Let's go to the usual warnings, more series brief lemon scene. That's it, enjoy reading.
Chapter 9: Faith of Steel and Ice – Part 1
The Grand Hall of the Sea Lord's Palace in Braavos breathed opulence. Lights danced across chandeliers of solid gold, reflecting upon mother-of-pearl mosaics that narrated the history of the Secret City. The air was heavy with the scent of costly spices and sweet wine, but beneath that façade of luxury pulsed the true heart of Braavosi power: capital. Gathered there were the men who moved the world with the mere flick of a hand, the Keepers of the Keys of the Iron Bank, each one an architect of economic empires. And at the center of this cosmos of influence, enthroned not upon a dragon's skull but upon an ebony chair offered by the Sea Lord himself, sat Aenar Targaryen.
He was a discordant figure. His black and red robes, cut with an austerity bordering on military, stood in brutal contrast to the colorful silks and extravagant jewels of the Braavosi. While the magisters and bankers wove a subtle tapestry of words about trade routes, interest rate fluctuations, and chronic instability in the Free Cities, Aenar's eyes—deep purple, slit by vertical pupils—swept the hall. They did not see wealth or status; they saw levers, weak points, strings to be pulled. He did not eat; he savored, each bite a calculated act, a king aware that his every move was dissected and scrutinized.
"Braavos prospers beneath the shadow of the Titan, Your Grace," declared the Sea Lord, raising his goblet of cut crystal. His eyes, as shrewd as any banker's, fixed on the king. "And with a monarch of such… unquestionable resolve upon the Iron Throne, trade across the Narrow Sea cannot fail to benefit from an era of unprecedented stability."
Aenar raised his own goblet, a simple cup of silver. "Stability, Sea Lord, is no gift from the gods. It is a conquest. And every conquest has a price." His voice, a deep bass that seemed to absorb the ambient noise, imposed silence. "The price is constant vigilance. Pirates in the Stepstones multiply like rats, corsairs plow the waters south of Dorne… cutting visible heads is useless. One must cauterize the nest."
One of the Keepers of the Keys, a slender man with an impenetrable expression named Tycho, laced his fingers together over the table. "Naval operations of such… breadth, Your Grace, would require considerable investment. Would the Crown of Westeros be inclined to discuss the terms of a loan for such an enterprise?"
The smile that curved Aenar's lips was cold and sharp. "The Iron Bank understands numbers, Keeper. I understand power. The Dragon does not borrow." The declaration hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. "The Dragon invests. I have a proposal: the Crown will finance the construction of new shipyards here in Braavos, and the acquisition of the finest timber from North and the Crownlands. You will build not only for your fleet, but according to the designs and standards of the Royal Navy. Faster ships, stronger ships, with deeper holds. Ships that, when necessary, will be called to serve as an extension of the Royal Fleet of Westeros, to safeguard our shared commercial interests against any threat."
The silence that followed was electrifying. The offer was monumental. Aenar was using Westeros's immense wealth not merely to strengthen an ally, but to fuse part of Braavos's naval might into his own war machine. He was not buying ships; he was buying the shipyard itself, ensuring that every new Braavosi vessel carried, in its hull, the DNA of his own power. The brilliance was so audacious it bordered on affront, yet the wealth promised was an irresistible argument.
After the banquet, beneath the silvery moonlight reflected upon countless canals, Aenar did not make his way to one of the floating palaces or a moneylender's house. His steps carried him to a place where power was not measured in coins, but in secrets and shadows. The House of Black and White rose before him, a fortress of black stone and silence, its dome a veil against the starry sky.
No sooner had the heavy ebony and weirwood doors shut behind him, plunging him into the frozen half-light and the scent of damp earth and ancient death, than the reception began.
It was not a siege, but a symphony of murder. Shadows coagulated into humanoid shapes, brandishing blades that seemed to drink the light, dripping poisons distilled from nightmare herbs and black sorcery. They struck in silent unison: one at his front, another at his back, a third descending from the ceiling like a spectral bat. Blades, perfected by centuries of arcane knowledge of the Faceless Men, sought his neck, his spine, his temples, his arteries. Yet the sound they made was not of flesh being pierced, but of steel meeting adamant. Blades that had ended kings and princes shattered or slid harmlessly aside, unable even to mar his tunic. Aenar walked on, a beacon of impassivity in the chaos of shadows. His purple eyes glowed with serene disdain, a predator bored by the attacks of insignificant prey. He did not swerve, did not halt, did not hasten his pace. Death, in that temple, was but a tool—and he had proven himself immune.
