Within the Emerald Dream.
The souls of Rhaenys and Visenya had returned to purity.
The true dragon bloodline and all the taint imposed by the Dragon Demon had been completely cleansed.
Through his psychic power, Aegon shared with them the knowledge of the Emerald Dream, then told them to rest here in peace.
If ever they grew restless or bored, they could cast themselves into the boundless green sea of the Emerald Dream and drift into deep slumber, waiting for the moment when he would one day awaken them to return to the living world.
Rhaenys and Visenya had already reached the natural end of their lives.
Though Aegon's heart was heavy with sorrow, he knew it was kinder to let the sisters find peace in this tranquil dream than to suffer the endless torment brought by the Dragon Demon's awakening in the mortal realm.
...
The skies above the River of Tears.
A savage dragon hunt tore across the heavens.
Maegor's Cannibal, like a black torrent, clung to Quicksilver's tail, refusing to relent. The young dragon was ridden by Little Aegon, who was fighting desperately to survive.
No matter how Quicksilver twisted and turned, darting upward through the clouds or skimming dangerously close to cliffs and canyons, Cannibal shadowed it unceasingly, its jaws spitting ghostly green fire at its prey.
Since Maegor had tamed it, the Cannibal had gone too long without tasting the flesh of its own kind. Now, driven by its rider, it thrilled once again in a dragon hunt, its scales quivering with excitement.
Time and again its claws brushed against Quicksilver's haunches, only to deliberately let go—prolonging the hunt, savoring the chase, unwilling to end the "game" too soon.
"Roar!!" Cannibal bellowed with exhilaration, its voice booming across the sky.
Quicksilver's bright silver scales gleamed brilliantly under the sun. At just forty years of age, it had only just entered youth by draconic measure, its body a little over ten meters long. Against the mature Cannibal, its strength was pitifully lacking.
Little Aegon clung to his dragon's back, frantic, his eyes darting about for some shred of hope. One thought burned in his mind: reach the Isle of Faces. There, a few loyal dragon kin remained—perhaps enough to help him withstand his uncle Maegor's deadly pursuit.
But for now he was cornered, a beast trapped with no way out.
At last, Quicksilver dove with all its strength, plunging from the skies above the River of Tears into the skies above the Gods Eye. In the distance, the Isle of Faces rose faintly from the lake's surface.
A surge of wild joy swept through Little Aegon's chest.
But in that very instant, Cannibal plummeted from above like a black meteor, its massive night-dark claws descending with death in their grip, striking straight at Little Aegon on Quicksilver's back.
Terror seized him so fully he felt his soul fly from his body. With no other choice, he leapt from Quicksilver's back, falling headlong toward the waters of the Gods Eye.
Quicksilver, left with nowhere to flee, was seized by Cannibal's massive claws, which drove deep into the young dragon's spine like blades.
The silver dragon shrieked in agony, thrashing its wings madly in a desperate attempt to break free.
It twisted its head, unleashing a furious blast of silver dragonfire, but the flames only blackened Cannibal's scales, failing to cause any true harm.
Between a young dragon and one in its prime lay a gulf as wide as the sky itself—size, strength, and the fury of their breath, all in Cannibal's favor.
The two clashed in the air, their deafening roars shaking the heavens.
On the Isle of Faces, dragon kin rushed to the island's highest ground, staring skyward in dread at the life-or-death struggle.
When they saw the truth—that Quicksilver, the dragon of the Demon-Hunting Knights' commander, Little Aegon, was already faltering—they were thrown into panic. Without hesitation, some loosed arrows, others hurled javelins, still more worked crossbows or threw axes, sending volley after volley toward Cannibal in the sky.
Yet weapons deadly enough for mortals, or even for fiends, were useless against a prime-aged dragon. At best they left shallow scratches, not even true wounds.
Not since the Doom of Valyria had such a fierce battle between dragons filled the skies.
Quicksilver was scarcely a fifth the size of Cannibal. Against the ferocity of the older dragon, she stood no chance. Her pale fireballs flickered weakly against Cannibal's rolling torrents of green flame.
