Part I: The Shadow in the Courtyard
The morning sun in King's Landing carried an unusual weight upon the stone tiles of the Red Keep's main courtyard. Aenar Targaryen, twenty years of name, stood as a living statue of silver and obsidian at the heart of that vast space. His black cloak, embroidered with threads of dark red that seemed to bleed at the edges, did not stir with the morning breeze, as though the fabric itself recognized the solemnity of the moment. His silver hair, so characteristic of his lineage, fell like a curtain of liquid metal upon his shoulders, and his eyes—those violet eyes with vertical pupils that so unsettled the court—scanned the eastern horizon with an intensity that could pierce steel.
The air, normally filled with the sounds of the waking city—the carters shouting their wares, the soldiers changing shifts on the walls, the distant murmur of waves on Blackwater Bay—was strangely silent. It was as if the city itself held its breath, aware of the historic moment approaching. The few courtiers present in the courtyard kept their distance, huddled under the arcades like frightened children during a storm. Cautious whispers echoed beneath the vaulted arches, but none dared approach the solitary prince.
Patience is a virtue I have cultivated longer than these mortals could ever comprehend, Aenar thought, his hands clasped behind his back. His long, pale fingers did not tremble; they were as firm as the rock of the isle he now officially ruled. But even the most infinite patience has its limits. Nine years. Nine long years since Aemon fell. Time enough for a boy to become a man. Time enough for a wound to heal poorly, festering into poison within the soul.
He sensed—more than heard—the approach of his sister before she placed a soft hand upon his arm. Gael had come silently, as she always did, a ghostly apparition of white and silver.
"They are afraid," she whispered, her voice a soft melody that contrasted with the tension in the air. Her own eyes, a gentler violet but no less piercing, swept over the pale faces of the onlookers.
"Fear is a useful instrument, sister," Aenar replied without turning. "Sharper than any Valyrian blade and more enduring than any oath. They fear what they do not understand. And I… I have become something incomprehensible to them."
"They fear the storm you will unleash," Gael corrected, her hand tightening lightly on his arm. "They fear what it will mean for the realm. For the fragile balance Father kept for so long."
Aenar finally turned to face her. He saw the concern etched into her delicate features. "The balance has already been broken, Gael. The moment they allowed my brother's killer to breathe the same air as us for nine years. All that remains is the correction of balance. And balance will be restored with fire."
His voice was calm, but every word carried the weight of a death sentence. Gael seemed to shrink slightly, but she did not retreat. She was perhaps the only person in the keep, besides perhaps Daemon, who did not fully cower before him.
"Be careful, Aenar," she whispered, her gaze pleading. "The fire that consumes the enemy may also burn the one who kindles it."
He gently caressed her face, a rare gesture of affection. "I am not made of such flammable matter, dear sister. I am the fire."
At that moment, a group of young squires, driven by youthful curiosity stronger than common sense, ventured closer to the center of the courtyard. Their eyes shone with excitement at witnessing the departure of the dragons. But when Aenar's gaze—those violet eyes with slit pupils that seemed to see through flesh and directly into the soul—fell upon them, the boys recoiled. Instantly, physically, instinctively, as if an invisible fire had licked their skin. One of them, a lad of perhaps fourteen years with straw-colored hair, stumbled and fell backward onto the stone floor, his face a mask of pure terror.
It was not fear of the prince, of his title, of his position. It was something primal, animal. Those eyes were not human. They seemed to read every shameful thought, every dark secret, every hidden weakness, as though they were words written on illuminated parchment. Grown men, lords hardened by battles against Dornish hosts or Ironborn rebels, bowed their heads before that youth of twenty years. He was the incarnation of a power Westeros had not witnessed since the days of Aegon the Conqueror.
As he watched the squires scatter in disgrace, a memory, vivid and heavy as amber, flooded Aenar's mind. The smell of the courtyard—of warm stone, horses, and sea—dissolved, replaced by the rich aromas of a grand feast…
---
Flashback – 96 A.C., The Great Hall of the Red Keep
The air in the Great Hall was hot and heavy, thick with the sweet scent of Arbor summerwine, the rich aroma of boar roasted with honey and rosemary, and the heavy perfume of exotic flowers already beginning to wilt in the great arrangements on the tables. Hundreds of candles flickered in golden chandeliers, casting dancing shadows across the tapestries that told the glories of the Conquest. It was the feast in honor of Aenar's fifteenth name day, a sumptuous event that gathered the cream of the Seven Kingdoms. Lords from Winterfell to Lannisport drank and laughed, their voices creating a constant roar that echoed against the high ceilings.
