The storm didn't stop for the dead.
Rain lashed against the wooden walls of the house like thrown stones, and the wind screamed through the cracks as if the island itself had come to mourn.
Aelyx or Jaehaerys Targaryen stood unmoving beside the bed.
His mother lay her face peaceful now that the pain had left her. The room felt wrong without her breathing in it, too quiet. Too empty.
For his entire life, Ysilla of Skagos, his mother, had been the center of his life, from being his protector, teacher, and support, and now she was gone.
And truly, he knew he was partly to blame; only now did he finally understand the few final words of the God that reincarnated him.
"I regret, but it cannot be changed." He whispered, his eyes hollow.
In another world, another life, another mind. It might have broken him; he would have cursed God, cursed fate, and cursed himself, but not the current him.
It was a choice he made to seal his memory, and this was the consequence of that, nothing more, nothing less.
Thinking of the what-ifs would do no good now; the regret slowly disappeared, and his mother had raised a strong man who didn't wallow in the past.
The man he had become was strong and ruthless. That man had fought and conquered two of the five great clans of Skagos and many other small mountain clans.
His goal before the recent revelations and the regaining of his memory was to continue conquering the clans and rule over Skagos; now his plans have expanded to Westeros and even Essos, but the first step remains to conquer Skagos in its entirety as his first and most secure foothold in the world.
He had conquered the Frostfang clan, the northernmost clan, and also the least civilized. The Blackmyr clan was the second great clan to fall to him. They are a coastal raiding clan who launch small attacks on the houses close to the coast in the north of Westeros.
Aside from those two, every mountain clan on the west side of the island has been subdued.
Reaching this far had taken five years of advance and retreats, victories and defeats. Learning to wage war on the fly with no one to teach you was a steep learning curve, and he still wasn't sure he had completely gotten over it.
But he had gotten far better, and his forces hadn't lost a significant battle in two years, though the last year was slow as his mother had gotten sick, so they had fought less; every victory was overwhelming, breaking the enemy's spirits.
All that was left were the remaining three great clans: Clan Stane, Clan Crowl, and the now rulers of Skagos House, Magnar of Kingshouse, as well as the remaining mountain clans in the east of the island.
Aelyx planned to have this finished before the year was done; he wanted his mother to witness it, but fate had other plans.
But now, before marching back into war, he had something more important to do.
He stepped forward and gently slid one arm beneath his mother's shoulders and the other beneath her knees.
She felt far too light for the warrior she was.
Carefully, he lifted her into his arms, walked to the door, and it opened with a groan.
The storm hit him instantly. Rain soaked him in seconds. Wind tore at his silver hair and black cloak. Thunder echoed over the island.
Outside, hundreds, even thousands of armed men stood around smoking fires under shelters that looked hastily built.
Stoneborn men, killers, raiders. Men who had bent the knee to him through war.
These men, in the beginning, had bent the knee to save their lives and family, but over the years, their respect for him had grown after fighting for him, and the way Aelyx ruled and treated their families after they surrendered.
They were speaking when he emerged, then they saw the limp body in his arms.
Silence.
It spread like a ripple through the camp until even the storm seemed quieter.
No one spoke; they didn't dare.
They watched as Aelyx walked through them, carrying the woman who raised him and who they had come to respect.
His face showed nothing, no tears, no anger, no weakness, only stillness.
That frightened them more; men stepped aside without being told.
Heads lowered, even the fiercest among them moved like boys before their father, because everyone on Skagos knew what Ysilla had meant to him. And everyone knew what he could become now that she was gone.
He walked past the camp, the goats towards the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Seals.
The rain battered against him, but he did not slow. The wind tried to push him back, but he didn't bend.
At the cliff's edge, he stopped.
Below, what looked like black waves smashed against jagged stone, as the sea roared like an ancient beast.
His back remained turned to his men; no one dared approach until.
A man stepped from the group carrying a shovel, Torren.
Broad-shouldered, scarred, nearly twice the size of most of the other men, he was one of the first men to kneel when Aelyx had begun his conquest of the clans.
He stopped two steps behind him.
Said nothing, just held out a shovel, rain ran down both of them
No words were needed.
Aelyx slowly lowered his mother to the ground, placing her gently upon the wet grass overlooking the endless grey sea.
Then he turned.
Took the shovel.
And began to dig.
No one offered to help.
No one insulted him by trying.
This was his duty.
His grief.
His burden.
The earth was hard from volcanic stone and soaked rain, but he drove the shovel down again and again, each strike like a blow against the world itself.
Mud stained his hands.
Rain blinded his eyes.
Still, he dug.
When the grave was deep enough, he climbed out.
He lifted Ysilla one final time.
And laid her to rest.
For a long moment, he stood over her.
Then he knelt.
The storm raged around him, but Aelyx heard none of it.
Only her voice.
"You are my son, Throne or not, nothing else matters."
"I will not fail," he said quietly.
Not to the men.
Not to the gods.
To her.
The first and only promise that truly mattered.
Night had fully fallen by the time he rose.
The campfires behind him lit the way as he walked back through the army of men and returned to the wooden house.
The house felt colder when he returned.
Emptier.
The fire had nearly died.
He sat alone beside it, Blackfyre resting across his knees.
The ancient Valyrian steel seemed to drink the firelight, dark and hungry.
His mother was gone.
His last true family was gone.
He would mourn her until his final breath.
But he would not chain himself to that grief.
She would have hated that.
She had raised no weak man.
To let sorrow make him small would be an insult to everything she had made him.
His path had never been clearer.
First, Skagos.
Finish what he started.
Unite every clan.
Break every lord who refused.
Take the island fully.
Second, the dragon. He was one hundred percent certain that the dragon was on Skagos, from the Gods' words about the change to the world being confined mostly to one place, and from the bits he understood from the prophecy.
And finally.
Westeros.
The mainland.
The Iron Throne.
His fingers tightened around Blackfyre's hilt.
Robert Baratheon sat on a stolen throne.
The dragons had fallen to whispers and treachery.
"Tomorrow was another day, another chapter will begin, one full of blood and fire." Whispered Aelyx.