Hey guys, new chapter in the area. I have few things to say before you read it. The only thing is that I know Summerhall was built on the borders of Dorne, but not this one, mainly because of what's around it. Happy reading.
Dragon Wings and Masonry – Part 1
The Small Council met under the pale light of a morning in 111 AC. The presence of Gael, now a fixed element to the king's right, no longer caused the visible discomfort of the first days, but an underground tension remained, a river of ambitions and fears flowing beneath the polished surface of reports. While Lord Beesbury detailed the record tax collection from the Riverlands, Aenar's mind, capable of splitting into multiple fronts like a multi-headed dragon, absorbed the numbers while analyzing the players at the table.
His gaze, charged with a sharp perception that went beyond the physical, scanned each face. Prince Viserys, his heir, Master of Laws with a posture trying to mimic the throne's solidity, but whose eyes revealed the insecurity of a man who had always lived in the shadow of giants – first his father, now his uncle. The silent shadow of Otto Hightower behind him was more eloquent than any speech; a hawk with sharp eyes, waiting for the moment to regain the power that had slipped through his fingers. Grand Maester Mellos, an archive of knowledge and uncertain loyalties, smelled of sepia ink and a subtle fear when he looked at Gael. Lord Manderly, with his maritime laugh, was an anchor of practical loyalty. And Rhaenys, his Hand, a mirror of his own power, firm and impenetrable.
But it was his thoughts about two young figures, still outside this immediate circle of power, that occupied a peculiar space in his strategic analysis: Rhaenyra and Alicent.
Rhaenyra Targaryen, his fourteen-year-old great-niece, was the very heart of House Targaryen beating with stormy force. The absence of the immediate, oppressive shadow of the crown – for with Aenar, a young and vigorous king, on the throne, Viserys's succession seemed a matter for a distant future – seemed to have transformed her. It had not made her less ambitious; on the contrary, it had freed that ambition from certain restraints. She was no longer the girl who needed to prove her worth as an heir in a world of men. She was a hurricane of silver and pride, a force of nature demanding recognition in her own right. And her eyes, of that characteristic lilac of their blood, did not follow Gael with the simple admiration of a young girl for a queen. They followed her with a visceral covetousness, an intense, almost physical desire for the kind of power Gael embodied: not just the authority of the consort, but the primordial power emanating from her own transformed flesh, from that reptilian gaze she now shared with the king. Rhaenyra didn't just want a throne; she wanted to be a dragon, in the most complete sense of the word. And she saw in Aenar the source, the architect of that transformation.
Meanwhile, Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra's constant and docile companion, was her calculated opposite. Where Rhaenyra was open fire, Alicent was tranquil, deep water – or so she diligently appeared. Otto's daughter assimilated perfectly into court life, her devotion to the Seven impeccable, her clothes discreet, her conduct a treatise on feminine virtue. But Aenar, who could sense discord like a metallic taste in the air and read micro-tensions in faces like a maester reads a scroll, perceived the inner storm. The divided loyalty between genuine affection for Rhaenyra and her father's ambitious programming created an almost imperceptible fracture in her spirit. She was an elegant, well-behaved piece in a chess game whose complete rules she didn't even know.
And then there was... that. A peculiar phenomenon Aenar noticed. When his presence dominated the hall, or when he spoke with an authority that came not from protocol but from something older, he caught Alicent's gaze. It wasn't just the respect owed to a king. There was a quick gleam, a fleeting blush that she immediately suppressed, followed by an almost palpable wave of guilt. Her lips tightened, her fingers interlaced tightly, as if suppressing a profane thought. Aenar, internally, filed this observation with a mix of curiosity and dry humor. Is it common, he wondered, that the devout daughters of the Seven, those who kneel before stone statues, feel this peculiar attraction, this forbidden fascination for a force their faith would likely classify as demonic? Was it the attraction to danger? To power in its rawest form? He wasn't sure, but it was an interesting piece on the court's psychological board.
