Here's another chapter released for you guys. As I warned in the note, it's quite full of lemon scenes, but I thought it would be better to tone them down. I don't have much time to write, so this chapter was done in a rush. If there's anything out of place, let me know, as I didn't have much time to review, and in English, something might slip by without me noticing. That's it. Happy reading.
The last light of dusk bid farewell to King's Landing, giving way to the night that wrapped the Red Keep in its starry cloak. But for King Aenar Targaryen and his queen, Gael, the arrival of darkness did not mean rest. Their bodies, blessed—or cursed—by the fullness of dragon blood, knew no weakness of mortal fatigue. They were pure energy, a Valyrian fire that burned without consuming, and on that night, that fire would find its most primal expression.
Inside the royal chambers, lit only by the dancing flames in the hearth and beeswax candles, the dance began. Aenar, whose purple eyes saw through any mask the court imposed, gazed at Gael with an intensity that was both possession and surrender. His hands traced the outline of her body—from shoulders to the curves of her hips—with a certainty that asked no permission but reaffirmed an ancient truth: they were one.
Gael did not resist; she responded. Her own blood sang the same fiery melody. Her fingers tangled in his silver hair, pulling him into a kiss that was less an act of affection and more a battle for breath. Their bodies intertwined in silk sheets, a clash of muscles and wills where there was no winner or loser, only the rising symphony of a passion that the entire night would barely be enough to satisfy. The air filled with the sound of their synchronized breathing, a panting and steady rhythm that was the opposite of exhaustion—it was proof of their superior nature. They did not tire; they fed on each other's desire, transforming it into renewed strength with every touch, every stolen sigh.
Hours passed. When the first ray of sun finally gilded the horizon, they lay entwined, far from spent. Their spirits were alert, their bodies vibrant with the energy released.
"I want to go to the island," Aenar whispered, his lips against Gael's neck. "Where it all began for us. I want to celebrate my nameday far from these walls and whispers."
"And how shall we go, my dragon?" she asked, her fingers tracing circles on his chest. "By boat? A smooth journey?"
Aenar smiled, a gesture heavy with power and promise. "Boat? No. We will go as Targaryens must. Through the skies."
---
Morning found the dragon's courtyard reverberating with primordial power. Three colossal presences awaited. Zekrom, once known as the Cannibal, was darkness made flesh. His green eyes glowed with restrained fury, and his scales, black as coal, seemed to absorb the sunlight. Beside him, Reshiram, the ancient Grey Ghost, was his perfect opposite: a vision of pure white and ethereal grace, his wings like those of a celestial bird, a soft warmth radiating from his body.
And then there was Balerion, the Black Terror. The largest of the three, a living legend whose mere breath was a gust of history and conquest. His wings, like the sails of a slaver ship, unfurled with a sound that tore through the morning air. Riding a dragon was the ultimate assertion of Targaryen power, and having three of them, including the legendary mount of Aegon the Conqueror, under his command was a declaration of uncontested sovereignty.
Aenar mounted Zekrom with the familiarity of one who shares a mind with the beast. Gael climbed onto Reshiram with a grace that made it seem the dragon bowed to receive her. With a silent command, the three giants took flight. Zekrom rose with brute force and directness, while Reshiram ascended like a feather carried by a thermal. Balerion followed, an ancient warlord guarding his heirs.
The journey was an affirmation of their dominion not only over men but over the very skies. The small island of basalt rock and black sand, their youthful refuge, appeared below them within minutes. The dragons landed—Zekrom with a thud that echoed on the rocks, Reshiram with a gentle touch, and Balerion with an impact that made the ground tremble. Their cries, a chorus of ancient power, echoed along the deserted beach. The sanctuary was safe.