But for Aenar, seated at the high table beside his parents and siblings, everything felt distant, as if he watched the scene from behind thick glass. The bards' music—songs of valor and love—sounded faint and meaningless. His senses, sharpened in a way even he did not fully understand, caught every nuance: the sound of wine being poured, the whisper of silks, the scent of anxiety hidden beneath costly perfumes. His eyes, already carrying that supernatural depth which so disturbed the court, swept across the royal table.
His father, King Jaehaerys, still imposing but with hair now more silver than gold, conversed with Queen Alysanne, whose once-radiant beauty was now overshadowed by a permanent shadow of sorrow. His elder brother, Baelon, laughed at a jest told by a Riverlands lord. But it was to the group of youths further down that his gaze turned.
There was Daemon, his nephew, also fifteen. The young prince was a whirlwind of silver energy, his open, arrogant face lit by a sharp smile. At that very moment, he was being scolded by his father, Prince Baelon the Brave, who had pulled him aside after apologizing to the Riverlands lords. Baelon gripped Daemon's shoulder with a force born of both irritation and affection.
"—tearing down Lady Redwyne's chamber curtains, Daemon? For the love of the gods, what were you thinking?" Baelon said, his voice a mix of exasperation and stifled amusement. "The poor lady nearly had a fit of apoplexy!"
Daemon, far from remorseful, flashed a stubborn grin that barely concealed a glimmer of pride. "They were ugly, Father. A horrible, bloody red. A dragon improves any room, even if only through the chaos he causes. Besides, she turns a far prettier shade of pink when furious. Matches the décor better."
Baelon shook his head, but a gleam of affection and understanding flickered in his eyes. In his son he saw the same untamable spirit that lived in his younger brother, Aenar, but manifested in a more earthly, impulsive way. "A whirlwind," Baelon muttered, more to himself than to the boy. "Just like your uncle Aenar, but different. One day all that energy will carry you far, son. I only hope it is for our House's glory, not its ruin." He released Daemon, who quickly blended back among the other youths like a silver shadow, his gaze meeting Aenar's for an instant across the crowded hall. There was no fear in that look, but an intense curiosity, almost a kinship of spirits that transcended age.
Then Aenar's eyes fixed on Viserys, his nineteen-year-old nephew. While Daemon burned with open, unrestrained fire, Viserys seemed to wither in his own shadow. Seated slightly apart from the main group of youths, he feigned interest in a cup of wine, but his shoulders were tense and his pale-blue eyes wandered unfocused. Even then, he shrank whenever his younger uncle's strange gaze fell upon him. Viserys was one of the few who seemed to sense, from the start, the true nature of the change in Aenar. He did not see an uncle; he saw a living oracle, a judge whose verdict he dreaded, and that terrified him more than any dragon's fury.
Determined, Aenar rose. His simple action caused the conversation around the high table to falter. He moved with a fluid grace that was almost disconcerting, his dark robes flowing behind him like bat wings. His approach toward Viserys's group was like a stone cast into a still pond; conversation died instantly. The young lords, including a particularly shrewd Otto Hightower, whose green eyes were already calculating every move, stepped back, their smiles freezing. Aenar's gaze already carried the implacable weight that one day would dominate kingdoms.
"Viserys," Aenar said, his voice calm but as sharp as a fine Valyrian steel blade, carrying an authority that belied his age.
"U-Uncle Aenar," Viserys stammered, rising quickly and nearly toppling his chair. His eyes struggled to hold contact for a moment before darting nervously to the floor, as if seeking safety in the solid stone beneath his feet. "A grand feast, isn't it? The boar is particularly tasty this year."
Aenar ignored the trivial attempt at conversation. "The feast is lively, but your eyes are distant, nephew," he observed flatly. "They see the revelry, but your mind is elsewhere. What troubles you? The quality of the wine? The fleeting beauty of the ladies? Or something... heavier?"
