Okay, let's go to the usual warnings, this chapter has a lemon scene, so be warned. I think that's all the warning 🤔🤔 and such a good read.
The air within the Dragonstone fortress was thick and heavy, saturated with the ancient scent of sulfur and sea salt that permeated every crack of the millennia-old structure. For Aenar Targaryen, every breath was a return to his origins, a reconnection with the legacy of fire and blood that ran in his veins. On the eve of his wedding, the walls of volcanic rock seemed to whisper tales of past conquests—of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, who had set forth from there to forge a unified kingdom. And he, a giant of seven feet [2.15 meters], whose mere presence inspired reverence and fear, was the living heir to that legacy.
In his private quarters, a spacious chamber illuminated by torches that cast dancing shadows on the black walls, Aenar stood as still as a statue carved from marble and steel. The servants moved with the silent reverence of those serving a force of nature, adjusting the folds of his wedding garments. These did not follow the elaborate customs of King's Landing, but the austere style of ancient Valyria: a tunic of silk black as a moonless night, over which an overcoat of blood-red velvet rested on his imposing shoulders, fastened by a gold brooch in the shape of the three-headed dragon. The colors were a tribute to his dragons—Zekrom the Cannibal, the living nightmare with scales of pure black and eyes of vivid fire-green, and Balerion the Black Dread, whose healing had now restored him to his prime, serving not only as his mount and friend but also as a symbol of House Targaryen's power. That night, both beasts rested on the slopes of the volcano, their monumental forms visible in the distance through the open windows, like guardians of the approaching ritual.
In a corner of the room, his nephews watched the scene with contrasting expressions. Viserys, the heir apparent after Aenar, dressed in fine courtly clothes, struggled to maintain an appearance of serene dignity, but his wide eyes betrayed a deeply rooted admiration mixed with fear. Beside him, Daemon, with his permanently treacherous smile, watched with a mixture of defiance and respect—he, who prided himself on his own ferocity, could not deny the primordial magnitude emanating from his uncle.
"The realm has never seen a monarch with your... physical presence, uncle," commented Viserys, his voice slightly higher-pitched than he intended. "The lords will certainly bow, but will it be out of genuine loyalty or pure intimidation?"
Aenar turned his head slowly, his purple eyes—of a purple so deep it seemed to contain entire constellations—fixing on his nephew. "Fear can secure initial obedience, Viserys," his voice resonated like a deep bass that seemed to vibrate in the very stones of the room, "but only respect earned through just actions and unquestionable strength builds the loyalty that survives winters. A king is judged by the application of his power, not by his physical measurements." He paused, an almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "However, I agree that the visibility from the throne will, without a doubt, be undeniable."
As the attendants adjusted his dragon-leather belt studded with rubies, Aenar's mind traveled beyond the black walls of the fortress. He revisited the long months of journeying through the Seven Kingdoms alongside Gael, his future wife. He remembered the vast green plains of the Reach, where honor was cultivated with the same care as the harvests, and the lords looked upon their swords and lineages with pride bordering on arrogance. He relived the cold, cutting air of the Mountains of the Vale, where customs were as rigid as granite and loyalty was granted sparingly, demanding to be earned. He felt again the bustling energy of Lannisport, where the clinking of gold was the predominant music and ambition hung in the air like an expensive perfume. Each region, each castle, each whisper of wind had brought a new lesson—understanding the intricate mosaic of cultures, fears, and ambitions that made up Westeros was not a mere exercise of royal duty, but the essential foundation upon which solid rule would be built. A king who knew only the corridors of the Red Keep ruled over a painted map, not over a people of flesh and blood.
The wedding ceremony, as was appropriate, would not be blessed by Septons and their gods of stone. It would be a Valyrian ritual, held under the starry cloak of night and by the light of a bonfire burning with the fury of a dragon. When the time came, the court gathered in the outer courtyard before a colossal pyre whose flames danced towards the sky, casting shadows that writhed like ancient creatures. Aenar waited, a motionless, dark silhouette against the fiery backdrop. Then Gael appeared.