"The port of Oldtown reports a twenty percent increase in spice trade," Beesbury concluded, his voice breaking Aenar's analytical reverie. "An undeniable blessing for the treasury."
"A blessing that attracts vultures. The corsairs of the Stepstones grow bold with the fat merchant ships," added Manderly, his double chin trembling with emphasis. "We need more patrols."
"A matter for the Master of Ships and the Lord of the Tides to coordinate," said Aenar, his tone final, closing the subject. "Next."
As Mellos began a monotonous report on the granaries of the Reach, Aenar's eyes met Gael's for a moment. A nearly imperceptible raise of her eyebrow, a slight nod of her head. She understood. The silent power game, the unspoken tensions in this room, were as critical to the realm's stability as the reports on harvests and taxes.
---
Interlude: The Young Dragoness's Advance
The banquet in honor of the Lords of the Vale was in full swing. The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cauldron of light, music, and the thick smell of wine and roast meat. Aenar, enthroned at the center of the high table, observed the scene with the placidity of a predator at the top of the food chain, sated and vigilant. It was then that Rhaenyra approached, and the air around her seemed to change, charged with a reckless energy that made Aenar's reptilian eyes narrow slightly.
She was, undeniably, stunning. At fourteen, the promise of extraordinary beauty was already fulfilled in sharp features and a magnetic presence. Her hair was a cascade of lively silver, intertwined with thin chains of pale gold that sparkled in the firelight like captured sparks. Her eyes, large and expressive, the color of royal lavender, shone with a sharp intelligence and a fierce will that defied any convention. She wore a robe of intense red silk, a cut so daring it bordered on scandalous, the fluid fabric molded to the soft yet decisive contours of her young body, accentuating her narrow waist and rounded hips. She smelled of night jasmine and pure ambition, an intoxicating and dangerous perfume.
"Great-uncle," she said, her voice a melody carefully crafted to sound sweetly respectful, but with an undertone of purposeful intimacy that did not go unnoticed. "The realm seems to flourish under your gaze. It is as if all Westeros feels the strength of the dragon and... bends to it." A mischievous smile, calculated to be charming, played on her full lips.
Before he could respond, she wasn't content to just occupy the empty seat to his right. She moved with a feline grace that was almost a provocation, and her body settled into the seat in a way that reduced the distance between them to zero. Her bare arm touched his, a deliberate contact, and then, with an audacity that made Aenar's muscles contract involuntarily under his sleeve, she slid her hand – small, soft, but incredibly bold – onto his thigh, over the black velvet of his trousers.
Aenar remained motionless, his expression impenetrable, but internally a storm of recognition and alarm formed. The touch was light, but its intention was heavy as lead. Her hand began to move, a slow, deliberate, seductive back-and-forth motion over the dense muscle of his thigh, through the fabric. She wasn't just testing limits; she was claiming territory, offering herself blatantly, her gaze locked on his, challenging and full of improper promises.
"You have shown all of us," she whispered, her voice lower, just for him, "that a ruler can be more than an administrator. He can be an... elemental force. And I... admire elemental forces." Her gaze was intense, tracing the line of his jaw, the width of his shoulders, descending...
In a moment of cutting clarity, Aenar didn't just see an impetuous young princess. He saw a ghost. The ghost of Saera Targaryen. The same unbridled beauty, the same arrogance in believing that lineage and charm could transcend all rules, the same dangerous willingness to use her body as currency in power games. The same seed of self-destruction, planted in the same soil of Valyrian blood. The gods, or the inherent stupidity of our blood, love repetition, he thought with sudden bitterness. She is one step away from following the same path.
His hand, large enough to completely envelop hers, came down and clasped her wrist, not with violence, but with an absolute firmness that instantly halted the seductive movement. The pressure was enough to make her blink.