Viserys flushed, his hands twisting unconsciously. "It's... it's nothing, uncle. Just the preparations for returning to Dragonstone in the coming days. Exhausting, you know? So many things to arrange." His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears.
Aenar studied him for a long moment, and Viserys seemed to wither further under that scrutiny, like a flower wilting under a harsh sun. "Lie," Aenar declared softly, yet the word struck like a blow. "What haunts you is not logistical fatigue. It is the echo of emptiness. The deafening silence where a roar should be. It is the weight of a name, of a legacy, that has yet to take wing. It is the shadow of a throne looming over you, but for which you have no ladder."
Viserys swallowed hard, his shame quickly turning into visible anguish. He felt naked before his uncle, every doubt, every fear, laid bare under the raw light of those strange eyes. "It's not so simple for everyone, uncle," he managed, his voice barely a whisper. "Not all of us are born with your... connection. The ease with which you move between the world of men and the world of dragons. For some of us, fire is only... hot. It is not a calling."
"Connection is no gift fallen from the heavens, Viserys," Aenar retorted, his voice gaining a low intensity that seemed to vibrate in the air between them. "It is courage. The courage to approach the fire and say 'I burn as well.' It is the choice to stop waiting for the flame to come to you and instead walk into the furnace, knowing you may be consumed, but betting you will emerge stronger. It is accepting that dragonblood is no privilege, but a pact. A pact that demands everything." He placed a firm hand upon his nephew's shoulder, a gesture more command than comfort. The hand was surprisingly strong, and Viserys felt a chill run down his spine. "Nineteen years of name is more than enough to stop waiting for courage to find you. It is time you went in search of it."
Aenar paused, his eyes boring into Viserys's. "Tomorrow, at dawn, we depart for Dragonstone. Not as prince and nephew, but as two members of the same House, before the same ancient gods of fire and blood. We will find what awaits you. What belongs to you."
The decision was no longer a suggestion. It was an irrevocable invitation, a challenge cast, a precipice from which Viserys could not turn back. He swallowed again, his face pale as moonlit marble. But under his uncle's piercing, almost hypnotic gaze, a faint thread of determination flickered in his eyes. It was weak, trembling, but real. He could not find words, but he nodded, a gesture of resigned acquiescence. The fear was still there, but now mixed with a spark of possibility.
The next morning, on Dragonstone, Aenar did not merely point out Sheepstealer from afar, like a hunter showing his prey. He led Viserys to a remote, isolated vale, where the air reeked of sulfur and the silence was broken only by the wind and the distant roar of the sea. While his nephew trembled with fear, his palms slick with sweat, Aenar closed his eyes. He did not pray; he focused. He extended his will—not as a command, but as an invitation—merging with the salty winds circling the island, with the pulsing heat of volcanic veins running beneath the black rock, with the very essence of the ancient magic that infused the place since the days of Valyria's Dragonlords. It was a sensation of expansion, of becoming greater than his body, of touching the threads of life binding all things. A silent call, impossible for any creature of dragonblood to ignore, echoed through the cliffs, a whisper in the world's very bloodstream.
Minutes dragged on. Viserys nearly jumped out of his skin when the massive brown form of Sheepstealer raised her head from behind a rock. The beast did not appear agitated or aggressive. Her amber eyes fixed on them, and she released a low growl more curious than threatening. Then, to Viserys's astonishment, she turned and began walking—slow, deliberate—toward them. Her body was robust, powerful, her scales the color of dry earth, a survivor, not a monster of fairy tales.
"Go," Aenar whispered, opening his eyes and turning to Viserys, his voice nearly carried off by the wind, yet imbued with absolute clarity. "The fear you feel is natural. It is the wisdom of the body, warning caution before the powerful. Surrender to fear, however, is not natural. It is a choice. He comes to you. It is a sign of respect. Extend your hand. Not to dominate, but to greet. Remember: he feels not only your fear, but your soul. Your will. Show him who you are. Show him you are also a child of fire."
The final image of that memory, burning in Aenar's mind as he stood once more in the courtyard of the Red Keep, was of Viserys, still trembling visibly, his face pale but his fists clenched, a new flicker of stubborn courage in his eyes. He took a firm, decisive step toward the approaching dragon, his slender frame fragile against the beast's muscular mass. It was the crucial moment, an ancestral pact about to be sealed not through force, but through the courage of a frightened heart.
