Chapter 43: The Fiery Kin and the Unveiling
The ride from Dilora back to Myrosh Castle was a blur, Maegor pushing his Sand Steed to its limits, the contingent of Myrosh Light Cavalry struggling to keep pace. Balerion, sensing the urgency in his master, flew ahead, a black arrow cleaving the morning sky. The thought of the Brightflames, a branch of his own House, alive and seeking him out, ignited a fire in Maegor's blood. This wasn't merely a strategic alliance; it was the return of lost kin, a chance to mend another severed branch of the Targaryen family tree.
As they thundered into Myrosh, the Castle Guards, under the watchful eye of Commander Vorian, quickly moved to secure Maegor's mount. Maegor dismounted with a fluid grace, Blackfyre a familiar weight at his hip. He didn't waste a moment on pleasantries.
"The Brightflames," Maegor demanded, his voice crisp. "Where are they quartered?"
A guard quickly guided him through the castle, its familiar stone walls now feeling like a true home. He was led to a suite of chambers in the eastern wing, typically reserved for esteemed guests. Ser Kaeto and Lyra, alerted to his sudden return, were already waiting nearby, their expressions expectant.
"My King," Kaeto murmured, "they arrived just before dawn. They seem… cautious. But hopeful."
Maegor merely nodded, his gaze fixed on the heavy oak door. He felt a surge of anticipation. This was a crucial encounter. He needed to secure their loyalty, but he also needed to understand them. The Brightflames had a reputation for brilliance, but also for ambition, and at times, a volatile madness.
He pushed the door open without knocking, striding into the well-appointed sitting room.
Seated around a low table were four figures, their eyes immediately snapping to him. At their head sat a man in his early fifties, with the striking silver-gold hair characteristic of the Brightflames, though streaked with grey. His face was sharp, intelligent, but lined with the weariness of an exile. This was Aenar Brightflame, the head of the house. Beside him, a woman with raven hair and striking green eyes, clearly of Lyseni descent, her features hinting at Valyrian ancestry, though not pure. This was Lady Xandra, Aenar's wife.
Across from them sat their children: a young man, perhaps twenty, with a strong, proud face and eyes of a fierce violet, mirroring Maegor's own. This was Aelyx Brightflame. Beside him, a girl of nineteen, slender and graceful, with flowing silver-gold hair and pale, almost ethereal lilac eyes. Deana Brightflame.
And finally, seated slightly apart, observing with a quiet intensity, was a woman in her mid-thirties, with her own cascade of silver-gold hair and sharp, intelligent grey eyes. Rheanera Brightflame, Aenar's sister, unmarried and with an air of fierce independence. Three grim-faced, silent guards, dressed in the modest livery of a minor house, stood watch near the door.
Aenar rose slowly, his gaze sweeping over Maegor's silver hair, the purple eyes, and finally, settling on Blackfyre at Maegor's hip. A collective gasp went through the Brightflame family. They recognized the legendary blade. The sword of Aegon the Conqueror, the symbol of their lost power.
"You… you are the one," Aenar whispered, his voice hoarse with a mixture of awe and disbelief. "The King beyond the Wall. The Dragon that rides with the Dothraki."
Maegor met his gaze, allowing his Commander's Presence and Draconic Persuasion to fill the chamber, demanding their absolute attention, impressing upon them the reality of his power. "I am Maegor Targaryen," he stated, his voice ringing with authority. "Son of Maester Aemon. The Dragon has returned. And you, House Brightflame, have answered the call."
Aenar, after a moment of stunned silence, sank to one knee, a rare reverence in his eyes. His wife, children, and sister quickly followed suit, their expressions a mixture of awe, hope, and a healthy dose of fear.
"My King," Aenar declared, his voice trembling slightly, "we heard the whispers, saw the raven. We did not dare hope. We believed ourselves lost to history. My name is Aenar Brightflame, and this is my wife, Lady Xandra, my son Aelyx, my daughter Deana, and my sister Rheanera. We are the last of our direct line. We offer our fealty, our lives, and our meager resources to you. To fire and blood."
Maegor allowed a cold, satisfied smile. "Rise, Aenar Brightflame. Your loyalty is accepted. Your courage in coming here is noted. You are not lost to history. You are found. And you will be instrumental in the future of House Targaryen."
He looked at Aelyx, the young man with fierce violet eyes, then at Deana, with her ethereal lilac gaze. He remembered his plan for Viserys. "You are true Targaryens, the blood of the Dragon flows strong in your veins. That is a precious thing."
He then settled into a chair, gesturing for them to be seated as well. "We have much to discuss. Your loyalty, your family's talents, and the future of House Targaryen, which is no longer merely my burden, but ours." He paused, his gaze sweeping over each of them. "Tell me of your lives in Tyrosh. What have you gained, what have you lost, in the decades since our House fell?"
Aenar, emboldened by Maegor's directness and the raw power emanating from him, began to speak. He spoke of their small, isolated existence in Tyrosh, living as respected but minor nobility, fiercely guarding their heritage while outwardly maintaining a low profile. He recounted their struggles, the constant fear of being discovered by Robert's agents, the frustration of their lost glory. He spoke of their limited resources, but also of their sharp minds and their family's enduring understanding of the Essosi political landscape. His sister, Rheanera, occasionally interjected with sharp, insightful observations, revealing a keen intellect.
Maegor listened intently, his Valyrian Insight (Tier 3) assessing each person. Aenar was intelligent, cautious, but ambitious. Lady Xandra was practical, a good grounding influence. Aelyx was proud, clearly a warrior, eager for glory. Deana was quiet, observant, perhaps with a hidden fire. And Rheanera… Rheanera was sharp, perhaps even dangerously so, a keen mind that could be an asset.
This was a significant moment. The Brightflames, with their unique blend of Targaryen blood, ambition, and potential volatility, were now under his direct command. They would be a powerful, albeit challenging, addition to his burgeoning court. Their inherent loyalty, coupled with their understanding of Essosi politics, made them invaluable.