After a brutal clash of bites and raking claws, Cannibal struck. With jaws like a steel trap, it tore into Quicksilver's neck. At the same instant, its claws ripped savagely, tearing one of her wings clean away.
The young she-dragon screamed in agony, her body reeling, trailing smoke as she plummeted like a burning star.
Even without her rider, poor Quicksilver had fought on for more than a dozen breaths, clinging to life by sheer will. But in the end, she succumbed beneath Cannibal's merciless assault.
Cannibal released her broken body, letting it fall, then began tearing into her wing, crunching through skin and bone with relish.
Having tasted dragon flesh once more, Cannibal grew wild with frenzy, spewing great gouts of corrosive green fire into the sky in triumphant defiance.
"BOOM!" With a thunderous crash, Quicksilver's massive body—nearly twenty meters long—plummeted into the Gods Eye like a falling boulder. The impact sent waves surging several stories high, water spraying in all directions as the lake's surface erupted into chaos.
On the Isle of Faces, the dragon kin stood stunned, their eyes wide with shock as they watched their commander's dragon slaughtered before them.
But the Cannibal's next move chilled them even further.
The great beast dove toward the surface of the Gods Eye, thrust out a massive claw, and seized Quicksilver's corpse, dragging it with brute strength toward the isle.
In moments, it had hauled the carcass ashore. Without hesitation, the Cannibal sank its jagged fangs into the body, tearing and chewing savagely.
Its dragon eyes glimmered with eerie green light, a sight that made the onlookers' blood run cold.
Worse still, the wounds Cannibal had taken during the aerial battle were visibly sealing shut, healing at terrifying speed. Its frame grew bulkier, its scales harder and darker with each passing breath.
It was clear: the Cannibal was growing stronger by devouring its own kind.
Dozens of Demon-Hunting Knights, loyal dragon kin, surged forward with weapons in hand, surrounding the monster in grim silence, their faces taut with dread.
Maegor stood nearby, arms crossed, his vertical pupils burning like molten gold. Streams of golden liquid light seeped from his features and chest, flowing together into his right palm. In an instant, the colossal Molten Gold Hammer reformed in his grip.
As a Dragonborn Awakened, Maegor's aura of dark magic erupted violently. He had just lost his mother, Visenya, and his mind was breaking under the weight.
Battle had always driven him to the brink of madness, and only his mother's voice had ever been able to call him back to reason. But now, Empress Visenya was gone.
No one remained who could restrain the beast he had become.
Before the dragon kin could even speak, Maegor leapt from Cannibal's back, hammer blazing with golden radiance.
Like a thunderbolt he charged, alone, against dozens of foes. His feet slammed into the sand with blinding speed, each step gouging deep craters and throwing clouds of dust into the air.
"AAAAH! DIE! KILL!" Maegor roared as he launched himself skyward, hammer raised high.
Mid-leap, his body swelled, veins blazing like molten rivers beneath his skin. In a heartbeat, he stood a giant nearly three meters tall, his entire frame blazing with golden brilliance that lit the world around him.
"BOOM!!!" His hammer crashed down among the dragon kin, unleashing the force of a falling sun.
A blinding golden flare erupted outward. Several dragon kin too slow to dodge were crushed to pulp, their remains blasted apart. From beneath the hammer's impact, molten gold sprayed outward like a storm of deadly arrows, piercing bodies and sending up cries of agony.
For years, Maegor's presence had been dimmed under the shadow of Empress Visenya, the mightiest of dragonborn.
But now, unbound, he revealed his true nature—mad, monstrous, and terrifyingly strong.
The dragon kin fell back, grievously wounded, some left broken and bleeding.
With no other choice, they unleashed the power within themselves. One after another, Awakened dragon kin transformed, strange and twisted forms rising around Maegor, cloaked in dense magical aura, defying his wrath.
Beneath the still waters of the Gods Eye, a figure hid—Little Aegon.
