Chapter 14: The Dragon's Gambit, The Conqueror's Shadow
The Blackwater Rush, a wide, muddy expanse destined to cradle a future king's city, became the stage for a confrontation unlike any Westeros had witnessed. Aegon Targaryen, the Conqueror, accustomed to supplicants or defiant fools, was about to meet a Valyrian who claimed not just parity, but a deeper, more ancient understanding of their shared, fiery heritage.
The arrival of "Lord Aerion Vaelaros" and his Lost Legion was a masterclass in calculated intimidation. The Nyx, Aizen's flagship, was a marvel of dark, predatory elegance, its obsidian hull slicing through the choppy waters of the bay with an unnatural silence, dwarfing the Targaryen fleet of captured Westerosi cogs and galleys. Vhagarion, coiled upon its reinforced deck, was a living mountain of midnight scales and emerald fire, his sheer presence a palpable weight on the air, causing the distant Balerion the Black Dread to stir and rumble uneasily in his newly constructed pen on the shore. Above, Aerion's five escort dragons – smaller than Aegon's behemoths but flying with a chilling, hawk-like precision – circled like dark omens against the grey sky, their roars sharper, more disciplined than the wilder bellows of the Targaryen mounts.
Aegon had chosen the site for the parley: a hastily erected pavilion on a low bluff overlooking the bay, his banner of the three-headed dragon snapping defiantly in the wind. He intended it as a display of his newfound authority, his claim over this land. Yet, as the Nyx anchored and a sleek, obsidian landing barge brought Lord Aerion and his retinue ashore, the Conqueror might have felt the first flicker of doubt.
Lord Aerion Vaelaros was a figure sculpted from Valyrian legend. Clad in articulated plate of a black metal that seemed to drink the light, his silver hair (a deliberate choice by Aizen for this persona, a nod to Valyrian aesthetics that also subtly differentiated him from the Targaryen platinum) was bound by a simple obsidian circlet. His features were handsome, aristocratic, yet possessed a severity, a depth in his violet eyes (another cosmetic alteration) that spoke of ancient knowledge and unnerving focus. He moved with a fluid grace that hinted at immense, contained power. Beside him walked Argent, a silent, featureless black sentinel, and behind them, a dozen Valyrian knights, their armor identical, their faces hidden behind dark helms, their discipline absolute, their Valyrian steel blades glinting ominously.
Aegon Targaryen stood before his pavilion, flanked by his sister-queens, Visenya and Rhaenys. Visenya, warrior-like with Dark Sister at her hip, regarded the newcomers with open suspicion, her hand never far from her sword. Rhaenys, ever curious, studied Aerion with a mixture of apprehension and fascination. Orys Baratheon, a burly, pragmatic figure, stood a little behind Aegon, his expression grim. In the near distance, Balerion, Vhagar (Targaryen), and Meraxes watched, their colossal forms a silent testament to Targaryen might, yet now, not the only draconic might present.
"King Aegon Targaryen," Lord Aerion's voice was the first to break the silence, his High Valyrian perfect, cultured, carrying an innate authority that resonated even with the Westerosi guards who understood not a word. "I am Lord Aerion of House Vaelaros. I have come as requested, to speak of matters concerning the blood of Old Valyria and the destiny of this world."
Aegon inclined his head, a kingly gesture. "Lord Aerion. Westeros has heard… tales of your sudden arrival. You claim a heritage long thought lost. Valyria burned, Lord Aerion. What ashes have you risen from?"
Aerion allowed a faint, almost pitying smile to touch his lips. "Valyria was more than just a city to be consumed by fire, King Aegon. It was an idea, a legacy of knowledge, a sacred fire of the intellect. My ancestors, wiser than most, saw the rot beneath the grandeur. They preserved a spark of that true fire, far from the Doom's reach, nurturing it in solitude, awaiting a time when the world might be ready for its light once more." He gestured vaguely towards his dragons. "We are that spark, returned."
This opening salvo immediately set the tone. Aerion wasn't just claiming survival; he was claiming superior preservation, a purer understanding of their shared heritage, subtly positioning himself as the guardian of true Valyrian wisdom, while Aegon was merely a wielder of its more overt, destructive power.
Visenya bristled. "Preserved knowledge? Or hoarded power, unleashed only now when another of Valyrian blood seeks to unite a continent?"