"An elemental force, Rhaenyra," he said, his voice an icy bass that cut through the charged atmosphere she had tried to create, "needs deep foundations. Not just impulse and desire, and certainly not courtesan's tricks." He released her wrist, and moved her hand away from his thigh with a deliberate gesture. "Observe my queen. She does not seek to be a force; she is one, because her foundation is unshakable, forged in something more solid than ambition and more lasting than lust. The power to seduce is a weak weapon, Princess. It breaks at the first resistance. True strength lies in understanding that you do not need to sell yourself to be powerful."
Her reaction was not one of explosive fury or devastating humiliation. A blush, yes, reddened her cheekbones, a hot, quick shame for the direct rejection. Her lips parted in a gasping sigh, and for a brief moment, the lilac eyes lowered, unable to sustain his penetrating gaze. It was the acute frustration of a failed strategy, of bait refused by the fish she most wanted to catch.
But then, her eyes lifted again. And what Aenar saw in them made him understand that his intervention might have had the opposite effect of the one intended. The shame and frustration were still there, yes, but they served as fuel for a brighter, more obstinate gleam. It was the look of someone facing an insurmountable mountain and, instead of being discouraged, felt an even fiercer will to climb it. The rejection had not pushed her away; it had made her more determined. He could almost feel the resolution solidifying within her, like steel being tempered. She would not give up on him, or on the power he represented. She would only learn to be more subtle, more patient, more dangerous.
"You... think this is a game?" she whispered, her voice slightly tremulous, but laden with a new conviction.
"Everything here is a game, Rhaenyra," he replied, his voice softer now, but no less firm. "Some play with silk and touches. Others, with steel and fire. You are still deciding what kind of player you will be." He paused, his dragon eyes still fixed on her. "Think carefully. And when you decide, you will have my attention. But not in this way."
He turned his head, a clear and cold dismissal. This time, she didn't move immediately. She remained seated for a moment, her breathing still slightly accelerated, assimilating the lesson, metabolizing the rejection, transforming it into something new and sharper. Then, she stood up, not with the rigidity of humiliation, but with a recovered, almost regal dignity. Her back was straight, her chin slightly raised. As she walked away, her gaze met Aenar's one last time, and in it he read a silent promise, a "Wait and see."
Aenar watched her go, a complex sensation hanging over him. The shadow of Saera still loomed, yes. But Rhaenyra was different. More stubborn, more intelligent, and now, more motivated than ever. He had tried to pull her back from the cliff, but he may have taught her how to build a wing to fly over it. The future, he realized, would be even more interesting – and dangerous – than he had anticipated.
Dragon Wings and Masonry – Part 2
The wind blew softly over the hills of the Crownlands, carrying the scent of cut stone, turned earth, and the distant but distinct metallic odor of the foundries already working with unusual metals. From the top of a hill, Aenar and Maegelle watched the human anthill below. Summerhall was beginning to raise its skeleton of granite and wood, the beating heart of a new kind of power that Aenar would forge for the future.
Aenar stood, as imposing as one of the future towers, his purple eyes capturing every detail with the precision of an architect and the vision of a prophet. Maegelle, at his side, seemed a serene figure in her septa's robes, but her presence there was silent testimony to the complex and forbidden tapestry of their family. To any distant observer, they would be just the King and his sister, the septa, discussing construction plans. The illusion was perfect. The reality, hidden in plain sight, was another.
"The foundations of the main hall are nearly complete," Aenar commented, his voice a deep bass that blended with the wind. "But the true heart of this place will beat there." He pointed to a series of deeper, wider foundations being excavated a respectful distance from the main castle, separated but close enough to be under its protective shadow. "The industrial workshops. The forges that will work alloys common smiths don't even dream of. And further away, the arcane study center. Far from the curious eyes and small minds of the court, but under the fierce guard of the walls and the dragons."