Moments earlier, he had thrown himself from Quicksilver's back and plunged into the lake, narrowly escaping Cannibal's killing blow. Now he lay submerged, holding his breath, not daring to break the surface.
Through the water, he saw his loyal dragon kin locked in a desperate battle against Maegor, but he did not rise to join them.
Fear had taken him. Maegor's savage killing drove terror deep into his bones. And with Cannibal still prowling the lakeshore, he knew well the dragon kin had no chance. If he revealed himself, death was certain.
Along the shore, while the Awakened struggled to hold Maegor at bay, some clever dragon kin were already slipping away, vanishing into the chaos, fleeing the doomed battlefield.
With King Maegor and the Cannibal both consumed by madness, and no one certain whether their commander Little Aegon lived or died, staying to resist seemed meaningless.
Only those gravely wounded by Maegor's first strike, crippled and desperate, clung to life by awakening their power in full, grasping at the slimmest chance of survival.
But the gulf between dragon kin and dragonborn was as vast as that between dragonborn and a full-grown dragon. Within mere breaths, one after another fell beneath Maegor's hammer, none spared.
By now, his eyes shone with nothing but molten gold, sclera and iris alike consumed.
From their corners streamed twin trails of golden tears, heavy sorrow pressing down on him like storm clouds.
Exhaustion from the relentless slaughter weighed on his limbs. Slowly, he lowered his gaze to the mangled corpses littering the sand. Seizing one, he tore open its belly with clawed, golden hands, and devoured the entrails like a starving wolf.
So it was: man and dragon, side by side on the shores of the Isle of Faces, feasting on their own kind.
Silence lay over the scene. No one dared approach, none would intervene.
By dusk, Maegor's frenzy began to ebb, reason flickering faintly back into his eyes.
He rose, strode into the headquarters of the Demon-Hunting Knights, and with the strength of his own might—and Cannibal's looming shadow—bent the order's leadership and surviving warriors to his will.
But when Maegor returned to King's Landing with the remnants of his dragon kin, news awaited him that struck like another blow.
Queen Rhaena had fled the city on Dreamfyre, taking their two daughters with her.
Since the Trial of Seven had begun, calamity had fallen on him like unrelenting rain.
First, the death of his mother, Visenya. Then, the annihilation of the Red Party's lords within the royal court. And now, even his Queen and daughters had abandoned him.
This chain of calamities left Maegor utterly alone, trapped in desolation.
Several days later...
The Red Keep held solemn funerals for Queen Regent Visenya and Queen Regent Rhaenys.
Maegor ordered his son Aegon to command his dragon Ghidorah to cremate the two queens with dragonfire.
Now, Aegon was the only heir of his blood.
"At least I still have this son. As long as the bloodline endures, the legacy lives. The future may yet hold promise—hope will not be extinguished." Maegor tried to comfort himself with such thoughts, clinging to them amid his endless blows.
At the funeral, Aegon himself sang the dirge, the mournful melody echoing through the Red Keep.
When night fell, Maegor sat alone upon the Iron Throne—the very symbol of absolute power—shrouded in loneliness and grief.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed at the hall's entrance, breaking the heavy silence. Maegor raised his head slowly and saw his lover Tyanna standing in the doorway.
"Your Grace," Tyanna said, "a devout of the Starry Sept in Oldtown has been elected by the Conclave and crowned as the new High Septon."
Her words struck Maegor like a hammer blow, another wound to his already broken heart.
Rage burst within him. He leapt from the Iron Throne and roared, "We clearly won the Trial of the Seven! The Seven themselves granted the papacy to me!
And these wretched godsworn dare defy the will of the gods?
My father was wrong—he never should have allied with the Faith! He should have crushed the Faith of the Seven completely, by any means necessary!"
With that, Maegor stormed from the hall, ordering a carriage to take him to the Dragonpit.
Tyanna watched his retreating back, her heart heavy with dread. She knew his state all too well. Since Empress Visenya's death, Maegor had not closed his eyes for a single night. His spirit was fraying, his mind collapsing under the strain, leaving him unable to rest.