He reached the heart of the temple, the circular chamber where the famous still pool mirrored the darkness. There, a figure awaited. It was no man, but a vessel, its human shape merely a temporary shell for a vast and ancient presence. The eyes of that husk held no color, only the gleam of distant stars and the void of oblivion.
"You are a walking paradox," the voice that emanated from the entity was the whisper of destiny itself—calm, impersonal, absolute. "An outlier in the great weave. Your existence is a noise within the melody of creation. You cannot be harvested, and in that immunity lies your fundamental flaw of design. Death is the counterpoint that gives meaning to life. You are an aberration that refuses the natural order. You are… wrong."
Aenar stopped across the pool, his garments immaculate, not a single thread disturbed by the storm of steel he had crossed. "You confuse 'natural order' with 'accepted limitation.' I do not submit to rules that cannot bind me. And you, and the entity that inhabits this hollow shell, will have to adapt. Reality is now shaped by my will. Things are as I decree them to be."
He paused, his gaze piercing the creature's essence as though through smoked glass. "Now, you will give me an answer. Who signed the order for my death, during the naval clash against the pirates of Myr in the Stepstones?"
The possessed figure tilted its head at an inhuman angle, as though consulting the records of souls from a million worlds. A name echoed in Aenar's mind—not as sound, but as implanted truth, a pure concept of identity.
A low sound, almost a muffled laugh tinged with dark irony, slipped from Aenar's lips. "Him. Already dead. He rotted in his bed, surrounded by riches and guilt, years ago. Justice is a concept inapplicable to the already-decayed." His eyes narrowed, and for the first time that night, a thread of practical cruelty, hard as Valyrian steel, lingered in his voice. "But the blood spilled by a man's order is a debt that stains his lineage. His descendants… will inherit the price he did not live to pay."
Without a farewell nod, without a backward glance, he turned and crossed the chamber. The shadows only watched now, retreating to the walls, impotent. The visit had not been a plea, nor an empty provocation. It was a mutual recognition between powers of different orders, and the issuance of an inescapable verdict.
Outside, the night air of Braavos—laden with the salty scent of the sea and the aroma of nocturnal flowers—felt like a rush of tangible reality after the temple's supernatural stillness. He had sown in the fertile soil of greed, preparing the future integration of Braavosi naval power beneath his aegis. He had faced death upon its own altar and emerged not as a survivor, but as a judge.
Now, it was time to return home. Awaiting him were a faith to be challenged at its birth, a frozen North to be conquered, and a plan that reached even unto the gods. The game of thrones continued in Westeros, but Aenar Targaryen, there in Braavos, proved that he was playing chess with the very fabric of the world.
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Chapter 9: Faith of Steel and Ice – Part 2
The silence in the private sept of the Red Keep was so profound it felt like a living entity. The candle flames danced slowly, casting shadows that writhed across the stony faces of the Seven. The air, thick with the sweet scent of melted wax and wilted flowers, created a heavy, almost oppressive atmosphere. It was in this sanctuary of devotion and penance that Aenar Targaryen had decided to wage his most intimate battle against the gods.
He entered like a contained storm, his black and red robes absorbing the faint light. His purple eyes, with their vertical pupils, scanned the room with disdain before settling on the figure kneeling before the statue of the Mother. Maegelle. Her white septa's robe seemed to glow with its own light in the gloom, a beacon of purity amidst the darkness. He approached, his sovereign steps echoing softly on the thick carpet, and sat down heavily on one of the oak benches, right in the center of the sept, positioning himself as a direct challenge to the Seven.
There was no preamble, no unnecessary words. An almost imperceptible gesture of his hand, and she rose, her movements fluid and graceful, as if following the rhythm of a song only they could hear. She approached and, with an intimacy that spoke of decades of shared secrets, sat on his lap, her back against his chest, her slender body fitting perfectly against his imposing mass. Now, her eyes were directly facing the impassive statues before them, as if Aenar was forcing her to confront the very objects of her faith in the moment of her greatest transgression.