The day was spent in memories and laughter. And, as was inevitable, the desire that always burned between them rekindled. Under the shadow of a rock, with the sand as their bed and the sound of the sea as their music, they joined again. This time, it was not the tireless fury of the night, but a slow and deep celebration of their love. Every touch, every look, every whisper was amplified by the solitude of paradise. It was a consummation of souls, a moment of perfect peace and union.
Exhausted and satisfied, they rested entwined. It was then that Aenar felt it. Through the bond that united him to Zekrom, a new spark of consciousness—tiny, fragile, but unmistakably alive. It was not a thought, but a presence, a small flame he had never felt before. His eyes widened. In the distance, Zekrom lifted his head and emitted a low, hoarse sound, not of alarm, but of… recognition.
"Aenar?" Gael asked, sensing the change in him.
He turned to her, his trembling hand finding her smooth belly. "It's not possible," he whispered, his voice choked with overwhelming emotion. "I… feel something. In the bond. A new flame."
Tears welled in his purple eyes as the purest smile Gael had ever seen lit his face. "Are you sure?"
"Dragon blood does not lie," he declared, his voice now steady and full of fierce joy. "It is a gift from the gods. Our heir is on the way."
---
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was crowded and noisy, filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. The King's nameday feast was in full swing. Aenar, dressed in the black and red colors of his House, raised his hand, and the hall fell silent.
"My lords and ladies!" his voice rang out, powerful and calm. "I thank you for celebrating this day with me. But a king is made not only by his past, but by the future he builds." He extended his hand to Gael, who approached with a serene smile. "Today, on the island that witnessed the first steps of our love, the gods have granted us the greatest blessing."
He paused, letting the anticipation hang in the air.
"The blood of our blood has been conceived. The heir of my body, the future of Westeros, grows in the womb of his queen." He raised his cup, his eyes sparkling with a triumph that was both personal and political. "Let us toast! To the prince or princess who will soon join us, and ensure that the dragon's line remains strong for thousands of generations!"
The hall erupted in cheers. "Long live King Aenar! Long live Queen Gael! Long live the future child!" The shouts were so loud they almost drowned out the powerful triple roar that echoed from outside, coming from the dragon's courtyard. Zekrom, Reshiram, and Balerion seemed to echo their king's joy, announcing to all who would hear that a new dragon was on the way.
Interlude: The Price of Blood in Lys
The sweet scent of Lys flowers filled the inner courtyard of the House Rogare mansion. It was a scene of apparent domestic tranquility, a rare moment of peace for Prince Daemon Targaryen. He watched his wife, the beautiful Lysara Rogare, playing with their son, Baelon—a lively eight-year-old boy who bore the name of his grandfather, the late Prince Baelon the Brave. The boy chased a butterfly, his laughter echoing like a soft melody in the quiet air.
Then a sharp pang, a restlessness that was not his own, shattered his serenity. Through the bond that united him to his beast, he felt Caraxes, the Blood-Red Dragon, shudder on the cliffs where he was perched. The dragon's heart, normally a furnace of restrained fury, beat with an alarmed rhythm. "Dragons see and feel things differently," his uncle, King Aenar's words echoed in his mind. Caraxes did not see assassins; he sensed the intent to kill, the scent of bloodied steel even before it was drawn.
"Something is wrong," he whispered, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of Dark Sister, the legendary Valyrian steel blade once wielded by Visenya Targaryen and now mastered by him.
No sooner had the word "wrong" left his lips than silence was shattered. Figures dressed in black emerged from the shadows like demons, invading the courtyard. They were numerous, moving with the deadly efficiency of men who feared no death. Laughter was replaced by screams. The guards of House Rogare, loyal and brave, drew their swords and charged the invaders. The clash of metal on metal filled the air. Daemon, with the fury of the awakened dragon, threw himself into the fight, Dark Sister a silver and deadly whirlwind. He positioned himself as a living barrier between the assassins and his family.
Despite their bravery, the cruel math of war prevailed. The guards, outnumbered, fell one by one. The situation became desperate. Then a deafening roar, charged with primordial fury, tore through the skies.