---
End of Flashback – 101 A.C., Courtyard of the Red Keep
The sound that drew Aenar back to the present was no simple roar. It was a rending of the sky, a cry of fire and youthful fury echoing above King's Landing, scattering the few birds that dared fly near the fortress. He lifted his face, and there they were. Two specks against the morning blue, swiftly growing from dots into defined, terrifying shapes.
In the lead, mounted upon the slender and graceful Meleys, the Red Queen, whose scales glittered like rubies under the sun, was Rhaenys. Her posture in the saddle was upright and dignified, her face a mask of restrained determination, yet Aenar, with his sharpened perception, saw the tension in her jaw, the glimmer of pent-up emotion in her eyes. The princess who never was, denied her birthright for being a woman, now rode with a mission that transcended titles and succession: vengeance for her father, Aemon, a debt that had bled in her heart for nine long years and was finally to be paid.
At her side, flying in tight formation as if they were a single two-headed creature, came Daemon upon the sinuous, dangerous Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm. Caraxes's long, serpentine neck rippled through the air, his roars sharp and full of promised violence. In Daemon's eyes, even from afar, Aenar could see the blaze of wild anticipation, the hunger for action and blood that always defined him. A sharp smile played on the young prince's lips, a celebration of the destruction drawing near.
The two dragons circled once, majestically, over the Red Keep, their shadows sweeping across the courtyard like living sentences, plunging the area into brief moments of darkness. Aenar did not wave, did not make any gesture of farewell or encouragement. He merely kept his slit gaze fixed upon them, a silence that was at once a command, a blessing, and a transfer of authority. His eyes, which made men recoil, were now a beacon of unquestionable command for the dragons and their riders, an invisible bond uniting them in this mission of vengeance.
And then, with a final, mighty roar from Caraxes that seemed to make the city walls themselves tremble and echo all the way to the Sept of remembrance, the two winged beasts turned decisively eastward. Not southward, to resolve domestic disputes or quarrels among lords. This journey was greater, more personal, more fierce. It was across the Narrow Sea. It was about justice. It was about Myr.
Aenar remained in the courtyard, a statue of silver and conviction, watching until the creatures vanished over the horizon, becoming mere specks, then nothing. The message was on its way. It would be delivered not in words of diplomacy, but in the universal language of fire and blood.
But then, the air shifted. A sudden change in pressure, a darkness that rushed in. A vast shadow, deeper and wider than any storm cloud, suddenly engulfed the courtyard, plunging the area into a premature, unnatural twilight. The sun was eclipsed. Looking up, the few courtiers who dared saw Zekrom, Aenar's personal black beast. The creature was so colossal that the human mind struggled to comprehend its size. Its membranous wings, black as eternal night and cut against the sky, blocked the sunlight completely. It hovered in the heavens, a specter of absolute power, a silent and terrifying reminder of the doom approaching Myr. Its body was pure muscle and scales, and even from afar, one could feel the radiant heat emanating from it, like a gigantic furnace.
Before the stunned and terrified silence could break, another roar echoed. This time, it did not come from the skies, but from the depths of the fortress itself, rising through the light wells and dungeons. A deep, visceral, guttural roar that seemed to emanate from the very entrails of the world, a sound not heard in King's Landing for twenty years. It was a roar of ancestral power, of an age of conquest and terror, of something awakening from a long poisoned sleep. The sound made people crouch instinctively, covering their ears.
Part 2: The Rebirth of the Black Dread
The ancestral roar still vibrated in the stones when the doors of the Great Hall opened. A solemn procession emerged, led by King Jaehaerys, leaning on a staff. His once-imposing figure now seemed diminished, bent under the weight of years and sorrows. But it was the eyes of the Old King that struck the most – still sharp with keen intelligence, but shadowed by a pain that went beyond the physical.
Queen Alysanne walked at his side, and her appearance sent a collective sigh rippling through the courtyard. She had rarely left her chambers since Baelon's death. Dressed in plain gray, with no jewels, she looked like a shadow of her former beauty, but the dignity that had made her so beloved still radiated from her. Her steps were careful, yet firm.