As he spoke, his hand, broad and marked by almost imperceptible scars, found Maegelle's back with a naturalness that spoke of years of clandestine intimacy. The touch was firm, possessive. His fingers drew slow, hypnotic circles on the rough, coarse fabric of her robe, a stark contrast to the holiness it represented. Maegelle did not pull away. Her shoulders, initially tense, relaxed under his touch, an almost inaudible sigh escaping her lips. It was a forbidden intimacy, cultivated in the shadows over decades, a paradoxical refuge for both in a world of rigid obligations and crucial appearances.
"The maesters of Oldtown will cluck like frightened hens," she said, her voice soft, yet laden with a sharp irony only he knew. "They consider any knowledge outside their order to be heresy, and any power not emanating from their Citadel an abomination."
"Let them cluck until they're hoarse," Aenar replied, his hand moving down from her back in a fluid motion, passing over her narrow waist and landing with unquestionable familiarity on the firm curve of her butt. There, his fingers did not merely rest; they squeezed and massaged the generous flesh through the thick fabric, with a confidence bordering on insolence and an intimacy that was an open secret only between them. "Progress does not ask permission from the guardians of the past. It simply surpasses them."
A more intense blush rose from Maegelle's neck to her cheeks, a hot, familiar shame she no longer tried to completely disguise, but which also did not prevent her from arching her back slightly, pressing herself against his palm in a subtle movement of complicity. The pleasure she felt from this forbidden touch was a double-edged blade of guilt and ecstasy, a sensation that consumed and reaffirmed her. She did not falter, however. Her voice, though a little softer, maintained its serenity as she continued, her diction perfect.
"And the lords? They will see this as a direct affront, an accumulation of power that goes beyond the throne and borders on the... supernatural."
"They will learn to see it as protection. And as opportunity. The knowledge born here will strengthen the realm, make our defenses more solid, our lives longer. Even the stupidest lords understand the value of a sharper sword or a more abundant harvest. And the smarter ones," he added, his fingers pressing a specific point on her butt that made her hold her breath for a second, "will understand that allying with this future is better than trying to fight it."
It was then that a messenger, wearing Rhaenys's colors, climbed the hill and bowed deeply, keeping his eyes downcast. Aenar, without removing his hand from Maegelle's butt – the touch continued, firm and comforting, his fingers still tracing small circles – extended his other hand to receive the scroll. He broke the seal with his thumb, his eyes quickly scanning the contents. The message was about Saera. Found in Volantis. Ruling over an elite brothel called 'The Dragon's Paradise'.
Maegelle watched his face, searching for a sign of surprise, of shock. She found none. Only a resolute coldness that was already there, as if he had known all about it for a long time, as if he were merely confirming a piece on a chessboard only he could see completely.
"She is in Volantis," he said, his voice flat, emotionless, while his hand continued its silent work on her body, a disturbing contrast between the serious subject and the ongoing intimacy. "Lives as a whorehouse queen. Calls the place 'The Dragon's Paradise'. A joke in poor taste."
Maegelle closed her eyes for a moment. A deep, familiar pain crossed her face. The sadness for a lost sister, for a stained legacy, for the memory of the girl Saera had once been. Meanwhile, the sensation of Aenar's fingers on her butt was an anchor to the present reality, a confusing mix of comfort and guilt.
"Father... he must be turning in his grave," she whispered, her voice laden with resigned sorrow. She opened her eyes and looked at Aenar, and he, in turn, contemplated her. At forty-nine, Maegelle should show marks of time, silver threads in her golden hair, wrinkles around her eyes. Instead, her skin maintained a soft luminosity, her body the same grace and form it had possessed twenty years prior. The tiredness sometimes visible in her eyes was more of the spirit than of the flesh. He knew the reason. It was an unintended but profound side effect of the vital magic he released in his seed during their encounters. By receiving it, by harboring that essence laden with Valyrian power time and again over the years, her very being had been slowly nourished, preserved. It was a borrowed youth, a poisoned gift from their forbidden love.