Caraxes descended like a red comet, a warning of fire and doom. His long, sinuous neck stretched out, and a jet of red flames incinerated a group of assassins before they could reach the family. The terror a dragon inspires was overwhelming; many attackers recoiled, screaming in fear.
"For Caraxes!" Daemon shouted, his voice rising above the chaos.
Lysara, with a maternal instinct stronger than any fear, grabbed little Baelon, who was crying and clinging to her, pressing him against her chest. She used her own body as a living shield for her son, bravely running toward the winged beast that was their only salvation. Daemon protected them from behind, a human shield between his family and the killers.
Then the projectiles came. Arrows and crossbow bolts whistled through the air. Daemon felt a hot, cutting impact on his shoulder, then another in his thigh. A muffled cry from Lysara told him she had been struck as well. By the grace of the gods, or sheer luck, none of the wounds were mortal.
As they took refuge behind the massive bulk of Caraxes, Daemon, breathless and bleeding, heard the shouts of orders from the remaining attackers. The accent was unmistakable: the harsh, quick dialect of Myr. The puzzle piece clicked in his mind. It was the Triarchy—the alliance between the Free Cities of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. They had survived the annihilation of Myr years before and now sought revenge for what Aenar had done to them. It was a cowardly attack, far from the open battlefield.
---
Cut to: The Map Room, Red Keep, King's Landing
Daemon, pale and with his shoulder bandaged, finished his report to his uncle, King Aenar.
"… They underestimated the loyalty of a dragon, Your Grace. And a mother's instinct. Caraxes burned the rest, and we fled. I stopped first at Tidewater so Corlys could tend to our wounds. Lysara and Baelon are safe there."
Aenar listened, his face an impenetrable mask, but his purple eyes glittered with dangerous coldness. The atmosphere in the room was already heavy when a man of common face and simple clothes—the king's secret Master of Whisperers—entered and whispered something in Aenar's ear.
The king slowly turned to Daemon. "Your courage and that of your son will not be in vain, nephew. My Master of Whisperers confirms your suspicions. The Triarchy has not been content to attack my family. They are already moving their pawns in the Steps, controlling the sea routes and attacking any ship flying the colors of Westeros."
He rose, and his presence seemed to fill the entire room. The air grew static, charged with the scent of ozone that always accompanied him.
"It seems Essos has forgotten the fire of the dragon," Aenar declared, his voice a contained roar. "It is time we remind them."
---
Parte 2: The King, the Heir, and the Maiden
The silence in Aenar's study was broken only by the crackling fire in the hearth. The king sat on the leather sofa, his attention divided between a report from Tidewater and the far more immediate reality unfolding before him.
Alicent Hightower knelt on the floor between his legs. Her face, an effigy of newfound devotion, was turned toward him. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra Targaryen was beside him on the sofa, kneeling on the soft cushion. Her body—a testament to her swift transition into adulthood—pressed against his arm. Her breasts, already fuller than most women her age, were level with his face.
Aenar turned his mouth to Rhaenyra's neck, kissing and gently nibbling the soft, pale skin. His lips then traveled downward, finding the curve of her breast, and then the nipple, which he took into his mouth. A low moan escaped Rhaenyra as her hands tangled in his silver hair. Meanwhile, his free hand, resting on Rhaenyra's thigh, found her center. His long, skilled fingers slid inside her with an ease that spoke of familiarity. The depth of his penetration made her gasp, her body arching in direct response to the touch. Aenar's hand on Alicent's nape was a firm guide—not forceful, but a constant reminder of his will.
The two young women were naked, their skin gleaming in the firelight. Aenar, by contrast, wore his trousers and a loose tunic, open enough to grant access but still a symbol of his status and control. He was the conductor, and they, his most willing instruments.