Aerion turned his cool gaze upon her. "Unity, Queen Visenya, can be a noble goal. But unity under ignorance, or unity repeating the very hubris that led to Valyria's fall, is merely a prelude to a different kind of doom. The Freehold shattered because it forgot the deeper truths, the arcane disciplines that underpinned its might, mistaking conquest for true mastery."
The negotiations, if they could be called that, began in earnest. Aegon, trying to maintain the initiative, spoke of his vision for Westeros: a single kingdom under a single Targaryen king, bringing peace and order to a fractured land. He offered Lord Aerion a place within this new order – a high lordship, perhaps even command of the royal fleet, acknowledging his Valyrian blood and the strength of his "Lost Legion."
"You offer me a gilded cage, King Aegon," Aerion responded, his voice laced with a delicate amusement that clearly irked the Conqueror. "A lordship over mud huts and quarrelsome goat-herders, in service to a king whose understanding of Valyria's true potential seems… limited to the reach of his dragons' fire. My ambitions, and those of the blood I represent, extend far beyond the shores of this… Westeros."
He then unveiled his own "offer." An alliance, yes, but one of equals. The Lost Legion, with its "preserved lore" and its disciplined forces, would join with Aegon. Together, they would not just finish the conquest of Westeros, but look beyond – to Essos, to the rebuilding of a true Valyrian sphere of influence across the world, one guided by wisdom and arcane mastery, not just brute force. "Imagine, King Aegon," Aerion said, his voice dropping to a compelling, almost hypnotic tone, "a world reshaped by the true genius of Valyria, its ancient sciences restored, its magical potential unlocked. Not an empire of slaves and fire, but an enlightened hegemony, bringing order and progress to all."
The unspoken implication, clear to everyone present, was that Lord Aerion Vaelaros, with his "preserved lore" and serene confidence, would be the guiding intellect, the senior partner in this grand endeavor. Aegon would be the strong arm, the Conqueror, but Aerion would be the mind, the true architect.
Aegon's jaw tightened. "I am the king here, Lord Aerion. I will have no other king share my throne, Valyrian or otherwise. You may be a powerful lord, a kinsman of the blood, but Westeros will have one ruler."
"Rulership without wisdom is tyranny, however well-intentioned," Aerion countered smoothly. "And wisdom, true Valyrian wisdom, is more than just the taming of dragons. It is the understanding of the fundamental forces that shape reality, the mastery of the soul, the knowledge to avoid the very cataclysm that consumed our ancestors." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Knowledge that, it appears, was not fully preserved on Dragonstone."
This was a direct, calculated barb, aimed at Aegon's pride and the perceived limitations of the Targaryen's Valyrian inheritance. Aizen, through Aerion, could sense the flicker of anger in Aegon, the defensive stiffening in Visenya. Rhaenys, however, looked thoughtful, her gaze shifting between her brother and this enigmatic newcomer. Had her ancestors on Dragonstone truly lost so much?
Aerion pressed his advantage, not with overt aggression, but with a relentless stream of superior rhetoric and subtle psychological pressure. He spoke of Valyrian history with a depth and intimacy that Aegon and his sisters, whose knowledge was based on fragmented texts and family lore, could not match. He alluded to arcane secrets, to dangers in the world Aegon had not yet considered, to a cosmic perspective that made the conquest of Westeros seem like a provincial squabble.
He subtly used his immense spiritual pressure, not as an attack, but as an oppressive aura around his persona, a weight that made the air around him feel charged, making Aegon's retainers uneasy, their own dragons restless. Vhagarion, sensing his master's intent, let out a low, guttural rumble, a sound that vibrated in the very chests of those present, a primal assertion of dominance that even Balerion seemed to answer with a more agitated hiss. Aerion's Sentinel knights stood like statues of obsidian, their silence, their utter stillness, more unnerving than any overt threat.
Visenya, unable to tolerate the implications of Aerion's words, finally snapped. "Words are wind, Lord Aerion! You speak of lost lore and greater power, yet what have you truly shown us beyond a timely intervention in a battle already decided, and a fleet of mysterious ships? If your Valyrian claim is so pure, so potent, prove it! Will you bend the knee to the King of Westeros, or will you declare yourself his enemy?"