When her eyes – so human and filled with infinite sorrow – met the slitted eyes of her youngest son, there was no fear in Alysanne's gaze. Instead, there was a deep sadness and a resigned understanding. She approached and, to everyone's surprise, leaned forward slightly, placing a cold and fragile hand on Aenar's face.
"My son," she whispered, her voice a thread of sound carrying the weight of countless griefs. "May the justice of your fire be swift. And may it bring peace to your brother's spirit."
Aenar inclined his head, absorbing the strength of that silent blessing. For the first time since he had embraced his relentless resolve, his expression softened slightly.
"He will be avenged, Mother," Aenar promised, his voice gentler than it had been minutes before. "This is not just politics. It is a promise of blood."
He then turned to the gathered court, his voice rising, clear and sharp as Valyrian steel, shedding all momentary softness. "Prince Aemon Targaryen has not been forgotten! For nine years, his death has remained a stain upon the honor of our House. For nine years, Myr thought it could escape justice." His gaze swept across the pale faces of lords and ladies. "The blood of a dragon can only be answered by the blood of those who dared to spill it. Today, Myr will learn the true meaning of our words!"
As he spoke, a tremor began to shake the ground. It was not the heavy step of Zekrom, who still hovered above as a black specter. This sound came from below, from the very bowels of the fortress, rising through its stone foundations. A slow, powerful dragging, followed by the screech of ancient iron being forced beyond its limits. The eyes of the court turned in unison to the massive grated entrance of the Dragonpit. Fear was palpable, a metallic taste in the air.
Flashback – 96 A.C., the Caves of Dragonstone
After convincing Viserys to face Sheepstealer, Aenar ventured into the deepest and coldest parts of the caverns, where the air was thick with the smell of sulfur and something older, deeper. There, cloaked in near-absolute darkness, lay Balerion. The Black Dread was no longer the devastating force that had conquered Westeros. His once-mighty body had withered. The terrible wounds he had brought back from Valyria decades earlier had never fully healed; they were necrotic, pulsating sores that reeked of death and corrupted ancient magic. The great dragon could scarcely lift his head, his breathing a painful hiss.
Aenar approached, unafraid. He placed his hands upon the dry scales near the worst of the wounds. Closing his eyes, he channeled, for the first time, the fullness of his power not to dominate, but to heal. It was not a spell of words, but a flood of pure vital energy, a force that expelled corruption and rebuilt the creature's very essence. The process was slow and exhausting, lasting for hours. He returned to Dragonstone every year, always in secret, under the pretext of meditation. Each visit drained a portion of his own life force, but each visit also saw Balerion regain some of his vigor, the wounds closing slowly, replaced by black, gleaming scar tissue. It was a secret pact between them: the power of the last true Valyrian restoring the first great Targaryen conqueror.
End of Flashback – 101 A.C., Courtyard
With a final crash that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Red Keep, the massive gates of the Dragonpit were torn from their rusted hinges as if they were twigs. A cloud of dust and hot smoke burst outward from the opening. From the steaming darkness, a head emerged. A head unseen in its full glory for twenty years. Enormous, black as the deepest night, with horns curved like blades and eyes glowing like molten lava. Then came a muscular neck, followed by a body that seemed to fill the entire entrance, a mountain of muscle, scales, and raw power.
It was Balerion, the Black Dread. But not the dying beast all had believed. This was Balerion as he should be in the memory of the oldest men: colossal, imposing, an elemental force of nature. His roar, when it came, was not the feeble cry of a sick beast, but a thunderous bellow that echoed through all of King's Landing, a warning that the true power of House Targaryen had never been asleep – only waiting.
The air stilled. Even Zekrom, in the skies, let out a low growl – not of challenge, but of recognition of his predecessor.
Without a word, Aenar walked to the edge of the courtyard overlooking the Blackwater Bay's cliffs. He did not look back to his mother, his father, or the paralyzed court. Every witness, from queen to humble squire, watched in frozen awe as the prince reached the brink. Then, he simply hurled himself into the void of the sky.
He rose to heights nearly surpassing the towers of the Red Keep until gravity pulled him down again, but he did not fall.
Balerion moved with an agility that belied his size. The massive head surged beneath Aenar's plummet with supernatural precision, and the prince landed on the dragon's skull on his feet, as gracefully as a cat, without a single stumble. He stood tall, a black silhouette against Balerion's black form, his amethyst eyes blazing with an inner light that seemed to answer the red glow of the dragon's gaze.