As he felt Alicent move between his legs and heard Rhaenyra's breathy panting in his ear, Aenar's mind drifted back. He recalled the public rebuff he had given Rhaenyra during a feast. He had considered her a spoiled girl, used to getting everything she wanted with a snap of her fingers. His rejection should have driven her away. Instead, it ignited a fire.
Rhaenyra became persistent. She sought him in the corridors, whispered insinuations during small council sessions, wore dresses that left little to the imagination. Aenar, irritated by her audacity and secretly intrigued by her stubbornness, finally yielded. The first time was not gentle. It was quick, impersonal, almost cruel, against a cold wall in a deserted hallway. He expected it to humiliate her, to scare her off. Instead, when it ended, Rhaenyra's eyes shone not with tears, but with admiration.
"You are a true dragon," she whispered, adjusting her clothes with trembling hands but a triumphant smile on her lips.
The encounters continued. They were a dirty secret, an escape valve from court boredom and Rhaenyra's repressed fury. Then one day, she appeared in his chambers—not alone, but with Alicent Hightower in tow.
"I brought you a gift, Your Grace," Rhaenyra announced, her tone defiant.
Before Aenar could respond, his hands went to the clasps of their dresses. He watched impassively as the clothes fell to the floor. Rhaenyra stood naked, confident. Alicent, on the other hand, trembled like a leaf, her arms instinctively crossed over her chest, her face flushed with shame.
Aenar showed no interest that Rhaenyra clearly expected. He barely lifted his eyes from his letter.
"Sit," he ordered, gesturing vaguely toward the sofa. "I will finish my letters."
Rhaenyra's frustration was palpable. Alicent, embarrassed, stepped toward the fallen dresses. Yet, as her fingers were about to touch the fabric, the clothes seemed to dissolve into thin air, like smoke. A small gasp of shock escaped her lips. They were trapped there, in that nakedness, by his will.
Rhaenyra, determined to provoke a reaction, sat on the sofa and flaunted herself shamelessly, spreading her legs and letting her hand wander over her own body. Alicent, after a hesitation, followed suit—her movements far more timid, her shame evident, but her curiosity stronger.
It was then that Aenar decided to peer into their minds. Rhaenyra's mind was a whirlwind of triumph and desire. He saw her recounting to Alicent, in vivid detail, their encounters with him. "You will come with me this time," Rhaenyra commanded in Alicent's mind, "and I will not take no for an answer."
Alicent's mind was a quieter place, full of shadows and guilt. He felt her fear, the sensation of betraying not only her father, Otto Hightower, but the very friendship she once had with Rhaenyra. But beneath the guilt was a spark of curiosity, a repressed desire she barely admitted to herself. He saw clearly that she was not being forced; she was carried by the irresistible tide of Rhaenyra's will and her own silent curiosity.
And then, like a pawn on a chessboard, Alicent's mind led him to Otto. Aenar's magic, refined by vivid memories and emotions, allowed him a glimpse into her father's thoughts. The surprise was that there was no outrage. Otto knew, or at least suspected. And in his calculating mind, he concluded that a scandal involving Rhaenyra and the king was useless. "It is not a serious lever," Otto thought. "Rhaenyra is a disposable piece in this regard. A true scandal, one that would shake the foundations of the Faith, would be if he were with Maegelle. But she… she is the epitome of devotion. That will never happen." The information was filed away by Aenar. Useful.
Back in the present, on the sofa that had become a stage, Aenar decided the provocation had gone far enough. He rose, and with a subtle gesture, ran his hand over the sofa. The piece of furniture shifted, transforming into a wide, low bed as if it had always been so.
Rhaenyra smiled, victorious, lying on her back and opening her arms in invitation. Alicent, however, moved with an instinct that was pure submission—she turned onto her stomach, buried her face in the sheets, and raised her hips, offering herself in a way that, if he did not read the veil of virginity and nervousness in her mind, could easily be mistaken for experience.