Aenar's hands, broad and marked by nearly invisible scars, found the belt of her robe. His fingers undid the fastenings with cruel patience, letting the rough, coarse fabric fall open and away like the wilted petals of a flower, exposing the milky pallor of her skin to the cold, solemn air of the sept. He did not remove the garment entirely, nor did he take the characteristic veil from her head. That symbol of her devotion, of her vows, would remain, a deliberate and sharp irony, like Valyrian steel.
His strength was monstrous, inhuman. His hands moved down, enveloping each of her thighs, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh behind her knees. With a single, fluid motion that demonstrated an absurd power, he lifted both her legs, holding her firmly in the air, exposing her completely not only to him, but to the very sanctuary. He sheathed himself, joining with her in a single deep, decisive movement that forced the air from Maegelle's lungs in a ragged, breathy sigh. Her body arched against his, a tense line of pleasure and guilt.
He was in no hurry. His rhythm was a constant, relentless tide, an ancestral cadence of conquest. Each movement of his hips was an affirmation of power, a spit in the face of the stone gods witnessing the scene. Maegelle, trapped in the gilded cage of her own body responding to a consuming pleasure, moved with him, her hands gripping his forearms with surprising strength, her head resting back on his shoulder, her eyes closed. Her body responded with a supernatural energy and resilience, a poisoned and paradoxical gift from the countless times he had marked her with his magic-laden essence.
And then, came the first climax. A violent tremor ran through Maegelle from head to toe, followed not by a simple wetness, but by a warm, surprisingly vigorous jet that spurted from her body, a pale liquid that flew forward, staining the wooden base of the altar and splattering against the feet of the statues of the Maiden and the Mother. At the exact moment her moan, mixed with a cry of ecstasy and shame, echoed through the sept, Aenar's eyes lifted, challenging, fixing on the carved faces.
"Behold," he whispered, his voice a low, visceral growl in her ear, while his rhythm not only continued, but intensified. "Your Maiden offers her libations. A tribute to the life that pulses, not the death you worship."
A sensation then hung in the air, making it heavy and hard to breathe. It wasn't something physical, but a pressure in the mind, a vast, ancient, and infinitely distant consciousness turning its unsettling attention to the profanation occurring in its sanctuary. He felt it – the Seven, not as stone representations, but as forms of oppressive light and silent judgment, their cosmic, impersonal "eyes" fixed on him with a chill that would freeze the soul of any mortal. A non-human vision, a final warning.
Aenar did not flinch. His smile widened, an expression of pure, glacial defiance. His hips did not stop. On the contrary, his movement became deeper, more possessive, more violently intimate, as if he was driving his dominion not only over the woman in his arms, but over the very entities watching him, forcing them to witness the impotence of their power before his will.
"And the Mother," he taunted, his voice now a command, as a second, more intense and convulsive orgasm made Maegelle cry out, her body writhing in his arms like a branch in the wind, another jet flowing to mark the statues, "rejoices in the font of ecstasy flowing from her servant!"
The divine presence intensified until it became almost unbearable, a crushing weight of cosmic disapproval that would make any priest crumble into blasphemous terror. Aenar simply laughed, a low, hoarse, triumphant sound that echoed off the stone pillars. He threw his head back, facing that vast consciousness without a spark of fear, his dragon eyes blazing with absolute challenge, reflecting the candle flames as if they were the very fires of creation.
He continued, tireless, an uncontrollable force of nature. Maegelle, lost in a spiral of pleasure and forced transcendence, could no longer distinguish guilt from absolute surrender. Each wave of ecstasy washed her deeper, each jet her body released was an involuntary and profane offering to a god far more present, more real, and more demanding than the stone ones who watched, powerless.
The divine presence, after a long, tense silence that seemed to last an eternity, receded. The pressure in the air dissipated as suddenly as it had arrived. The statues were just statues again, mute and cold stone, stained by the fluids of earthly pleasure.