Moments later, the vast beating of wings shook the air as Cannibal soared skyward. It streaked past the Red Keep and began circling above the Sept of the Seven, its colossal form casting a monstrous shadow beneath the moonlight.
"It's this damned Sept!" Maegor thought, hatred burning in his heart. "It was here Rhaenys drew her sudden surge of strength—and because of that, Mother was taken from me!"
His eyes locked on the Sept's seven spires, where seven human pillars with fleshy crowns writhed in torment, still alive but shrieking in agony.
"Cannibal! Dracarys!" Maegor's voice was like ice as he gave the command.
At once, Cannibal's jaws filled with green fire. With a deafening roar, it unleashed a torrent of corrosive flame onto the Sept. Then it circled again and again, spewing its deadly breath without pause.
The Sept of the Seven—once the grandest and most magnificent structure in Westeros, built in the days of the Conquest—had met its end.
The raging green fire devoured the holy structure. The Faith Militant—Crusaders, Warrior's Sons, Knights of the Star, even dragon kin among them—were powerless before the corrosive dragonflame. In an instant, they were reduced to ash.
The people of King's Landing watched in stunned disbelief. None had ever imagined King Maegor would dare commit such sacrilege against the Seven.
Tens of thousands of worshippers gathered near the burning Sept, falling to their knees in prayer, begging for the gods' protection. Some fanatics even hurled themselves toward the flames, trying to smother Cannibal's green fire with their own bodies. Without exception, they were instantly consumed, leaving only charred piles of bone.
From atop the Red Keep's ramparts, Aegon stood silently, his golden eyes reflecting the roaring flames of the Sept. He gazed without a word, lost in thought.
Only after a long time did he sigh deeply and turn away.
The screams of the dying echoed through the city, while black smoke like a demon's grasp shrouded King's Landing for days.
Maegor's mad burning of the Sept of the Seven was nothing less than a hornet's nest torn open.
Almost at once, the Seven Kingdoms raised their banners in rebellion against him. A great uprising, engulfing the entire Targaryen dynasty, burst forth like a storm.
In the Hall of Conquest, Maegor convened an emergency council to discuss strategies against the spreading insurrections.
But now, the lords who sat before him were only minor nobles of the Crownlands.
In the days of Regalus Aegon, the Targaryen court had flourished, drawing the mightiest lords from every duchy across Westeros. Dukes and high earls filled the court, men of weight and power.
But the Trial of the Seven had brought down the great lords of Westeros one by one. Then rebellions broke out everywhere. Maegor had no choice but to rely on petty nobles of the Crownlands to hold the realm together.
Why not the great lords of the Crownlands?
Because in Regalus Aegon's reign, to centralize authority, he had already relocated them all to Essos and redistributed their lands.
Now Maegor sat grimly upon the Iron Throne, Blackfyre clenched tight in his hands.
When Rhaena had fled King's Landing, she had stolen one of the family's treasured Valyrian steel blades. But Blackfyre had never left Maegor's side—misfortune tempered by the one blade that remained.
He stroked its hilt slowly, his gaze sweeping the sparse court.
The lords of the Crownlands had all been summoned to the Red Keep to deliberate through the night on how to quell the rebellion.
But compared to the councils of old, the great hall felt painfully empty.
The bald maester furrowed his brow as he pored over raven messages. Finally, he said, "Jaehaerys has risen in rebellion at Storm's End, allying with Lord Serlandyn and Lord Baratheon, openly claiming his rightful inheritance.
A sect of the Poor Fellows of the Faith has also raised arms. Both Riverrun and Oldtown have declared support for them.
Admiral Velaryon has turned traitor, and many great lords follow him, swelling the rebel host.
Even Prince Aegon the Younger has persuaded the North and the Westerlands to muster at Harrenhal with vast forces, intent on opposing the Crown."
At these words, Maegor's fury boiled over. He slammed the armrest of the Iron Throne with a resounding crack, his eyes blazing with hatred.
"That craven wretch! He didn't drown in the Gods Eye—and now he dares raise arms against me!"