Aenar began with the more vulnerable. His touch on Alicent was methodical, not cruel, but distant. He explored her, feeling every tremor, every caught breath. He saw in her mind the storm of emotions—fear, shame, and finally a surprising ecstasy that overwhelmed her completely, bringing her to a silent, convulsive climax before she collapsed, exhausted, onto the bed.
Then he turned to Rhaenyra. His encounter with her was different. It was a duel. Their mouths met in kisses that were battles. He kissed her neck, the curve of her breasts, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. She was fire answering fire, until his own control broke and she too fell, defeated not by him, but by her own unbridled passion.
He alternated between them, a king attending to his most intimate subjects, until both lay still, exhausted, asleep tangled in the sheets.
Thus began the relationship. In the days and nights that followed, they met in various rooms, in shifting positions of power and submission. Sometimes Rhaenyra commanded, ordering Alicent what to do. Other times Alicent, discovering new confidence in her own body, took the initiative under Aenar's watchful gaze. He was always at the center, the conductor of that silent orchestra, reading their minds, understanding their deepest desires, and using it all to bind them more tightly to him.
And in the present, in that room, with the two toys asleep, Aenar knew this was not about pleasure. It was about control. He controlled the heir of Viserys and the daughter of the man who coveted power most. And in this game, he was the undisputed master.
---
Parte 3: The Spark and the Faith
The air in the king's chambers was heavy with the mingled scent of Narth incense and the salt of the Narrow Sea drifting through the open window. Aenar Targaryen did not move as the door opened, but every fiber of his body, attuned to the magic he carried, sensed their arrival. First came Kinvara. Her red robes seemed forged from living embers, and her crimson gaze met his with the familiarity of a flame recognizing another. Shortly after, a softer silhouette filled the doorway. Maegelle, whose name in the original history was tied to piety and healing, stood there, her modest eyes lowering briefly before fixing on him with a devotion almost tangible. No words were needed. The dance was already choreographed.
It was Maegelle who moved first, driven by unquestioning surrender. Her steps were silent on the carpet, and her hands, slightly trembling, began to undo the ties of the royal garments. Her touch was reverent, each gesture an act of worship. When Aenar's hands found her, it was as if he lit a fuse already short. Her moans were muffled against his skin, sounds of total surrender. He led her with an intensity both possessive and methodical. She received every thrust not as a challenge, but as a sacrament, an act of faith. Her body arched in silent prayer until the wave of pleasure consumed her utterly. A long, trembling sigh escaped her lips before her eyelids closed and she collapsed onto the sheets, unconscious from the overload of ecstasy, a smile of deep peace etched on her face.
Then Aenar turned to the red priestess.
Kinvara was fire incarnate. She did not surrender; he found her. Their kiss was a battle for dominance, their hands exploring each other's bodies with the same ferocity. While the connection with Maegelle was a deep, tranquil river, the one with Kinvara was a storm on the Narrow Sea. He possessed her with incandescent fury, and she answered with equal flames, each moan a challenge, each gasp an assertion of her own power. It was a conflagration of wills, the fusion of two fiery spirits burning together to the bitter end. Her climax was not surrender, but a shared triumph, a muffled roar that echoed through the chamber before she too fell, exhausted but vibrant, beside Maegelle's inert form.
The dance, however, was far from over. As Maegelle awoke gasping, and Kinvara caught her breath with a defiant look, Aenar led them through successive rounds. It was a cycle of awakening and consumption. Maegelle, in her devotion, found new peaks of surrender each time, her body responding with renewed sensitivity until she fainted again, weaker but more fulfilled. Kinvara, in turn, met each new thrust as a duel, her energy drained not by submission but by the glorious exhaustion of a well-fought battle. Finally, after one last slow union that made Maegelle moan in near-breaking surrender and Kinvara arch her back in a final, powerful spasm, both lay still, utterly spent and asleep, with the warm seed of Aenar dripping from their wombs.