Aenar had not defeated the gods in an epic battle. He had simply ignored them, crushed them under the brutal weight of his carnal reality and his indomitable will. And in that reclaimed silence, now charged with new meaning, only the sound of his controlled breathing and Maegelle's broken, muffled sighs filled the air, a hymn of personal victory against any faith, dogma, or power that dared stand in his way. Her devotion had been broken and recast in the furnace of his power, and the Seven had been reduced to mere witnesses of a new cult born in the gloom: the cult of the Dragon.
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Interlude: The Account of the Lord of the Tides
The light of dusk bathed the Chamber of the Painted Table in Dragonstone, illuminating the three-dimensional map of Westeros carved into wood. Aenar Targaryen stood not upon the raised seat that marked the isle's location, but before a vast window that looked out upon the Narrow Sea, when Corlys Velaryon was announced.
The Lord of the Tides entered the hall with the same indomitable energy that had carried him across the world's most treacherous seas. His face, lined by sun and salt, was lit with the gleam of triumph, and in his hands he bore a chest of exotic wood, carved with figures of creatures no maester could name.
"Your Grace," said Corlys, with the familiarity of an ally rather than the formality of a vassal. "I have returned from the ends of the world. And I bring you not only tales, but the very substance of new realms."
Aenar turned, his violet eyes fixing upon Corlys with interest. "Show me."
Corlys unrolled a hide parchment across the Painted Table, overlaying the known map with new lands and daring routes.
"As you commanded on the day of your coronation, I sailed south and east, beyond any chart. I passed through the Basilisk Isles, where the natives fish from canoes carved of leviathan bone. I turned southward along the mysterious, pestilent coast of Sothoryos, where the jungle whispers with voices not of men. And, with the courage your artifacts granted me, I dared cross the Jade Sea until I beheld the mountains of Urthos—a continent so vast it makes Westeros seem an archipelago. Its shores are of black sand, its forests so ancient the very air reeks of time and primal earth."
He opened the chest. The first item he drew forth was a bracelet of pale metal that radiated a gentle warmth.
"This talisman, Your Grace… it was our salvation. In Sothoryos, where fever fells the strongest men within hours, it kept my crew whole. A soft aura enveloped every man, and the deadly plagues of that coast simply… did not touch us. It was like a bubble of clean air in a poisonous swamp."
Next he pointed to a black crystal pendant hanging from his belt.
"And this eye that never blinks… it saved our necks more times than I can count. In the treacherous waters of Urthos, where reefs as sharp as blades lurk just beneath the surface, the crystal would darken and hum in warning. Before the lookout in the masthead could cry out, we were already altering course. It foretold sudden storms and… other things, creatures far too great moving in the deeps."
Lastly, with reverence, he presented a third object: a compass of plain design, though its needle seemed fashioned from strange blue crystal.
"And this, my king… this is the dream of every mariner made flesh. Amidst the dense mists of the Jade Sea, where stars vanish for weeks, it never lost the north. Not the magnetic north the maesters prattle of, but the true north. It pointed to something fixed, at the very axis of the world. Through labyrinths of fog and mad currents that would bewilder the finest navigators, it guided us with unfailing precision. It is pure magic."
Aenar studied Corlys's conviction, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his eyes. He did not correct him. Why explain that the arcane principles channeling and refining the world's energies surpassed raw sorcery? Letting the myth flourish was far more powerful.
At a gesture from Corlys, his aides brought forth a cornucopia of proof.
"Behold, Aenar. These are the true riches." He lifted a fruit with a rough, crimson skin. "In Urthos, we found fruits that bleed honey—their flesh so sweet it can sweeten an entire cask of wine. There are nuts that are a meal unto themselves, rich meat enough to sate hunger for a whole day."
He pointed to a cage where a small green-furred primate clung to the bars, watching with bright, intelligent eyes. "The animals… creatures never dreamed of in our bestiaries. I brought felines striped like the shadows of the forest, agile and silent. And in the salt marshes of Urthos, amphibians that glow in the dark, a ghostly green light that flickers in chorus at nightfall. All this can be studied, tamed, integrated into the realm."
Corlys extended his hand, offering one of the scarlet fruits to Aenar.