She was the perfect antithesis of his darkness and solidity—dressed in a flowing robe of silvery-white silk so fine it seemed woven from moonlight, a tribute to Reshiram, the dragon which her beloved brother had helped unite them with and which had become her dearest companion, now resting on the volcanic slopes. Her long silver hair fell like a cascade over her shoulders, and her face, usually marked by a delicate shyness, radiated a serene determination. There was no sacred music nor long prayers to the Seven, only the hypnotic crackle of the flames and the expectant silence of the gathered nobility. The vows were exchanged in High Valyrian, the ancestral language that whispered of fire and blood, of bonds forged in the heat of conquest and more durable than Valyrian steel. When Aenar carefully placed the heavy black cloak, embroidered with the three-headed dragon, over Gael's delicate shoulders, the act transcended the symbolic—it was the public fusion of their destinies. The feast that followed was a loud celebration overflowing with wine, but for Aenar and Gael, every laugh and toast was merely background noise, a mere prelude to the true union that awaited them.
When the time for the consummation finally arrived, in the couple's private chambers now lit by the amber light of dozens of aromatic candles, the physical disparity between them transformed not into an abyss, but into a bridge of intense attraction. Aenar, with a movement that demonstrated intimacy forged in years of love, lifted Gael into his arms. His single forearm, a dense mass of tendons under pale skin, formed a perfect support for her body. She was the realm's most precious jewel, and he, the dragon that guarded her. In that sanctuary, all courtly masks dissolved.
Here, the timid sweetness Gael displayed in public melted under the heat of Aenar's gaze. Her eyes, usually downcast, now stared at him boldly. "My gentle maiden," whispered Aenar, his lips tracing her neck. "Your lewd dragon," she retorted, pulling him with a strength that belied her fragile appearance. This was the Gael only he knew: ardent, fearless, as hungry for him as he was for her.
Over the years, he had explored and claimed every inch of her being with the devotion of an explorer, and she, far from being a passive conquest, received every touch, every kiss, every bite, not as an invasion, but as a return to a sacred and deeply known territory.
When he carried her to the great canopy bed, the supposed fragility of her body hid a truth that was the core of their bond. Before laying her on the bed, Aenar snapped his fingers. The clothes of both vanished. Gael smiled, accustomed to his everyday magic. Aenar paused for a moment to observe the masterpiece before him, while Gael provocatively opened her legs to entice him. As he positioned himself over her, his imposing form looming like a living mountain, blocking the candlelight, she opened for him. It was not an act of submission, but a movement of invitation, an eager, moist gasp from one who recognized the fundamental piece missing to feel complete. The penetration, when it finally occurred, was an event of profound and triumphant familiarity. His member, of dimensions bordering on the mythical—[nine inches in length and impressive thickness]—met no resistance or hesitation. Instead, it was received by a moist, warm, and vibrant internal embrace, a channel that seemed to have been molded by nature itself, or by a higher force, specifically to accommodate it in its entirety, to receive every centimeter of his essence.
There was not a single moan of pain, only a deep, guttural sound laden with pleasure that escaped Gael's lips, a sound that was at once total surrender and personal victory. Her body enveloped him with a perfection that went beyond the physical, as if after a myriad of passionate encounters, her very flesh had memorized his unique form, shaping itself in response. She received him with a pleasure that only the repetition of thousands of nights of love can generate, an instinctive and powerful movement of her hips that pulled him deeper inside, as if wishing to merge them into a single entity, inextricably linked.
And then, the true ritual—the wedding gift Aenar had conceived—began. He stopped, remaining motionless at the deepest peak of their union. He closed his eyes, not in ecstasy, but in deep concentration, directing his will inward and into her. And then, he felt it. The inner walls of Gael, which already embraced him with a warm heat, began to move. They were not involuntary contractions or spasms of pleasure, but a rhythmic, powerful, and deliberate massage, a miraculous muscular dance that enveloped and squeezed the entire length of his member in a complex, ancient pattern. It was a sensation so intensely focused, so intimately connected to his own being, that it drove him to the apex inexorably and almost instantly, not as a defeat, but as the conclusion of a first stage.
His release was not a chaotic, finite explosion. It was a constant, fluid, and seemingly endless tide of his seed, carrying not only his physical essence but also a spark of the very power that burned in his veins. It was as if a river of primordial vital energy was transferred to her, a flood that, even after releasing a volume that defied biological logic, did not overflow. Everything was absorbed, consumed eagerly by that welcoming womb, as if disappearing into a perfect alchemical vessel, feeding a profound and radical transformation at the very core of her being.