"Jaehaerys chose to bury his head in the sand regarding her. We do not have that luxury," said Aenar, his fingers pressing gently on her butt in a final gesture before, reluctantly, removing his hand. The heat of his touch seemed to linger in the air like a ghost. "The stain remains. And stains, like rust, spread if not treated. She uses our name. Our heritage. For this."
"What will you do?" asked Maegelle, her voice steady, but her eyes pleading for a spark of mercy she knew would not come.
"What must be done. Not as a vengeful brother, but as a king. She has dishonored the Targaryen name publicly. That has a price, and the price will be paid publicly." His voice was final, the voice of the Dragon, not the brother. He had made the decision long before the messenger arrived.
Maegelle simply nodded, a movement of deep sadness and acceptance. She would not approve of gratuitous violence, but she understood the relentless political necessity. It was the burden of their blood. Some wounds, especially those rotting in plain sight, needed to be cauterized with fire to save the body of the realm, and of the family itself.
"Let's go," said Aenar, the moment of intimacy completely dissolved, replaced by the posture of the sovereign. "There are matters to attend to on Dragonstone. And this issue... requires a personal and unquestionable response."
They descended the hill towards the clearing where their dragons waited. Balerion, the Black Dread, was a living mountain of dark scales and shadow, his breath a hot, hoarse puff that made the air tremble around him. Beside him, its place rested Dreamfyre, the magnificent female with blue-silver scales, her eyes like pools of liquid moon, her wings folded like cloaks of night sky.
It was Aenar who had convinced her, years before, to bond with Dreamfyre. "You spend your life caring for others, sister," he had said, his voice soft but relentless. " Dreamfyre... Dreamfyre has fire. She has a spark of untamed fury. She deserves a rider who understands strength, not just serenity. Deserves someone who understands sacrifice and the power that comes from it." Maegelle, after much reluctance, fear, and nights of prayer, had accepted the challenge. The connection with the majestic and powerful female had been difficult at first, a battlefield of wills, but now it was deep and unbreakable. Dreamfyre represented a side of her that she herself rarely allowed to see the light – a side of pure power, of fire and determination, a reflection of the very man who had pushed her into this union and who knew all the secrets of her soul.
Without another word, Aenar mounted Balerion with the familiarity of one born to it, an extension of his own will. Maegelle, with a grace she had learned to master through pure force of will, climbed into Dreamfyre's saddle. With a roar that echoed through the hills and made the workers below tremble, Balerion took flight, his black wings obscuring the sun like a sudden eclipse. Dreamfyre followed a moment later, her roar sharper and more musical, but no less impressive or terrifying.
As they climbed, leaving the promise and work of Summerhall behind, Aenar looked towards the northern horizon. There was a vague threat, a cold that was not of winter, a promise of ancient conflict. But first, he would deal with the ghosts of the past. The journey to Volantis would be swift. And the dragon's justice, when it came, would be relentless and absolute.
Meetings and reunions – Part 3
The flight over the Narrow Sea was so high that Zekrom was but a black speck against the sun, a mote of dust in the heavens that no human eye on the ground could identify as a dragon. Aenar did not seek to be seen; his approach was one of shadow and silence. He landed in a desolate region a day's walk from Volantis, where the sands met the murky waters of the Rhoyne. A spell of invisibility, more a subtle bending of light and shadow around his form than a complex magic, enveloped him as soon as his feet touched the ground. To the world, he was a void, an empty space that moved.
Meanwhile, within the opulent chambers of "The Dragon's Paradise," Saera Targaryen, her silver hair dyed a dirty blonde and eyes that had lost their Valyrian sparkle, read a recent letter. Her network of spies, paid for with the gold of magisters and merchants, kept her informed of the winds blowing in Westeros. Her thoughts, however, wandered to the distant past. She remembered the death of Baelon, the Prince of the Sword, her brother, so many years ago. She remembered Alyssa, my sister and Baelon's wife, passing before him after years of suffering. And her mother, the "Good Queen" Alysanne, wasting away from grief. And her father, the Conciliator, the man who had exiled her – all events of a distant past. An era had ended, and she had watched from afar, with an ancient, desiccated rage.