The message was clearer than any speech: the new Prince of Dragonstone did not merely possess a winged nightmare to terrify Westeros. He now commanded the very symbol of Targaryen power, the reborn Black Dread, a living extension of his will and his magic.
With a single mental command that did not even need to be spoken, Balerion beat his monstrous wings. The gale was so powerful it forced everyone in the courtyard to crouch, raising dust and debris, ripping tapestries from the walls. The beast took flight with surprising grace, its shadow swallowing the fortress for a moment before it soared into the skies. Zekrom joined him, the two creatures forming an apocalyptic vision against the morning sky. They turned eastward, toward Essos, leaving behind a court struck dumb with awe and a kingdom on the verge of rethinking everything it knew about power.
---
Part 3: The Dance of Destruction over Myr
The journey over the dark waters of the Narrow Sea was a surreal experience, even for seasoned dragonriders like Rhaenys and Daemon. The night wrapped the trio of dragons and riders, with only the moon and stars as witnesses to their passage. The wind was a constant roar in their ears, but it was the silence between them that weighed the most.
Rhaenys, on Meleys, felt the familiar texture of the Red Queen's scales beneath her hands. But there was something different this night. Meleys, normally a powerful mount that demanded constant command, flew with an unusual determination, as if pulled by an invisible force. Rhaenys herself felt a strange clarity, an energy that seemed to flow through her, keeping her alert and focused despite the long hours of flight.
It's him, she thought, her eyes seeking the distant form of Aenar mounted on Balerion. Even at this distance, his power enveloped them. As if he were weaving a web of will around them.
Her thoughts turned to her father, Aemon. She remembered his smile, his lessons in governance, the pride in his eyes when she first tamed Meleys. The pain of loss, always present, became a burning ember in her chest. Myr would pay. They would pay for every interrupted dream, for every counsel unsaid, for every embrace lost.
On the other side, Daemon on Caraxes felt a completely different euphoria. For him, this was not a mission of mourning, but of liberation. Finally, action! Finally, fire and blood as destined for the Targaryens! Caraxes, ever restless, seemed to share his rider's excitement, releasing low and high-pitched roars that cut through the night wind.
The old men and their treaties, their cautious politics, Daemon thought with disdain. They let our House's honor rot for nine years. But Aenar… Aenar understands. The only language these Myrish merchants comprehend is that of strength.
He watched Aenar, a distant figure unmoving atop Balerion's head. What impressed him most was not the rebirth of the Black Dread, but his uncle's posture. Aenar was not seated in a saddle. He held on to nothing. He simply stood, then lay comfortably on the dragon's head, his body moving in perfect rhythm with every beat of those vast black wings, defying the cutting wind and gravity itself as if they were mere suggestions.
Of course the laws of the world don't apply to him, Daemon corrected his own first thought, a genuine smile of admiration rising to his lips. He doesn't break them. He simply ignores them, as we ignore ants on the ground.
At dawn, the profile of Essos' coast appeared on the horizon, and soon the Free City of Myr unfolded beneath them, its pale rooftops and walls stretching along the sea like a carpet of marble and arrogance. The city still slept, unaware of the fate approaching from the skies.
The plan had been laid in detail during the journey, with Aenar projecting instructions directly into their minds with terrifying clarity. It was time for the harvest of fire.
---
The Awakening of the Nightmare in Myr
In one of the watchtowers guarding the city's main gate, the Myrish guards watched the morning flow of merchants and peasants entering through the doors. The sky was strangely clear, but a low, continuous sound, like distant thunder, began to echo from the northwest.
"Do you hear that, Vorian?" asked a young soldier, adjusting his helm.
"What? The sea?" replied the other, yawning.
"No, it's like… thunder. But look at the sky. Not a cloud."
The question drew the attention of the other men in the tower. One of them, a scarred veteran, fell silent, listening intently. His eyes narrowed. Then, he looked toward the northwestern horizon and saw them. Four dots in the sky. Small at first, but growing at impossible speed.
"Captain!" he shouted, his voice heavy with sudden panic. "Captain, come see this!"
