Prologue: The Mattress and the Crown
The air in the King's chambers was thick and heavy, saturated with the scent of sex and the smoke from the ebony candles Aenar preferred. Between the disheveled black silk sheets, the bodies of Aenar and Maegelle were entwined. The moonlight, filtered through the colored glass window depicting the Conquest, illuminated the King's purple eyes and the ageless youth of the woman in his arms.
Maegelle rested her head on his chest, feeling his heart beat with a slow, powerful rhythm. Her fingers, long and still nimble, traced slow circles on his skin.
"They are speaking louder and louder, my dragon," she whispered, her voice a silky, intimate sound. "The septons. They see my youth not as a miracle, but as a divine right. A sign that the Seven have chosen a true handmaiden to guide the Realms."
Aenar remained silent, his hand moving along her naked spine.
"They dream of using the people's fervor to wrest the Iron Throne from your lineage," she continued. "They dream of a theocratic kingdom, with me as their saint-queen, of course, while they pull the strings from the shadows. They think you are... distracted. Mired in debauchery and your sorceries."
It was then that Aenar laughed. A low, deep, and genuinely amused sound that echoed in his chest.
"What petty ambition," he said, his eyes sparkling with amused disdain. "They play at being kings in their septs, while I reshape the very fabric of this world. Continue, Maegelle. Keep playing. Let them taste the power they will never have."
"Kinvara supports the plan," Maegelle added, subtly testing the waters. "She says that, to protect ourselves from their intolerance, she will bring faithful warriors of the Red God from Volantis. A personal guard."
"Of course she will," Aenar replied without surprise. "The tigers of Volantis are always eager for a fight. Let her bring her fanatics."
Maegelle rose slightly, leaning on her elbows. Her eyes, now serious, met his. "Some of the leaders... the most fervent... whisper that perhaps we should also prepare. In secret. That the Faith Militant, recreated in the shadows, could be a shield against your... calculated indifference." She paused calculatedly, her whisper growing darker. "And they spread other rumors too. Vile stories... that you sacrifice the maidenhood of court maidens, nobles or servants, in arcane rituals to gain power. They say the silence about these disappearances is not loyalty, but fear. Fear of awakening the dragon's wrath."
Aenar looked at her, and for the first time that night, his face lost all its humor. It wasn't anger, but a cold, absolute assessment.
"Fear," he said, his voice smooth as Valyrian steel, "is a tool as useful as worship. Let them whisper. Let them arm themselves in the shadows, convinced of their own righteousness. I want to see their courage when confronted not with a kneeling sinner, but with a standing god."
He pulled her down for a final kiss, sealing not a reconciliation, but the next phase of the deadly game they played. When they parted, Maegelle felt a chill run down her spine - not for him, but for those foolish enough to challenge the dragon in his own den.
Part 1: The Price of Peace in the Garden
116 A.C. - Gardens of the Red Keep
The peace in the gardens was a delicate farce, and Rhaenyra Targaryen knew it better than anyone. That silent, tense truce she maintained with Alicent Hightower was born not of forgiveness, but of the secret that now bound them: both shared the bed of King Aenar Targaryen.
Under the shade of a climbing rose bush, Rhaenyra watched her children. Lucerys, her second son with Laenor, slept in his Velaryon pram. Nearby, Alicent's children by Viserys—Aemond and Haelena—rested in their own. Aegon, now three, chased butterflies while Jace, her firstborn, observed with a precocious seriousness that always moved and worried Rhaenyra.
The change was subtle—a shift in air pressure, a prickle on the nape of the neck. Aenar Targaryen had entered the gardens.
And beside him, as a graceful and silent extension of his will, was his daughter, Galadriel.
At four years old, the daughter of the King and Queen Gael was a breathtaking and subtly disconcerting vision. Her height was notably greater than that of any child her age, and her movements possessed an ethereal, almost fluid elegance that made her seem to dance even when merely walking. Her hair, as silver as her father's, cascaded like a waterfall of light over her shoulders. But it was her eyes that held attention: a deep, vibrant purple, an unmistakable inheritance from Aenar, which seemed to see things beyond the visible world, beyond the farces and masks of adults. She was bound to Aenar by an almost palpable bond, a silent and absolute devotion that made her follow him everywhere like a faithful shadow.
Rhaenyra watched the King approach. He did not first direct his gaze to her or to Alicent, who sat further away, embroidering with a serene expression Rhaenyra knew to be as false as her own. He went straight to the babies' prams. With a gentleness that always shocked her, coming from that figure of such brutal and impersonal power, he brushed the back of his hand against Lucerys's chubby cheek. His fingers, capable of conjuring fire and shaping reality, were incredibly soft as they moved a curl of hair from the baby's face. He repeated the gesture with Aemond, and a tranquil, genuine smile touched his lips for a moment. It was disconcerting. The same man of whom horrors were whispered in the lowest corridors of the court—sacrifices, sorceries, pacts with demons—could display such pure and spontaneous tenderness with children not of his blood.
As Aenar moved towards them, Galadriel stayed behind, naturally drawn to the older children. Rhaenyra couldn't help a true, though slightly tense, smile as she saw Jace and little Aegon stop, open-mouthed, when Galadriel approached. Aenar's daughter did not smile. She simply raised her hands, her slender fingers moving with minimalistic grace, and from nothing, small forms began to shimmer in the air between them. They were birds and dragons made of pure white and gold light, dancing and twirling in a silent, hypnotic ballet. For Haelena, a quiet child, she created luminous fireflies—made of pure energy—that landed on the little princess's outstretched hand, eliciting a soft, enchanted sound, one of the few Rhaenyra had ever heard her make.