"You gave me the tools to sail the intangible, to defy death and disease. And I bring you in return the fruits of a new world. Urthos is no myth. It is a larder, an arsenal, and a land awaiting the mark of the dragon. What do you command next?"
Aenar accepted the fruit, its strange weight resting in his palm. The future was no longer merely a dream or a prophecy. It was solid earth, laden with strange harvests and luminous beasts, waiting to be claimed.
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Chapter 9: Faith of Steel and Ice – Part 3
The Great Hall of Winterfell was a world apart. While the halls of the South gleamed with golden light and colorful silks, here reigned the lengthening shadows, the smell of burning pine and polished leather. The granite walls, thick enough to muffle even the fiercest howls of the wind, had borne witness to centuries of winters and stern tales. At the heart of this northern stronghold, two men faced each other across a massive oak table.
Aenar Targaryen dominated the chamber not merely with his height, but with a presence that made the very air seem heavier. Across from him sat Bernhard Stark, brother to the late Lord Stark and regent of Winterfell during the minority of his nephew, Cregan. Bernhard tried to hold himself as an equal, yet his keen eyes betrayed the calculating mind behind them.
"Winterfell thanks Your Grace for the honor of your visit," said Bernhard, his voice rough, in the manner of the North. "Young Cregan is in his chambers, under the care of his maester. A promising boy, but… still green, as one might expect."
Aenar studied the man, his violet, reptilian eyes catching every fleeting expression. He did not answer the greeting, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.
"Boys grow, Lord Bernhard," he said at last, his voice a deep resonance that echoed softly through the hall. "And Starks have ever been known to grow quickly, especially under winter's weight."
Bernhard frowned faintly, realizing subtlety would not avail him with this king. "Of course, Your Grace. Yet the North is a merciless land. Leadership requires experience. A steady hand. Perhaps… it would be more prudent for the stability of the realm if the regency continued until the boy proved capable of bearing the burden."
There it was. The veiled suggestion, the faint scent of ambition Aenar had already expected.
"Prudence," Aenar repeated the word as if tasting it. "Is it prudent for a wolf to teach its cub to hunt—or to devour the prey itself in its stead?" He leaned forward, and even across the wide table, his presence seemed to expand. "Cregan Stark is the rightful heir of Winterfell. The blood of Brandon the Builder flows in his veins. To my eyes, that is proof enough."
He paused, his gaze cutting into Bernhard.
"Do not mistake me, Regent. Your loyalty to the North is plain. But spend your wisdom guiding the future Lord Stark, not… obstructing his path." His voice was a blade of cold iron. "To hasten or hinder the natural course of succession would be an act of deep folly. And fools rarely live to see the winter come."
Bernhard seemed to shrink slightly in his chair, the warning landing like a physical blow. Ambition gave way to sudden caution.
"The Iron Throne," Aenar continued, leaning back and shifting his tone, "recognizes the vital importance of the North. And to seal this alliance, when young Cregan comes of age, a Targaryen princess shall be given to him in marriage. A bond of blood between Dragon and Wolf, to face the trials yet to come."
The proposal hung in the air, altering the game entirely. No longer was it about a regency—it was about a golden future for House Stark, sanctioned by the king himself.
Aenar rose in one fluid motion, bringing the audience to its end.
"Care well for your nephew, Lord Bernhard. The future of the North rests upon your shoulders. And upon his. I ride now for the Wall. When I return, I expect to see the heir of Winterfell a step closer to embracing his legacy."
Without waiting for a reply, Aenar turned and strode from the Great Hall, his black cloak trailing across the stone floor. Bernhard Stark remained seated, the seed of ambition now smothered by the frost of reality and the weight of a royal promise. The Dragon had not come to bargain with a regent; he had come to claim the loyalty of Winterfell's heir. And Bernhard now understood, with painful clarity, that any deviation from that path would mean his ruin.
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Chapter 9: Faith of Steel and Ice – Final Part
The wind beyond the Wall was not merely cold; it was a conscious entity, a blade of pure wintry hatred seeking any seam in cloth or soul to freeze and shatter. Aenar Targaryen, astride Zekrom, hovered over the great barrier of ice, a dark and menacing silhouette against the boundless white. Years before, his mother, Queen Alysanne, had been repelled by these same airs, the ancient wards of the Children of the Forest weaving a net of aversion that even Silverwing's heart had not dared cross.