Both were swept away by a trance that did not belong to the common world. The room, the candles, the sound of the sea outside—everything dissolved into a void of pure sensation. It was not sleep, but a state of shared ecstasy where their spirits detached from the bonds of flesh and intertwined, as fused as their physical bodies. The entire night passed in that vibrant, pulsating silence, a ritual of union that forged something new and powerful in the crucible of the deepest and most mystical pleasure.
At dawn, when the first rays of silvery light filtered through the cracks, Aenar was still inside her. His consciousness returned to his body slowly, and his hyper-enhanced senses were already cataloging the alterations before his mind was fully awake. Her breathing was slower, deeper, like that of a predator at rest. The heat radiating from her skin was several degrees higher, a dry, enveloping warmth reminiscent of the proximity of a furnace. But it was when Gael's eyelids opened that the very air seemed to halt in his lungs.
Her eyes were no longer the soft, human lilac eyes he had loved all his life. They had transformed into gleaming amethysts, slashed by vertical pupils black as night. They were the eyes of a beast, predatory and ancient. They were the same eyes he had only seen in two places: in the reptilian pupils of the dragons his family rode, and in his own reflection that stared back at him from mirrors every day. The Mark of the Dragon had been transferred.
In that instant, a primal desire, overwhelming and completely beyond rational thought, hung in the air between them, as thick and tangible as the scent of sulfur. There were no words, no preliminary caresses. A low, visceral growl escaped Aenar's throat, a direct response to the mating instinct those eyes aroused. And in Gael's gaze, he saw the same fierce hunger, an equally wild response. The gentle ceremony of union had ended; now began the raw fury of the dragon's mating.
What followed was a storm of flesh, sweat, and pure passion. Aenar penetrated her with all his monstrous strength, each thrust an affirmation of possession and desire. And Gael, now endowed with a physical strength that rivaled that of the realm's greatest warriors, met each of his movements with equal power, her hips moving with a force and rhythm that mirrored his. The great bed of solid oak, meant to withstand generations, groaned, cracked, and protested under the violence of their encounter. The bed slats threatened to give way, and had it not been for the intricate spells of silence and privacy Aenar had instinctively woven around the room at the peak of the ritual, the sound of their impacting bodies, the creaks of the nearly breaking wood, and the hoarse, guttural cries of pleasure they both released would have echoed throughout all of Dragonstone like profane thunder, an announcement of the birth of a new era of power.
Hours later, when the morning light clearly illuminated the room, the storm finally passed. For the first time in his conscious life, Aenar felt a distinct spark of physical tiredness. A fine veil of sweat covered his skin, and his muscles, normally tireless, felt heavy and satisfied. Gael lay upon his broad chest, her body relaxed and her breathing still labored. Their scent was a mixture of sex, sweat, and something new—a metallic, hot odor, like that of a lightning bolt that has just struck.
As his hand stroked her silver hair, now disheveled and damp, Aenar mentally cataloged the changes with the precision of a strategist. Her physical strength was unquestionable, reaching levels perhaps only surpassed by himself in the realm. But, as he had suspected, she had not inherited his vast and subtle arcane magic, his ability to heal or destroy with a thought. Instead, she possessed a more fundamental, more draconian gift: the power to create fire. Not to control it with the finesse of a pyromancer, shaping it into complex forms, but the primal ability to generate and expel jets of pure flame, to spit fire like one of the winged beasts that were the symbol of their house.
A noise escaped his throat, starting as a deep sigh and evolving into a low, rough, and genuinely amused laugh.
Gael lifted her head, her new dragon eyes—which now seemed perfectly natural on her face—narrowing into even finer slits. A low laugh escaped her.
"What are you laughing at,my love?" asked Gael, her reptilian eyes narrowing.
"I imagine the High Septon if my queen,in a fit of annoyance, spat fire from her mouth to light the hall's candles during a council."
She gave a light slap on his chest."Aenar! What an inauspicious thought. Besides," she added, with false sternness, "I would choose carefully what to set ablaze."
The heir to the Iron Throne laughed, the sound echoing in the devastated room. The future was uncertain, but with his dragon queen in his arms, Aenar felt ready.
Interlude: The Awakening of Fire (105 AC)
The weeks following the wedding at Dragonstone brought not only a new royal couple, but a new reality for Westeros. News of Gael Targaryen's transformation spread through the court like wildfire. The gentle princess, whose fragility had often been met with affectionate concern, now carried herself with a presence that silenced the halls.