Hours later, the three reclined among the sheets in a post-coital languor. The evening light gilded their bare skin. Kinvara, resting against his arm, broke the silence, her voice a little hoarse but filled with satisfaction.
"The plan advances, my king," she began, her red eyes fixed on the hearth's flames. "The seed of discord we planted is sprouting fast. Your public appearances, the 'healings' I allowed them to witness… it all ferments among the common folk."
She explained that the fall of the fanatical High Septon and the aggressive sermons against the "red demons" were paradoxically creating a rift. The people, once blind with faith, were beginning to question. The High Septon's authority was no longer absolute law.
"They feel cornered," Kinvara continued, a smile playing on her lips. "A cornered animal is a dangerous one. They are steps away from doing something drastic. Something we can use to justify the final action. They are close to taking up arms."
It was then that Maegelle, resting her head on Aenar's other shoulder, spoke in her soft voice, contrasting with Kinvara's fiery tone. Her words, however, echoed the priestess's, but came from the very heart of the Faith.
"It is true," she whispered. "Discontent is palpable among the septons. They do not understand why the Seven do not punish the… the 'red witch.'" She paused, a soft blush rising to her cheeks. "But there is something else. They… they see me differently."
Aenar turned his face to her, curiosity shining in his purple eyes. "How so, Maegelle?"
She hesitated, as if confessing a profane secret. "The youth that overflows from me… the vitality everyone notices and talks about… they attribute it to a blessing from the Seven. They say I am favored, pure and devout, and that is why the gods reward me with this energy." She lowered her eyes, embarrassed. "They do not know that it is your… your seed, released in me every time we unite, that makes my body bloom and shine like this. They see me almost as a saint, and every day my power of influence among the most devout grows. I can hear things, know their plans before they are even set in motion."
The revelation was so deliciously ironic that Aenar could not suppress a low, genuine laugh that echoed through the chamber. The very vehicle of his "blessing"—the essence of his power over her—was being interpreted as a miracle of the gods he sought to weaken. It was the perfect weapon.
"Then let them believe," he said, his voice now firm and resolute. "Let Maegelle's 'sanctity' continue to blind them and open doors for her. And you, my flame," he said, looking at Kinvara, "keep pressing. Provoke them, stoke their fears. I want them to show their true face of intolerance for the whole realm to see. Let them try something drastic."
Kinvara smiled, a dangerous and beautiful gesture. "With pleasure, Your Grace."
In that bed, entwined in a web of pleasure, politics, and power, the three knew the game was nearing its end. The Faith of the Seven was being maneuvered toward its own destruction, and they were at the center of the web, ready to ignite the fuse that would burn the foundations of the old world so that a new one, forged by fire and the will of the Dragon King, could rise.
---
Interlúdio: A Second Bride and a Dragon's Plan
The response of King Aenar Targaryen to the cowardly attack on Prince Daemon and his family was not a mere counter-attack; it was annihilation. Through the unique bond he shared with his beasts, the King, even from leagues away in King's Landing, unleashed his dragons. The message to the Triarchy was clear: try to take one dragon's family, and all their fire will fall upon you.
In the treacherous waters of the Stepstones,the newly built fortresses and bases of the Triarchy were scoured by a storm of fire and teeth. Caraxes, Daemon's Blood Wyrm, dove upon the ships with vengeful fury. Alongside him, Vhagar, commanded by Laena Velaryon, brought the crushing weight of age and power.
But the true spectacle of terror came from Zekrom and Balerion. The two winged beasts carried no riders on their backs. They acted with a supernatural synchronicity, moving as extensions of Aenar's own will, coordinating attacks with an impossible precision. They were living proof of the King's absolute and unique bond with his creatures, a bond that transcended the need for physical proximity. The Triarchy's naval power in the Stepstones was reduced to ashes and smoldering hulls in a single night, a victory so decisive it echoed through all corners of Westeros and Essos.