Aerion turned his gaze, now tinged with an almost divine coldness, upon her. "Bending the knee, Queen Visenya, is for vassals. I am no vassal." He then looked directly at Aegon. "And I have no desire to be your enemy, King Aegon, unless your ambition blinds you to the greater possibilities before us. An alliance of equals could forge an empire that would make Old Valyria itself tremble. A rivalry between us would only bleed the last true blood of Valyria dry, for the amusement of lesser men."
The negotiations had reached an impasse. Aegon, for all his power as Conqueror, could not accept a co-ruler, especially one who so clearly positioned himself as a superior in intellect and heritage. His entire claim to kingship rested on his unique status. Aerion, playing his role as the guardian of a purer Valyrian legacy, could not accept a subordinate position.
Aegon stood, his hand resting on the pommel of Blackfyre. "I am Aegon of House Targaryen, the First of My Name, King of All Westeros, and Shield of His People. I offer you my friendship, Lord Aerion, and a place of high honor in my realm. I will not offer you my crown, nor will I share my rule. Accept my terms, or depart my shores. There is no other way."
Aerion regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow, almost melancholic smile touched his lips. "A king's pronouncement. So be it." He inclined his head slightly. "You have made your choice, King Aegon. You choose to rule a kingdom of men, rather than aspire to an empire of gods."
This was it. Aegon's first true defeat, though no swords had been crossed here. It was not a military defeat, but a profound psychological and strategic one. Aerion had arrived, challenged Aegon's unique Valyrian narrative, offered a vision of power Aegon could not embrace without diminishing himself, and then, by refusing Aegon's terms, had established himself as an independent, rival Valyrian power operating within Aegon's claimed domain, a power Aegon could not easily dismiss or control. The Conqueror, for the first time, faced a peer, or at least one who convincingly postured as such, and found himself unable to impose his will. He had been outmaneuvered, his authority subtly undermined, his grand vision for a simple conquest now complicated by an entity whose motives and ultimate strength remained alarmingly opaque. He felt a frustration, an unease he had not known before.
"Lord Aerion," Aegon said, his voice tight, "your continued presence in Westeros, unsworn, will be considered… problematic."
Aerion's smile widened slightly. "Problems, King Aegon, are merely opportunities for the resourceful." He then delivered his parting shot, a gift of carefully crafted poison. "Rule your Westeros. Tame its quarrelsome lords. But know this: the fires that consumed Valyria were but a symptom of a deeper sickness, a cosmic imbalance. There are shadows in this world, King Aegon, ancient and hungry, that your dragons cannot burn, and your Valyrian steel cannot cut. Powers that stir in the deep places, and in the hearts of men, that you are utterly unprepared to face. Perhaps, one day, when your crown weighs heavier, and your understanding deepens, you will reconsider the value of true Valyrian wisdom."
With that, Lord Aerion Vaelaros turned, his retinue moving with him as one silent, formidable unit. They boarded their barge and returned to the Nyx, Vhagarion and the escort dragons taking to the sky with a final, defiant chorus of roars that echoed across the Blackwater.
Aboard his flagship, as the shores of Westeros receded, Aizen shed the persona of Aerion. The parley had gone precisely as planned. He had not sought Aegon's fealty, nor truly expected an alliance on his terms. He had sought to measure the man, to assess his council, to plant seeds of doubt and intrigue, and to establish the Lost Legion as a formidable, independent entity. All objectives achieved.
The "defeat" Aegon had tasted was the realization that his world was no longer simple. He now had a Valyrian rival, one who spoke of deeper knowledge and grander ambitions, a shadow that would loom over his reign. This unease, this uncertainty, was a fertile ground Aizen would cultivate.
"Aegon is strong, proud, and limited by his conqueror's mindset," Aizen conveyed to Argent. "He sees only the immediate challenges, the physical mastery of land and men. He does not yet perceive the true currents that shape destiny."
His next move would be to further demonstrate the Lost Legion's power and independence, perhaps by "liberating" a strategically valuable location currently outside Aegon's grasp, or by offering "protection" to a minor kingdom threatened by another, non-Targaryen aggressor, thereby showcasing their martial prowess and "Valyrian magnanimity" while continuing the subtle soul harvest.
The game for Westeros was far from over. It had merely become infinitely more interesting. Aizen Sōsuke, the God-King of the Smoking Sea, had successfully cast his shadow over the Iron Throne before it was even fully forged. The Conqueror had been met, and found wanting in the eyes of a power far beyond his comprehension.