The lilac eyes of House Targaryen she once bore now possessed vertical, reptilian pupils, identical to her husband's. But it was the subtle incidents—the whispers—that solidified the legend. During one audience, a drunken lord addressed her with improper familiarity. Before the guards could move, Gael's fingers, resting on the table, erupted in bluish flames that did not burn the wood, but radiated a heat so intense the air itself shimmered. The lord recoiled, choking on his words in terror. She did not utter a single syllable, only closed her fist, extinguishing the fire.
The meaning was deeper than anyone could imagine. Aenar Targaryen, the Dragonborn, was not a singular aberration. His power was not merely a personal force—it was a legacy that could be bestowed. The ritual of union had forged not only a couple, but a new lineage. The game of thrones, once fought with gold, armies, and intrigue, now had an unthinkable variable: blood itself could be elevated into a superior form.
Daemon watched his aunt with a new light in his eyes—not desire, but pure ambition. If Aenar could do this for a sister, what could he do for a loyal nephew? Corlys Velaryon, ever pragmatic, saw the geopolitical implications instantly: no kingdom, however mighty, could hope to challenge a dynasty of demigods. Whispers reached even the Citadel, where maesters exchanged urgent letters on the nature of this "gift" and its dangers.
Aenar observed everything in quiet interest. Gael's transformation confirmed his boldest suspicion. He was not merely the heir to the Iron Throne; he was the architect of a new kind of power. Meanwhile, Gael embraced her new nature with surprising serenity. The strength that flowed in her veins did not frighten her—it was the confirmation that she and Aenar were, at last, truly one.
Part 2: The King's Last Whisper
Five years had passed since the wedding night at Dragonstone. The realm was still adjusting to the absence of the Good Queen Alysanne, whose passing had left a void that no royal protocol could fill. In the Red Keep, within the monarch's private chambers, the air was heavy with the scent of medicinal herbs and the silent ghost of the lost queen.
Aenar Targaryen entered the chamber with the discretion his imposing stature allowed. His purple eyes instantly adapted to the gloom, capturing every detail of the scene unfolding before him. Jaehaerys the Conciliator, once a man whose presence filled entire halls, lay diminished under heavy blankets. His face, marked by countless lines of wisdom and suffering, seemed like a pale mask. Only the gentle movement of his chest betrayed that life had not completely abandoned him yet.
"Father," said Aenar, his voice a soft bass that echoed in the silent chamber.
The Old King's eyes opened slowly. "Aenar," whispered Jaehaerys, his parched lips curling into a faint smile. "Your mother... she waits for me." The reference to Alysanne hung in the air like a thick mist. The loss was still too recent, an open wound for both of them.
Aenar knelt beside the bed, a gesture that made him seem less a giant and more a son. His hands, capable of bending steel, gently enveloped his father's wrinkled one. Through the touch, he felt the flow of Jaehaerys's life—a tenuous thread, about to snap.
"The realm is at peace, father," said Aenar. "Your work endures."
Jaehaerys made an effort to adjust himself on the pillows. "Peace is a fragile illusion, my son. It demands constant vigilance." His gaze lost focus. "There is something you need to know... something your mother took to her grave, but that I must pass on to you."
Aenar remained silent, though internally he knew what was coming. In his mind, echoes of a past life as a reader resurfaced—memories of books and narratives that spoke of an ancient prophecy. He already knew the secret, but he would allow the king to reveal it.
"Since the Conquest," Jaehaerys continued, his voice gaining a surprising intensity, "our house has guarded a secret. Aegon did not conquer Westeros out of pure ambition. He did it because of a dream... a vision."
The Old King stared at his son. "The Song of Ice and Fire. Aegon dreamed of a darkness coming from the North, an ancient threat. He knew that only a unified kingdom, under the command of our house, could face it."
Aenar listened with a neutral expression, hiding his skepticism. Deep down, he saw the prophecy as a later justification, a tale woven to adorn a conquest driven by ambition. But he did not let his disbelief show—it was the last wish of a dying king, and he would respect it as a son.
"It is a heavy weight," said Aenar, choosing his words carefully. "But it is a weight I will carry."
Jaehaerys seemed relieved, interpreting the response as acceptance. "You are different from all of us, my son. Your power... is a gift. Use it to protect the realm. Remember: the dragon is a guardian."