A great tourney was convened in King's Landing to celebrate the victory and the birth ofPrince Viserys's long-awaited son. The air in the capital was thick with triumph and relief. Aenar's gaze fell upon Daemon and his family. Next to the Rogue Prince, Laena Velaryon carried not only the Valyrian heritage of her house but a glow in her eyes that spoke of a deep passion for Daemon. Aenar knew it would not be long before his impulsive nephew came to him for permission to take Laena as his second wife.
In a prominent moment, Queen Gael entered the gardens with her newborn daughter, the Princess Heir Galadriel. The little princess was the embodiment of their union: her hair was a soft gold, but her eyes were a deep, vibrant purple, slitted like those of a dragon, the unmistakable mark she inherited from Aenar and Gael herself.
The celebration,however, was marred by personal tragedy. Word came from Viserys's chambers that his wife, Aemma Arryn, was in labor, and the birth had taken a terrible turn. The Maesters presented Viserys with the horrific choice that would define his life—save the mother or the child. Tormented, Viserys was on the verge of repeating history.
It was then that Aenar intervened. He channeled his power, stanching Aemma's bleeding and closing her wounds. Life returned to the queen's pale face. However, even with all his power, there were limits. The baby, a boy, had been stillborn. Aemma lived, but the price was the child and, as the Maesters later confirmed, her ability to ever bear more children.
The Political Maneuver and the Fall of Otto
Abouta week after the tragic birth, Viserys's resentment and pain found a dangerous outlet. Influenced by the ambitious whispers of Otto Hightower and his own feelings for the young Alicent, he came to Aenar's study. Accompanied by Aemma, Otto, and Alicent, Prince Viserys made his request to the King.
"Your Grace," Viserys began, his voice strained. "My wife, Aemma, can no longer perform her duty to provide the realm with heirs. The line of succession must be secured. I do not wish to set her aside, but I ask for your royal permission to follow the ways of our Valyrian ancestors. I wish to take Lady Alicent as my second wife."
Aenar was deeply irritated and disappointed. He saw Otto's machinations clearly. He saw Aemma's silent resignation and Alicent's docile acceptance, a piece in her father's game. He saw how Viserys had let himself be swayed, despite all warnings.
With a cold nod, Aenar consented. "So be it," he said, his voice icy. "But know, nephew, that a prince's decisions have consequences."
As punishment for allowing himself to be led by the ambition of others, Aenar removed Viserys from his post as Master of Laws. Likewise, Otto Hightower was stripped of his position as assistant, effectively excluding them from the inner circle that decided the realm's future. For Viserys, it was a humiliating reprimand. For Otto, it was a monumental strategic setback.
What no one but Aenar knew was that this was just the first move in a much larger game.He had allowed the union between Viserys and Alicent precisely because it served his long-term goal.
His vengeance against House Hightower for their audacity would be slow, methodical, and complete. He would work in the shadows to eliminate the house's influence and members one by one, until only Alicent and her children remained. These children, raised in the Red Keep and loyal only to the Targaryen name, would inherit the mantle of House Hightower, transforming a ten-thousand-year lineage into a mere cadet house, loyal and subservient to the Targaryens.
It was the poetic and cold vengeance of a dragon: using his enemies' own plans to ensure their destruction and his legacy. Revenge was indeed a dish best served cold, and no palate was more patient than a dragon's.
Hey guys, what did you think of the chapter? I decided to leave Rhaenyra and Laenor's wedding for the next chapter, plus what they'll do with the Stepstone Isles, now conquered by the Targaryens. And before anyone comes talking about a woman being the heir and that this will cause a dance of the dragons among the sons of Aenar, I recommend reading all the chapters again, or if you find it too much, just the MC's encounter with the White Walker beyond the Wall and you'll see this dance. There's no chance of it even happening. The protagonist is so powerful that no one can even think of rebelling against him. Well, maybe a stupid bastard, son of an even bigger idiot (literally).