Aenar closed his eyes, his hand resting on the frost-chilled scales of Zekrom's neck. He did not attempt to break the enchantments. Instead, he drew upon his own essence—not only the fire of the dragon, but the core of his existence, forged in a crucible of Valyrian magic older and more indomitable than the pacts of the First Men. He wrapped himself and his dragon in that primordial identity. To the woven spells of the Wall, they became a void, an inconsistency in reality. The Wall's power slid over them like water over oil, and Zekrom, with a low, triumphant roar that seemed to defy the very concept of ice, beat his wings and crossed into the forbidden North. The ward remained intact, yet powerless against something it could not recognize.
The land below was a frozen nightmare of skeletal pines and lakes locked under a sky of lead. The silence was so deep it seemed a sound unto itself. Aenar did not search long. He felt an ancient, non-human thread of consciousness brushing the edge of his perception. Following it, Zekrom descended upon the edge of a grove of gnarled weirwoods, their bone-white branches forming a natural cathedral against the pale sky.
From the interwoven shadows emerged a figure. Small, no taller than his waist, with skin like oak moss and eyes large as pigeons' eggs, glowing amber with the light of a thousand moons. A Child of the Forest. She did not hide, nor show fear. She held a spear of obsidian, but her stance was one of judgment, not immediate threat.
Aenar dismounted, his boots sinking into the snow without sound. He remained still, allowing the creature to study him. Then he opened his mind—not to be read, but to read. His consciousness, honed sharp as Blackfyre's edge, slid into those great amber eyes and plunged into the stream of thought behind them.
What he found was not language but a river of impressions, memories, and intent. He saw flashes of vast green forests beneath a warmer sun, the building of the Wall by human and non-human hands alike. And he felt the Child's cold, practical calculation. She saw him as an anomaly, a dangerous variable. She would lead him toward the looming darkness—the Other—and watch. If he triumphed, he might prove an ally of unimaginable strength. If he fell, his death would serve as warning, and her kind would retreat deeper into the earth, surviving as always. In her ancestral mind, he was an experiment. The audacity—that a creature barely to his knees should treat him as a rat in a maze—sent a spark of irritation down his spine.
He withdrew his consciousness. The Child blinked, sensing the intrusion, but did not flinch. Instead, she inclined her head subtly, her eyes indicating a narrow, shadowed vale ahead, where darkness seemed to coagulate. The invitation and the test were made.
Aenar advanced on foot, Zekrom crawling behind him like a moving mountain of black scales. The air grew colder still, a cold that seared the lungs. And then, at the vale's center, it appeared.
An Other.
Taller than any man, slender and elegant, forged of living ice. Its armor gleamed like eternal frost, shimmering with a pale blue radiance that drained the world of heat. Its eyes were shards of the deepest night sky, impersonal and cruel. But Aenar sensed more. A tether. A vast, ancient consciousness watched him through the creature. The Night's King. This Other was but an avatar, distant eyes and distant will. The scrutiny that fell upon him was older than the First Men, heavier than winter itself.
Both the Child hidden in the trees and the lord of ice before him judged him. They saw him as a piece upon their eternal game of cyvasse—a variable to be weighed, tested, used, or discarded.
The fury that stirred within Aenar was not hot, but cold. Silent, absolute rage. He was no pawn. He was the board itself.
The Other lifted a hand of glacial mail. No words—only command. From the snow around them, dozens of corpses stirred. Wights. The long-dead—wildlings, bears, beasts—rising with spectral blue fire in their eyes, their movements jerky and horrific. They encircled dragon and rider, a silent, obedient horde.
Then the Other turned its palm toward Aenar. A wave of cold so absolute it split the very air surged forth. Power that had frozen armies in place, shattered steel, and snuffed out life in an instant.
Aenar did not move.
The wave struck him full… and dissolved. His skin did not chill. The wards of ice that defined the creature's existence were nothing before the primordial fire at his core. The air shimmered with undissipated heat.
