.
“My sweet girl. Why are the gods so cruel to you?”
Maegelle tried to rise, to offer comfort, but her body refused her. A wave of weakness pinned her down. Instead, she made a faint, fragile smile for her weeping mother.
Her gaze drifted past Alysanne, toward the figures filling the doorway.
Her father, King Jaehaerys, stood there, his face ashen. The vitality that once marked him was gone, hollowed out by grief. Beside him stood Baelon, jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek, his eyes burning with a fury he dared not unleash in this place. And behind them were Aegon and Gael. Gael’s hands were pressed over her mouth, shoulders shaking silently, sobbing. Aegon’s face was somber, sad, but his eyes were fixed on Maegelle with a piercing focus.
Seeing them all… her family, here in this desperate place… a fragile warmth bloomed in her chest, a quiet defiance against the cold stone creeping through her.
“Father,” Maegelle whispered, her voice a dry rustle. Her eyes found Jaehaerys.
“I… I am sorry. I did not mean for you to see…”
The apology… so instinctive, so her… cut him deeper than any blade.
Jaehaerys moved, crossing the room to stand behind Alysanne. He laid a steadying hand on his wife’s shuddering shoulder, but his gaze never left Maegelle.
“T-there is nothing to apologize for,” he said, his voice thick but controlled, the king set aside for the father. “You have done no wrong. Ever.”
His eyes flicked to the greyscale.
“How long?” he asked, the question aimed at the room, at the maesters.
One of the older maesters stepped forward, hesitant.
“Your Grace, the progression suggests… perhaps a year or more. The princess concealed it with great devotion to her duties.”
“A year,” Baelon repeated, the word a low growl. He stepped into the room, anger rolling off him. “And no one saw? No one knew?” His glare swept over Fryda and the maesters.
“We urged her to rest, Prince Baelon,” Fryda said, voice trembling. “We did not know the cause of her fatigue. She hid it from us all… until she fell.”
Alysanne barely heard them.
Her fingers gently traced the untainted skin of Maegelle’s right hand.
“Why, my love?” she murmured, tears falling onto the linen. “Why did you not come home? Why bear this alone?”
Maegelle’s faint smile returned, sad and resolute.
“I did not want you to lose another child, Mother.” She took a shallow, painful breath. “I prayed… I prayed you would never have to know.”
The words broke her.
Alysanne bent forward, resting her forehead against Maegelle’s. Their tears mingled.
“We are here now,” she vowed with helpless love. “We are here.”
Jaehaerys watched, his heart a cold, crushing weight in his chest. He understood the truth… in the maester’s words, in Maegelle’s calm, accepting eyes. This was her choice. Her sacrifice. His fury at the Hightowers, at the maesters, at the world itself, slowly dissolved into a vast, desolate sorrow.
He looked at the furious Baelon and gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Not here. Not now.
“That will be all,” Jaehaerys said softly, his voice filling the small cell. He meant the maesters. The septas. “The family will stay.”
As the room emptied, he moved to the far side of the bed, opposite Alysanne. He hesitated only a heartbeat before taking Maegelle’s left hand in both of his, careful to avoid the cracked stone where the sickness had fully taken hold.
The skin was cold. Unyielding.
He did not care.
Jaehaerys simply held it, as if strength, love, or life itself might pass from him into her.
Seat of House Hightower, Later at Night
The silence in the opulent chamber was thick, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the heavy, despairing breaths of its occupants. An untouched supper lay cooling on the table, its aromas turned cloying and unwelcome.
King Jaehaerys sat motionless in a high-backed chair, his gaze vacant, fixed on the intricate patterns of the ceiling as if seeking answers in the plaster. On the floor near the fireplace, Queen Alysanne sat with her knees drawn to her chest, her face buried in her arms. Baelon stood against the far wall, one hand rubbing his temple as if to stave off a torrent of rage.
Gael sat huddled in another chair, her eyes red and puffed from silent weeping. Aegon stood behind her, silent and watchful.
Before them stood Lord Hobert Hightower and a venerable Archmaester, a single steel link gleaming at his throat. His words still lingered in the air, heavy as a death knell.
“…our very best are consulting every text, Your Grace. But… it is difficult to give hope. There has never been a cure. The progression… it is advanced. We can only make her comfortable.”
“Useless.”
The word was a low, seething growl from Baelon. He pushed off from the wall, his face contorted with suppressed fury as he glared at the two men. “Septons, maesters, the entire Citadel… all useless when it matters.”
Lord Hobert flinched. The Archmaester bowed his head lower.
“Leave,” Jaehaerys said.
His voice was dry. Worn thin.
With relief, the two men bowed and hurried from the chamber, the great oak door thudding shut behind them.
The royal family was left alone with their grief. The final, authoritative pronouncement of the Citadel had extinguished the last faint ember of hope. Alysanne’s shoulders began to shake as silent sobs broke free.
It was into this absolute silence that Aegon, taking a deep breath, stepped forward.
He moved from behind Gael’s chair and stopped before the hearth, his expression grave, intent. “Grandfather. Grandmother,” he said, his voice calm but steady, cutting through the despair. “Perhaps… I can try. To cure Aunt Maegelle.”
The effect was electric. Four pairs of eyes, clouded with grief, red with tears and burning with anger, snapped to him.
Baelon was the first to react, his brow furrowing in skepticism. “How?” he demanded, his voice rough. “Your pyromancy? Your fires? They cannot burn away stone, Aegon. They would only kill her faster.”
Aegon met his father’s gaze without wavering.
“Not with pyromancy,” he said, letting the words hang.
Without another word of explanation, his hand went to the dagger sheathed at his waist. In one fluid motion, he drew the blade and cut across his left palm.
“Aegon!” Gael gasped, half-rising from her chair.
But no blood dripped to the rich Myrish carpet. Instead, the crimson welling from the cut shimmered, defying gravity. Small beads of blood trembled, then lifted from his skin, floating into the air between them. They drifted together, merging and coalescing into a single, quivering sphere of vivid red that hovered before his outstretched palm.
Jaehaerys was now staring, his listlessness shattered by sheer shock. Alysanne had lifted her head, her tears forgotten, her eyes wide with a dawning, horrified understanding. Baelon stood frozen, his anger momentarily stunned into silence.
In that breathless quiet, Aegon completed his earlier sentence, his voice dropping to a low, resonant tone that seemed to make the very air in the room grow colder.
“…but with blood magic.”
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Thanks for the patience!
Next Chapter: This Wednesday/Thursday
Comments
Sadal Abdikarim Mohamed Abdi
I love this chapter, I actually got emotional, especially for Alyssanne and Jaehaerys, is the chapter coming out this weekend?:) chapter 94
LuciferSatan
Aura farmer.
Traellium
Aura farming at a time like this!!?? 😭😭😭
Feliprins
Greyscale is a magical disease made by Water Mages from the Rhoynar to punish valyrians, so magic should be the best solution for it.
Chachi
Bro is just aura farming😭 tftc i was hoping the answer to greyscale woulf either be valyrian magic or something else.
Leery Falcon
Yeeeeeeeeeees
Mr Casual
Tftc
Kaine
Tyftc.
Amosz
Tyftc