Aenar inclined his head in silent assent. He did not believe his father's words, but he would honor his request out of family loyalty. "I will heed your counsel, father. Always."
Jaehaerys relaxed into the pillows, his moment of clarity passing. "Alysanne... she waits for me," he repeated, his eyes glazing over. "Tell her... that I love her..."
It was the last coherent thing the Old King said. His body, once the backbone of Westeros, finally yielded to age and longing. Aenar remained by his side, on his knees, until the breathing ceased completely. The shadow of the Stranger, which he had felt so strongly, dissipated, taking an era with it.
When Aenar rose, his expression was impenetrable. He knew the weight of the crown now rested upon his head—not as a divine revelation, but as a pragmatic responsibility. The Conciliator had departed to reunite with his queen, and the Dragon would assume the throne.
The news of Jaehaerys's death spread through the Red Keep. Preparations for the coronation would begin immediately, but in that moment, Aenar allowed himself only to stand before his father's body, a solitary giant in the gloom, pondering the future that now belonged entirely to him.
The prophecy of the Song of Ice and Fire echoed in his mind like a distant echo. He rejected it at its core, but understood its symbolic value. And, in the silence of the death chamber, Aenar Targaryen swore to himself that he would shape the destiny of the kingdom with his own hands—not because of an ancestral dream, but because it was his right, his duty, and his will.
The reign of Aenar the Dragon was about to begin.
Part 3: The Steel Crown
Chapter 7: Blood and Promise – Part 3 (Coronation)
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was so profoundly silent one could hear the crackling of the torches on the walls. The fading evening light filtered through the high stained-glass windows, painting the stone floor with patches of ruby and gold, as if the hall itself bled light under the omens of twilight. All the great lords of Westeros were present, their finest velvets and silks forming a mosaic of colors beneath the immense three-headed dragon carved into the ceiling. The air was charged with the weight of history about to be written.
Aenar Targaryen advanced down the central aisle alone. He wore polished black armor, free of insignias or ornaments, over which a heavy cloak of blood-red velvet dragged on the floor. His steps, though firm, made no echo—a supernatural silence that made those present hold their breath. His imposing height made him seem like a walking tower, a figure straight out of the legends of Old Valyria. His purple eyes, with their vertical pupils, scanned the assembly without blinking, assessing every face with the intensity of a dragon watching its territory.
Before the Iron Throne, a monstrous construction of twisted blades forged in Balerion's fire, stood the pillars of his new reign. On one side, his sister, Princess Maegelle, wore the simple white robes of a septa. Her face, marked by a serenity earned through years of serving the sick and needy, was a beacon of peace amid the tension in the hall. In her hands, she held the Conqueror's Crown—a simple circle of Valyrian steel studded with rubies that shone like drops of coagulated blood. Her presence there was deeply symbolic: the Faith of the Seven, the spiritual backbone of the realm, would give its blessing to the new power ascending.
On the other side stood Gael Targaryen. Her transformation was palpable. She wore a robe of silvery-white silk that seemed woven from moonlight, but it was in her eyes—the same lilac of House Targaryen, but now with vertical, reptilian pupils identical to her husband's—that her new authority resided. In her arms, she carried a longsword resting in a scabbard of black dragon leather. The air around her seemed to shimmer slightly, as if an invisible furnace burned beneath her skin.
Aenar stopped before the throne, his imposing presence making the assembly seem smaller. Protocol demanded that he kneel. He remained standing.
It was Gael who moved first. With a grace that was both human and predatory, she drew the sword. The blade hissed as it left the scabbard, and a murmur of admiration and fear ran through the hall. It was Blackfyre, the legendary Valyrian steel blade of Aegon the Conqueror. Its metal was dark as night, with wavy veins resembling frozen blood. On the pommel, a ruby the size of a pigeon's egg pulsed with a soft inner light.
"For the King," said Gael, her voice clear and firm, without a trace of her former shyness. She extended the sword horizontally, resting on the palms of her hands. "Not the sword of a conqueror who subjugates, but the blade of a guardian who protects. May it defend the realm as you defended my life and soul. May it be Blackfyre not as a symbol of dominion, but as a promise that the dragon is the shield of Westeros."