"Miscalculation," Aenar whispered, his voice as cutting and cold as the northern gale.
He raised his left hand, relaxed. In the palm of his glove, a point of light took shape. Not flame, but a spark—pure Valyrian energy, so dense it warped the light about it. Tiny, yet more luminous than noon's sun, flooding the vale with ghostly brilliance.
The Other recoiled a step. Its star-blue eyes betrayed no fear, but sharp alarm, frantic reassessment. The Night's King's distant mind pressed heavy, urgent, incredulous.
Aenar gave no reprieve. With a snap of his right fingers, the spark flew.
It did not strike with speed, but inevitability. And when it touched the icy armor, the Other ceased to be. No explosion, no scream, no vapor. Only silence absolute, then a flare of brilliance swallowing its form, leaving nothing but fine crystalline dust drifting down like winter's frozen tears.
The shockwave that followed was noiseless yet devastating. Every wight within a league collapsed at once, breaking into fragments of bone and rime. The ancient weirwoods nearby splintered into charred ruins. The ground itself, snow, ice, and centuries of permafrost, was vaporized, leaving a vast smoking crater of black glass and molten stone. The echo of the earth's agony rolled like a thunder not of this world.
Zekrom roared, a primal triumph that shook distant peaks and loosed avalanches from their slopes.
Aenar turned slowly. His gaze fell upon the Child of the Forest. She was no longer hidden. She stood exposed at the crater's edge, trembling uncontrollably. Her great amber eyes, once cold with ancient calculation, were wide with incomprehensible terror. Her mind, a fragile silver thread he could sense, was chaos and fear. Her plans, her measured pragmatism, were gone. She no longer saw ally or tool. She saw the end of all things.
She gestured weakly toward the weirwood grove. "C-come," she stammered, voice broken, unrecognizable.
He followed. Beneath the tangled roots of the greatest weirwood he had ever seen—so vast its crown seemed to brace the heavens—they entered a tunnel. It led down into a cavern immense and warm, damp with earth and fungi and an ancient, gentle magic. Bioluminescent mushrooms glowed green, casting spectral light. Dozens of amber eyes blinked from the dark, watching him with awe and dread.
At the cavern's heart, seated upon a throne of roots and moss, was their leader. A Child so ancient she seemed one with the tree itself. Moss crept over her wrinkled skin; pale blossoms grew from her branchlike hair. Her eyes were the oldest Aenar had ever beheld, wells of memory that had witnessed the dawn of mankind.
"You… destroyed a part of Him," the leader whispered, her voice the slow groan of roots shifting under earth, heavy with millennia of weariness. "The Great Other will not forget. He is patient. And He is one."
"He is welcome to remember," Aenar replied, his calm after devastation more terrible than any war cry. "And welcome to try. My patience, however, is limited." He paused, his words echoing in the cavern. "I have heard the whispers of your young sentinel. You are the last guardians of a world long lost. Your magic runs deep, a knowledge of earth and song that men, in arrogance, forgot. The North under my protection will be a refuge. Leave these lands of death. Come south. Live in peace beneath the mountains or in forests I grant you. Help me heal this realm with the wisdom only you hold. Together, we can make Westeros honor its past and secure its future."
The leader shook her head slowly, burdened with infinite sorrow. "We… remember. We remember the steel of the First Men, and their oaths. We remember the Andals crossing the sea, bringing a clamorous god and a fire that burned our weirwoods, our gods, and all that did not fit their world of stone. The Faith of the Seven will not abide us. They call us demons, abominations. They will hunt us, as they did before, until our last song falls silent."
Aenar regarded her, and a cold, predatory smile curved his lips. He did not need to invade her mind; his eyes bore his message.
"The Faith of the Andals," he said, each word heavy with sinister finality, dropping into the cavern like a blade, "will not be a problem much longer."
He offered no further explanation. No details. The statement lingered in the damp air, a dark hook cast into the near future, a prophecy of imminent ruin he fully intended to fulfill. The Faith's fate, he made clear to those ancient beings, was already sealed. Their time of hiding was ending.
The air in King's Landing's main square was heavy, laden not only with the day's heat but with the fanatical fervor emanating from the High Septon. From his makeshift pulpit, his voice, a sharpened instrument of fear and condemnation, cut through the crowd.