The captain of the guard, a seasoned man named Malakho, grabbed his spyglass—an ornate Myrish "distant eye" with the finest glass lenses. He focused on the dots, steadying his hand on the stone parapet. For a moment, his mind refused to comprehend what he saw. They were too large to be birds. Far too large. Then the outline of massive wings and scaled bodies became undeniable. His face lost all color, turning pale as a ghost. The spyglass slipped from his trembling hands and shattered on the stone floor.
"Dragons!" he cried, his voice breaking in terror. "To the bells! Ring the bells! All the bells!"
He stumbled toward the great alarm bell. Panic spread instantly through the waking city like a plague. The desperate metallic sound of the bell echoed over the screams of the population, who began to scatter aimlessly, like ants whose mound had been shattered.
---
Fire, Lightning, and Blood: The Attack
High above, even with the distance and the roaring wind, Aenar's calm and clear voice reached the ears of his niece and nephew like an intimate whisper, planted directly into their minds.
— Remember the plan. Rhaenys, the glassworks. Daemon, the merchants' heart. Spare nothing that breathes in those places. Aemon's honor will be washed clean today.
Zekrom, Aenar's black beast, struck first. Diving from the sky at great speed, he slowed abruptly, hovering above the main gate. Instead of the usual draconic fire, the air around his maw shimmered with static energy. The guards' hair stood on end. With a roar that shook the foundations of the walls, a pure, searing bolt of lightning—thicker than a bull's torso and glowing an eerie, blinding green—burst from his jaws. The impact on the iron-bound gates was catastrophic, not burning them but disintegrating them into a storm of smoldering shards and molten metal in an instant. Zekrom then swept his head left and right, his lightning beam cutting through the walls like a divine blade, obliterating heavy scorpions and the men who manned them in flashes of light and ash.
That was the signal. Daemon and Rhaenys split apart, diving toward their targets like hunting falcons.
Daemon and Caraxes shot toward the commercial district, where the Merchants' Square and the opulent guild halls that had funded the pirates stood. "Fire and blood!" Daemon cried, his voice a mix of fury and ecstasy, echoing with Caraxes' roar. The blood-red dragon spewed torrents of blazing, molten fire onto treasure warehouses and the marble halls of guilty magisters. These flames were no ordinary fire; they burned hotter, higher, fueled by Daemon's wrath, consuming even stone. He flew low, watching panicked figures scatter, feeling deep satisfaction at each new blaze he ignited.
Rhaenys and Meleys, the Red Queen, arched gracefully but lethally toward Myr's famed glassmaking districts. The furnaces, world-renowned, were her target. "For you, Father," Rhaenys whispered, her tears drying instantly in the hot wind. The Red Queen's flames were precise, merciless. She spared neither furnaces nor the workshops of legendary lensmakers and glass artisans. Melted glass flowed through the streets like rivers of light, and the sound of exploding kilns formed a symphony of destruction. She reduced the city's technological heart to ashes, a wound from which Myr would not recover for generations.
---
The Plague Knight's Personal Vengeance
Meanwhile, Aenar, atop Balerion, watched it all from his high vantage. The red trails of Caraxes and Meleys were like sparks across the unraveling urban tapestry. The city was engulfed in smoke and screams. He summoned Zekrom back with a thought. Together, Balerion and Zekrom became the final storm. Flying low, they tore through the opulent mansions of the magisters in the noble districts. Balerion's black fire was unlike Meleys'—older, denser, consuming all it touched with insatiable hunger. Zekrom's lightning, by contrast, was surgical, vaporizing towers and walls.
Then Aenar saw his main target: the grandest mansion, belonging to Drazenko, the magister who was the public link to the pirates. Without hesitation, Aenar leapt from Balerion's head into the palace.
He crashed through the marble roof, landing in the main hall with an impact that shattered the floor. There, Drazenko, his three wives, sons, and daughters clung together in terror, surrounded by their useless riches. Before the man could beg or bargain, Aenar, with a casual wave of his hand, as if swatting a fly, made every member of Drazenko's family explode into a wet, crimson mist. It was swift, clean, and horrifying—an act of such pure violence that time seemed to stop in the room.
Drazenko, drenched in blood and fragments that were not his own, screamed in horror, his mind refusing to grasp the instant annihilation of his kin. Aenar advanced. He seized the magister's face, his long, strong fingers clawing around his skull. The pressure began light, then grew inexorable.