Aenar accepted the sword. The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, the ruby on the pommel shone with sudden intensity, flooding the immediate area with a warm red light that then subsided to a constant pulse. The blade seemed to whisper in tune with his own blood. It was a symbol infinitely more powerful than any crown—a weapon representing his role as protector, not merely as ruler.
Then, Maegelle stepped forward. Her steps were calm, her eyes full of solemn compassion. "By the grace of the Father, who judges justly," she began, her voice soft yet projecting to every corner of the vast hall, "by the mercy of the Mother, by the wisdom of the Crone, I crown you, Aenar Targaryen, the First of Your Name, King of the Andals, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."
She raised the Conqueror's Crown. Aenar finally inclined his head—a gesture of respect not to the crown, but to the sister who bore it. The circle of gold and rubies descended upon his head. The metal, which had crowned kings and caused madness, rested on his silver hair as if it had always belonged there.
Aenar rose to his full height, holding Blackfyre vertically before him, the tip of the blade resting on the stone floor.
"The iron of this crown is a symbol of the past," his voice echoed, dominating the hall effortlessly. "But the steel of Blackfyre is the promise of the future. The Conqueror forged a kingdom with fire and blood. We will protect it with the same ferocity. I will rule with the strength of the dragon, but the power of the crown will always be the power of the guardian."
He turned and sat upon the Iron Throne. The imposing posture of his body made the monstrous chair, which seemed to devour smaller men, curve around him like a shield. The sharp blades appeared to accept him, recognizing the same primordial power that had forged them.
The assembly, after a moment of stunned silence, erupted in acclamation. But it was not the organized cries of a traditional coronation—it was the chaotic sound of fear, admiration, and a submission born from genuine respect for a power that transcended politics.
As the lords approached to swear their oaths, Aenar felt the weight of the realm on his shoulders, balanced by the familiar weight of Blackfyre in his hand. He was no longer the heir, the prince, the Dragon. He was the King. And his first act would not be one of diplomacy, but of assertion.
Before the ceremony could end, he raised his free hand, silencing the hall once more.
"Lord Corlys Velaryon," his voice cut through the air.
The Lord of the Tides stepped forward, bowing deeply, his eyes fixed on the legendary sword that now belonged to a new kind of king.
"Your fleet is the sword of Westeros at sea," declared Aenar. "But swords rust without use. You have my permission and my order to expand your routes. To the east. To the far east. Bring me news of lands not even the maesters' maps show. Let Blackfyre be known not only for the defense of our shores, but for the courage of our front."
It was an order—not a request. A move that ignored internal disputes and focused on external threats. A move of a king who thought on continental scales.
Corlys raised his eyes, and in them Aenar saw not subservience, but the recognition of an equally ambitious mind and the confirmation that a new era was beginning.
"As Your Grace commands. The Velaryon Fleet will serve the Crown."
The coronation ended, but the reign of Aenar the Dragon had begun not with a sigh of relief, but with the sound of chains breaking and old alliances being remolded around a will of steel and fire. As night fell over King's Landing, Aenar remained on the throne, Blackfyre resting at his side, the pulse of the ruby echoing the beat of his own heart. The prophecy of the Song of Ice and Fire might be real or not—he would rule as if the fate of the entire world depended on his strength. Because now, unquestionably, it did.
Gael and Maegelle met at the foot of the throne, a living representation of the two pillars of his reign: the power of the dragon and the traditional faith, united under the blade of a guardian.
Interlude: The First Council
The Small Council chamber breathed with the silent weight of centuries of governance. The morning light filtered through the high windows, illuminating the chalk dust still hanging in the air – a vestige of recent adjustments to the room. The great oak table, a circle of power that had witnessed the decisions of Aegon, Jaehaerys, and now would receive a new king, had been polished to a shine like still water. In the center, the map of Westeros carved in wood seemed to await the pieces that would move its destinies.
The solid oak door opened without announcement. First entered Aenar Targaryen, filling the doorway not just with his height, but with a presence that altered the very pressure in the room. He wore black and red, his house colors, but in an austere cut that spoke more of function than ostentation. His purple eyes, with the vertical pupils that were already becoming legendary, scanned the empty room like a general assessing a battlefield before combat.
To his right, Gael entered in synchronized step. Her silver dress contrasted with the king's dark clothes, but her eyes – the same dragon eyes – affirmed her belonging to the same elevated blood. To the left, Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, his immaculate white armor gleaming. The old knight completed the triad of power that would now rule the Seven Kingdoms.