"—and the red demons of Essos!" he thundered, his face flushed with sanctimonious rage. "They do not bring progress, they bring perdition! Their flames do not warm, but consume! The magic they practice is a poison to the souls of the faithful, a blasphemous challenge to the Seven Who Are One!"
The people listened. Some with wide eyes, absorbing every word as if it were the truth itself, their murmurs of agreement feeding the septon's fury. But there were others. Many others. Their heads were bowed, eyes fixed on the packed dirt, avoiding the gaze of their more zealous neighbors. None dared protest aloud, not yet. But in their silence and in the set of their shoulders, a quiet resistance was forming. They remembered. They remembered the cold, the hunger, the sickness. They remembered the man they called the Healer. The contradiction between what they heard and what they had lived was beginning to crack the monolithic foundation of the Faith.
While the shadow of condemnation spread on one side of the city, a soft, persistent light was at work on the other.
In a humble courtyard, where the smell of horse urine mingled with that of soup cooked over a low fire, a child, no older than ten, clutched at the hem of Kinvara's red dress.
"Thank you, my lady," the girl whispered, her eyes brimming with profound gratitude. "My father says the fever broke. He... he can sit up in bed now."
Kinvara, a vision of supernatural beauty who seemed carved from amber and fire, knelt, bringing her gaze level with the child's. Her smile was not one of triumph, but of a genuine kindness that warmed the air around her.
"The Lord of Light is generous to pure hearts, little swallow," her voice was a soft melody, an absolute contrast to the shouts echoing in the distance. "He heard your prayers. Your father will continue to improve."
As the child ran back home, a more intimate, secret smile touched Kinvara's lips. Her mind flew far away, to an unforgettable night under the vaulted ceiling of the great temple in Volantis, where flames danced on gold reflectors and the air was thick with the scent of incense and power. The heat was not just from the hundreds of candles, but from Aenar's touch, from the promise shared in whispers between a king and his priestess, far from all eyes, in the very heart of her faith. She remembered his recent request, delivered by a discreet messenger: "Come to King's Landing. Plant your faith under their noses. Provoke them. Let them show their true face so I can rip it off once and for all."
It was a dangerous dance, a chess game with the soul of the kingdom at stake. And she, Kinvara, was the red bishop moving to open the enemy's flank.
Closing her eyes for a brief moment, her hands rested on the next patient, an old man with skin stained by age and labor. Beneath her fingers, an almost imperceptible heat emanated, a spark of the power she channeled.
R'hllor, Lord of Light, you who gave me vision and power, hear my prayer, she thought, her faith a constant flame in her breast. Guide the hand of your chosen one, the Dragon King. May these small flames I kindle today become the inferno that purges the darkness from this realm. May their Faith prove to be made of clay, so that ours, of fire and life, may triumph.
The silent prayer echoed in her soul. Then, she opened her eyes, determination replacing reflection.
"Come, grandfather," she said, her voice once again calm and reassuring. "Tell me where it hurts."
And so, while the Faith of the Seven preached fear, the servant of the Lord of Light practiced healing, one patient at a time, sowing the seeds of a revolution that would consume everything in its path.
Now I need to know your opinion on two things. The first is about Laena's fate. I haven't forgotten about her. I just don't know what to do with her. I honestly think I'll make her marry Daemon, but more because I don't know what to do than because I really like the couple. I saw someone asking so I'll say it here. They came in thinking about 2 wives for Daemon, just like Viserys will have too. Aegon had 2 wives. The MC doesn't care if the other Targaryens have them too.
Second, I want to know what you think of this idea, which is about Rhaenyra. She will marry Laenor, but at her request, the MC will use magic to help them have children, so they will have legitimate children. I want to make Jacaerys legitimate, along with a twin sister he will have, who will be married to Cregan. The others, I don't know if they will be strong children or not, hahaha. Sorry for the joke. I couldn't resist. I think that's it.
Okay, maybe I don't have much time these days. I have my final project to do. Maybe a chapter is late or is noticeably shorter than the standard. I apologize for now, so that's it. Tell me what you think, and see you next time.