But the letter in her hands spoke of the present. The coronation of Aenar. Her younger brother. The strange one. The giant with purple eyes who had always watched her with an intensity that unnerved her in her youth. She remembered him as a quiet shadow, but now... King of the Seven Kingdoms. The irony was thick. The letter also mentioned his ambitious plans: the construction of Summerhall, a new castle in the Crownlands.
A magister of Myr, a fat man with rings on every finger, entered the brothel's main hall, his face marked by a fury time had not erased. "Your Grace," he said, with a mixture of respect and disdain. "I remember as if it were yesterday the destruction your brother, the Dragon King, inflicted upon Myr so many years ago! The merchant fleet, decimated by the Black Dread's fire! The port, reduced to a heap of charred wood and melted stone! All because one of our corsairs, a lone wolf, had the audacity to attack Aemon Targaryen's ship in the Stepstones! An act of brutal and disproportionate vengeance that still haunts our city!"
Saera looked at him, her thin lips curling into a cynical smile. "Aemon was the heir, Magister. Killing him wasn't an act of war; it was a catastrophic political error on your part. You poked the hornet's nest. Now, years later, you still cry about being stung? The Dragon does not play politics. He does not impose reparations; he imposes obliteration. You survived by his pure mercy, or perhaps pragmatism. Consider yourselves lucky." She saw the hatred in the man's eyes, a hatred time had not diminished, a hatred she shared, but also an impotence that infuriated her. Myr had been crushed, humiliated years ago. And all because of the rigid honor and overwhelming power of her family. Aenar had acted with a ferocity that had surprised even her, even from a distance.
She dismissed the magister with a negligent gesture and withdrew to her private office, a sanctuary of expensive silks, heavy perfumes, and stolen memories of a life that was no longer hers. But the moment she crossed the threshold, her senses, sharpened by years of survival on the treacherous streets of Essos, sounded an alarm. The air was still, but... different. There was a faint smell, of ozone and ancient stone, that did not belong.
"Impressive," a voice echoed in the empty room, making her heart leap violently against her ribs. It was a deep, familiar voice that cut through decades of distance like a blade. "You can still sense danger, sister. Life in Essos hasn't dulled all your instincts."
From the shadows behind her great ebony desk, a figure materialized. The illusion dissolved like smoke, revealing Aenar. He was sitting in her chair, wearing simple black armor, but it was what rested on the desk that made her blood run cold: the Conqueror's Crown, and beside it, the sword Blackfyre, the ruby in its pommel pulsing with a soft, threatening light.
Saera took a step back, her hand flying instinctively to the dagger hidden in the folds of her dress. Her eyes scanned the imposing figure, the height that was intimidating even seated, the familiar features hardened by authority and power. But it was when her eyes met his that the final piece clicked into place. The deep purple color was the same, but the pupils... were vertical, reptilian, like those of a dragon. This was not just her younger brother. This was something more.
"Aenar?" the word came out like a spit. "You... what are you?"
He smiled, a gesture empty of warmth. "Your brother. The king. That is all." His voice was calm, conversational, as if they were meeting again in a garden, not in a Volantene brothel. "And you, Saera. The black sheep. The family's disgrace."
She felt fury replace the initial fear. "Disgrace? I escaped the cage! I built something here! While you played politics in your stone halls, I created an empire!"
"An empire of sin and decadence. Using our name. Our mother's name." His calm was more frightening than any shout.
"What do you want? Have you come to kill me? To do to me what you did to Myr?" she challenged, gripping the dagger tighter.
He inclined his head. "I came to apologize."
The world stopped for a moment. Saera frowned, confused. "Apologize? For what?"
"For your friends in Myr."