Aenar walked to the high chair at the head of the table but did not sit immediately. He remained standing, his hands resting on the backrest carved with intertwined dragons. Gael, with a naturalness that belied the revolution she represented, sat to the king's right – in a chair identical to the others, but which from that day forward would be permanently reserved for the Queen Consort. Ser Ryam positioned himself behind and to the left of the sovereign, as still as the Red Keep itself.
There was no time for contemplation. The door opened for the entrance of Grand Maester Mellos. The man in grey robes seemed to have aged a decade since Jaehaerys's death. His wide eyes landed first on Aenar, then on Gael, and an almost imperceptible tremor ran through his hands as he made a bow.
"Your Grace," said Mellos, his voice a hoarse whisper. "My queen." His place was to Aenar's left, where his stacks of parchment already awaited. The maester sat with the caution of one treading on thin ice.
Next, the door admitted Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin. The elderly lord of Honeyholt moved with the precision of a man who had spent his life counting coins. Two young assistants, carrying account books that seemed to weigh more than they did, followed him like shadows.
"The Royal Treasury greets its new king," Beesbury announced, his voice maintaining a surprising firmness for his advanced age. His intelligent eyes rested on Gael for a moment too long to be casual before fixing on the king. He sat next to Mellos, immediately immersed in his documents.
The most tense moment arrived with the entrance of Prince Viserys. The heir to Dragonstone, now Master of Laws, seemed uncomfortable in his new vestments of power. But it was the figure entering behind him that froze the air in the room. Otto Hightower, once the Hand of the King, the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms after Jaehaerys himself, now entered as a mere advisor to Viserys. He wore his house colors, but without the insignia of office. His face was a mask of perfect politeness, but his eyes – always his eyes – registered every detail: Gael's chair, Aenar's position, the silence that hung in the air.
"Uncle," greeted Viserys, his voice slightly tremulous.
"Prince Viserys," replied Aenar, with a nod that was both recognition and a demarcation of hierarchy. Otto Hightower was not greeted, nor did he expect to be. He positioned himself behind Viserys's chair, his hands clasped in front of him, the epitome of the loyal servant – if one forgot who he had been.
The next entry brought a breath of the North. Lord Theomore Manderly, Master of Ships, filled the room not only with his considerable physical volume but with the expansive energy of White Harbor. His laugh echoed off the stone walls before he even spoke.
"Your Grace!" his voice was like the sea he commanded – deep and full of hidden currents. "The seas are calm, and the Crown's ships await your orders." His eyes blinked quickly towards Gael, and an almost imperceptible smile touched his lips – perhaps the only genuine one in the room.
Finally, the door opened for the last entrant. Rhaenys Targaryen, now Hand of the King. She wore black and red, but on her chest, the emblem of the Hand studded with rubies shone like an affirmation. She walked to the head of the table with the dignity that had always characterized her, stopping to the right of Gael – the second most important seat at the table, reserved for the Hand of the King... or, in this case, the Queen.
"Niece," greeted Aenar, for the first time a touch of genuine respect in his voice.
"Your Grace," replied Rhaenys, sitting down. Her eyes, so similar to Aenar's, scanned the table slowly, assessing every face. "The council is complete."
Aenar finally sat down. His hands, capable of bending steel, rested on the table with surprising delicacy.
"My mother," he began, his voice filling the room effortlessly, "Queen Alysanne, honored this room with her presence when she deemed it necessary. My queen will honor this room with her presence always." His gaze swept over every face, challenging any objection that wasn't vocalized.
"Then let us begin," said the King, his eyes settling on the ebony dragon that rested over King's Landing on the central map. "Westeros waits."
And for the first time in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, a Queen Consort not only witnessed but actively participated in the first council of a new reign – not as a guest, but as a pillar of the new government now beginning.
Hello there. Well, it took a while, but it finally happened. Our protagonist became king. Leave your congratulations in the comments. And not for those who think that I do like MC's father, but a super emotional farewell like the queen's would seem like something repeated. Another thing, what did you think of these interludes between the chapter parts? I usually did the solo parts, but now, after a comment, I decided to do this. These would be things that would be in the parts anyway, I just thought it was better this way. Well, tell me what you thought of the chapter. Your suggestions and feedback are always expected and welcome. That's it, until next time, arrivederci.