"Who else?" Aenar asked, his voice a frozen whisper, as he plunged into the man's terrified mind.
Images, memories, gold transactions, secret meetings in brothels—all flowed like a filthy river. Then Aenar found it. Drazenko was no mere ambitious magister. There was a guiding hand, a signature of cruelty and cunning. A familiar figure. A shadow of his own House, exiled long ago. Saera. His sister. She had not given the order, but planted the seed, nurtured the resentment, shown the Myrish how to wound the Targaryens where it hurt most. She was the intellectual architect.
Rage surged in Aenar, so intense the remaining windows cracked. He could end the conspiracy at its root now. Hunt her down, destroy her. But the image of his mother, Alysanne, surfaced—not as queen, but as mother, holding a blurred portrait of Saera with stubborn love and sorrow. She still wept for that daughter in secret. And his father… his father, however much he despised her shame, would see the murder of a blood kin—even a traitor—as a step beyond the abyss. It would shatter Alysanne's fragile heart and stain his reign before it began.
"Unfortunately for my wrath," Aenar whispered, squeezing Drazenko's skull harder until bones cracked, "I find you're only a puppet. The true serpent… slithers in a garden I cannot tread—for now." Resignation mingled with cold fury, promising a reckoning yet to come. He shrugged, his face terrible. "Patience. If I possess anything, it is time."
The sound of Drazenko's skull crunching under his hand echoed in the ruined hall. Life faded from the magister's eyes. At that moment, his personal guards burst into the room, armed with spears and swords, finding only carnage.
"Monster!" cried the captain, his voice trembling.
Aenar didn't even turn. As the captain began to shout a challenge, Aenar, his frustration over Saera boiling over, simply punched the air in his direction. No physical contact—just a wave of raw, invisible force. The blast not only pulverized the guards but ripped away the mansion's front wall and part of its floor, clearing his view of the burning city.
The sight of utter destruction—three dragons painting the sky with fire and smoke, the distant screams, the stench of ash and death—put him in good humor. Justice had been served, though incomplete. With a leap that defied possibility, he was caught midair by Balerion, passing beneath with perfect timing. Aenar returned to his seat upon the dragon's skull, resuming his watch over Myr's judgment, now carrying a bitter knowledge in his heart. The ghost of a sister had, unexpectedly, become his greatest enemy, and his vengeance would have to wait.
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Epilogue: The Echo of Terror
In the weeks that followed, ravens flew from King's Landing to every corner of Westeros, but words were insufficient to describe what had been witnessed. In Casterly Rock, Lord Tymond Lannister heard the maester's account and, for the first time in years, felt a chill not born of winter. "He is not a man," he whispered to his son, "he is a force of nature. And we are in his debt."
In Highgarden, Lord Lyonel Tyrell burned the parchment after reading it, as though the words themselves carried plague. "How do we face one who commands the Black Dread itself? How do we harvest roses beneath the shadow of such a dragon?"
And in Winterfell, the Old Wolf, Lord Stark, gazed south after hearing the news and told his gathered children in the Great Hall: "Winter is coming, yes. But now, the dragons of the south have truly awoken. And the most dangerous of them is not a winged beast. It is a man who commands them. Prepare yourselves. The realm will never be the same."
The fear of Aenar Targaryen, already considerable, transformed into something akin to religious dread. The Plague Knight was not merely a healer or warrior. He was an architect of destinies, a judge who read souls, an executioner commanding the greatest winged horrors in the world. And he had just reminded Essos—and Westeros—of the true price of Targaryen blood.
Vengeance for Aemon was complete, but the flames of Myr ignited a new kind of fear. Aenar's spectacle of power planted seeds that would grow in the ambitious and fearful hearts of all the Seven Kingdoms. The game of thrones had changed forever.
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Hello there, this would be the first part of chapter 6, but as you can see, it would be very long, so the ideas for chapter 6 will be divided between this and the next chapter. What did you think of this chapter? Tell me, I almost melted my brain trying to create the chapter the way I wanted, but as always, I'm open to suggestions on how I can improve. Until the next chapter, which if I don't go out drinking, will be tonight. 😅😅😅😅🫣🫣