She froze. A deep cold ran down her spine. How did he know? The arrangement with the magister, her sympathies for the city... it was a secret known only to a few. She hadn't written anything down. "What...?"
He interrupted her, his dragon eyes seeming to pierce her soul. "Know? Of course I know, Saera." He tapped his own temple lightly. "Your mental walls are blown glass. Fragile and full of bubbles. You were always like this. You thought too loudly."
The revelation was a blow deeper than any physical threat. He could read her mind. The invasion was total, absolute. Fear returned, overwhelming.
"I am not going to kill you, with my own hands" he continued, rising to his feet. His height filled the room, making her feel small, insignificant. "But I cannot let you continue like this. Sullying our name. So, I left a gift for you. For our reunion."
He picked up the crown and the sword. "Farewell, sister."
And then, he simply... disappeared. There was no sound, no smoke. One moment he was there, the next, there was only the empty space where he had been, and the ghost of his scent in the air. Saera stood paralyzed, panting, staring at nothing. Was it a dream? A hallucination?
In the days that followed, however, something strange began to happen. On the third day, she woke feeling incredibly revitalized. Looking in the mirror, she saw the fine lines around her eyes and mouth had softened. Her skin seemed firmer, her hair had more shine. A spark of her former beauty flared. She laughed, a laugh of triumph and relief. He had lied! It was a gift! Youth! Power! Her fury towards him turned to disdain.
But on the fifth day, she noticed a small wound on her arm, like a burn, that didn't hurt but seemed to spread slowly. On the seventh day, the wound had become a necrotic ulcer, exuding a sweet, fetid odor, before suddenly healing within hours, leaving behind new, pink skin. Euphoria gave way to confusion.
The cycle repeated. Horrible wounds, rotting of her flesh, followed by a miraculous cure, only for the rot to return, deeper, more extensive, more painful. Her fury returned, intense and impotent. She broke mirrors, screamed at her servants. Then, fear took hold. The fear of the pain, the endless decomposition, the death that came and retreated, only to mock her.
And then, after weeks of this torment, when her body was no more than a battlefield of dead and reborn flesh, regret arrived. Not a noble regret, but a deep, selfish despair. She remembered her mother, her father, the girl she had been in King's Landing. The choices that had led her to this miserable existence. She wept bitter tears of loneliness and remorse.
On a silent day, the cycle finally broke. The rot did not recede. It consumed her completely, until her last breath, which was a moan of agony and, finally, of release. Saera Targaryen died alone, in her gilded brothel, a decomposing body that had once been a princess.
---
Meanwhile, hours after leaving "The Dragon's Paradise," Aenar walked invisible through the bustling streets of Volantis. The smell of spices, sweat, and saltwater from the port was oppressive. It was then that two figures in blood-red robes blocked his path, not by force, but by presence. One was older, with a severe, authoritative beauty – Kinvara. The other, younger, with hair of such a vibrant red it seemed almost incandescent – Melisandre. Both looked directly to where he stood, their eyes burning with an inner flame that transcended common sight.
"The Dragon's Blood," whispered Kinvara, her voice like the crackling of a fire. "The Lord of Light extends His gaze to you. He wishes to speak."
Aenar, surprised they could see through his spell but intrigued, let the illusion fall. "Your lord knows I am no devotee."
"All serve the Lord of Light, willing or not," Melisandre replied, her voice softer, but no less intense. Her hips swayed slightly, a calculated, seductive movement, her eyes roving over his imposing form. Aenar noted the motion and, internally, sighed. They try to seduce the dragon with mortal flesh? he thought, with a touch of dry humor. Well, after the encounter with Saera, a distraction would be... welcome.
He accepted with a nod. They led him to the temple of R'hllor, a massive structure where an eternal fire burned. As they walked, the sway of their hips was a clear and persistent invitation. Presumptuous, he thought, but determined.
Hours later, deep into the night, Aenar was in a chamber adjoining the temple. Firelight danced on the walls, illuminating scenes of ecstasy. On the large bed, Kinvara lay naked in one corner, completely unconscious, a smile of ecstatic pleasure frozen on her face. Melisandre, beneath him, cried out her final climax, a hoarse, guttural sound, before her eyes rolled back and she too passed out, her body exhausted by the intensity of the union.
Aenar rose, his own breath slightly heavy, but his body untiring. He walked to the window and looked out over the sleeping city. His gaze caught a small bedside table where the priestesses' heavy red metal collars rested. A near-imperceptible smile touched his lips. He had restored some of the youth and vigor that years and their fanatical devotions had taken from them. After all, he justified to himself, I wouldn't sleep with two desiccated bags of bones. A king has his standards.
He dressed quickly when Benerro, the High Priest, a skeletal man with flames tattooed on his face, appeared at the door. "He is ready for you," the man said, his voice a hiss.
Aenar followed him into the temple's great hall. Hundreds of faithful were on their knees, chanting softly. Benerro ascended a pulpit before the great fire and began his sermon, his voice echoing under the dome.
"...and in the darkness, the Lord of Light will raise up his chosen, the Prince That Was Promised, to bring the dawn!" Benerro thundered.
Aenar, bored with the theater, sighed. With a mere wave of his hand, absolute silence fell upon the hall. Then, the flames of the main pyre and all the torches on the walls exploded in a deafening roar, climbing to the ceiling. From the flames, a cry echoed – not of pain, but of pure cosmic energy – and a face formed in the fire, a visage of fury and ancient power. The faithful, terrified and awestruck, prostrated themselves, their faces pressed to the cold floor. It was reverence for their god, yes, but also a deep fear of the being who had managed to drag divine to the mortal plane with such a display of force.
The face of flame focused on Aenar. The voice that came was not a sound, but a thought burning in every present mind. "THE LONG NIGHT WILL COME. THE GREAT OTHER STIRS. YOUR STRENGTH IS NEEDED."
Aenar stood impassive. "I know of the Long Night. It's an old wives' tale. And it matters little now. The Promised Prince you await won't be born for nearly two hundred years."
The silence that followed was charged with divine surprise. The flame wavered. "YOU... KNOW? WHO IS HE?"
"That is irrelevant," Aenar retorted, his voice dominating the flaming whisper. "Your 'chosen one' may triumph or fail. It does not matter. If he fails, if the Others cross the Wall... I will kill them. All of them."
"ONLY THE DESTINY'S CHOSEN CAN DO THIS! THE PROPHECY..." the flaming voice insisted, but then stopped. Aenar could feel the divine focus examining him, not just his body, but the very fabric of his being. There was astonishment, then an alarmed understanding. "YOU... YOU HAVE FREED YOURSELF FROM FATE? YOUR BINDINGS... ARE BROKEN. YOU CAN TRULY DO AS YOU SAY."
"I can," Aenar confirmed, simply.
There was a long pause, the face of fire dancing in silence. Then, a new order, aimed at all the faithful present, burned in their minds, coming directly from their god. "HEAR ME! THIS MAN, AENAR TARGARYEN, ACTS WITH OUR TOLERANCE. HIS WORK, HOWEVER IT MAY DEVIATE FROM THE SACRED PATH, MAY SERVE THE ULTIMATE GOAL. GIVE HIM ALL ASSISTANCE HE REQUESTS. IT IS MY WILL."
The order was clear. The faithful remained prostrate, trembling.
Without another word, Aenar turned and left the temple. The audience was over.
Shortly after, mounted on Zekrom, he soared over the lights of Volantis, shrinking rapidly below him. The city of contested gods and his dead sister was left behind.
"A small detour," he murmured to the wind, and the great black dragon tilted his wings, altering his course to the northwest. Towards Braavos. There was another loose thread in the great loom of fate he needed to cut.