"My princesses," Aenar's deep and familiar voice brought Rhaenyra back to his immediate presence. He now stood before them, the pram where Lucerys and Haelena slept serving as a symbolic barrier between them and the rest of the world. His gaze swept over Rhaenyra's face and then Alicent's, and Rhaenyra felt that familiar, forbidden warmth rise up her neck. "The realm seems to rest today under this mild sun. Even the most restless hearts seem to have found a truce." His words were neutral, but his eyes said more. They knew the unrest in each of them.
"The realm, or just your own, Your Grace?" retorted Alicent, looking up from her embroidery. Her voice was soft but laden with a meaning all three understood perfectly. It was a game, a dance of words where every step was calculated.
"My heart never rests, Alicent. It only finds refuge where it can," he replied, his gaze weighing heavily on Rhaenyra, then returning to Alicent. The double meaning hung in the air, warm, intimate, and charged with promise. "Speaking of refuge... The usual invitation stands. A safe harbor against the court's storms." He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to be a shared secret. "You both should come to my chambers tonight. There are... matters that deserve our joint attention. Things best discussed away from curious eyes and childish ears."
It was a code they all understood perfectly. It wasn't just about politics, the machinations of the Faith, or the dangers surrounding the royal family. It was a reaffirmation of that peculiar pact, of that intimate truce that bound them together. A call for shared comfort in the dark, for the strategy that was only forged in the nudity of truth and the intimacy of those encounters. It was a command, soft, but undeniable.
As soon as he walked away, with Galadriel—whose light figures dissolved into a sigh of golden particles that made the children sigh in disappointment—following him like a faithful, silent shadow, Alicent let out a heavy sigh, dropping her facade of serenity for a moment.
"Sometimes, Rhaenyra," she began, her gaze lost following Aegon, who was now trying to imitate Jace's fighting moves, "I feel that a black cloud, a true curse, hangs over my family. Since my father's death... so many Hightowers lost. Cousins, so many. I fear that if this continues, I will be the last of my direct line here at court." She clasped her hands, a gesture of contained anxiety. "But I will not cease to pray. Faith is my last bastion. Would... would you come with me to the sept? This afternoon? I wish to ask for a blessing from Saint Maegelle, for the protection and prosperity of my house. Perhaps her miracle can extend to my own."
Saint Maegelle. The title sounded like a subtle, icy stab in the warm comfort of that afternoon. Rhaenyra instinctively looked at Aenar's retreating back as he disappeared under an arch of ivy. Maegelle's eternal youth, her growing influence over the smallfolk and septons... and Aenar's vital, dark, and regenerative power. He was the source of it all. The intense, overwhelming ritual he had performed on her to ensure the birth of Jace and Alysanne... what else was he capable of? What price did he charge, and what gifts did he give Maegelle in return for her unwavering loyalty? The same currency of pleasure and power that he and they used in their nightly encounters?
As if he felt the weight of her scrutiny, the burden of her accusatory thoughts, Aenar stopped at the garden's threshold, under the stone arch leading to the inner halls of the keep. He turned, not in haste, but with a tranquil deliberation that made Rhaenyra's heart leap within her chest. And then, his purple gaze, intense, penetrating, and terribly knowing, crossed the distance between them and locked with hers.
This time, Rhaenyra did not immediately look away. There was a moment of silent challenge, a dangerous thread of connection stretched between them across the sunlit garden. He knew. He knew she was connecting the dots, that she saw his hand behind Maegelle's "miracle." And in his gaze, she saw not denial or anger, but a silent, absolute confirmation. A mute reminder that the vast and complex web of power, pleasure, darkness, and light he wove enveloped all of them, and that they were all, in one way or another, threads caught in it, dancing to the pull of his fingers.
An intense shiver ran down her spine, not of pure fear, but of the frightening and seductive understanding of how deeply they had gotten themselves involved. The artificial peace of the garden completely shattered, replaced by the heavy, complex, and dangerously alluring reality of the dragon's game they were forced to play. She finally averted her gaze, feeling the blood pounding in her ears, her face flushed. Alicent's prayer to the saint who was their lover's mistress sounded like the cruelest of ironies, and Rhaenyra knew the approaching night would bring not only pleasure but more layers of secrets and dangers that would sink them even deeper into the dragon's web.
Interlude: The Lexicon of Power
Solarestival - The Arcano Research Center
The air in the research center carried the scent of aged parchment and the low hum of concentrated conversation. Several acolytes and maesters moved between tables laden with strange instruments and stacks of books. Before a large oak slate covered in inscriptions, Maester Lorren, the project leader, watched his team's efforts with a concerned expression.
His second, a young, dark-haired woman named Acolyte Lyra, tried to stabilize a "stone" rune that flickered erratically next to a Valyrian glyph for "light." Across the table, Maester Varly, an older man with a Valyrian steel link on his chain, whispered instructions to a novice, Tobias, who meticulously recorded each failed attempt.
"The principles are antithetical," Lorren murmured to himself, watching the rune flicker and fail once more. "The runes are a song of the earth, the glyphs are a command of fire. They refuse to duet."
The team had achieved minor successes—a flicker of light, a brief hardening of air—but nothing stable or reproducible. The true impediment was the lack of source material. The runes they had were mostly copies of copies from time-worn stones, their true power and nuance lost with the First Men and the children of the forest who had perhaps inspired them. The Valyrian glyphs they possessed were mere shadows, fragments from secondary sources, for the true wellspring of that knowledge had been obliterated in the Doom. They were trying to reconstruct two lost symphonies from a handful of scattered, discordant notes.
A sudden shift in air pressure made the candle flames in the room dip and then burn a steady, unnatural blue. Lorren didn't need to turn. He knew only one presence carried such an aura.
King Aenar Targaryen stood at the entrance of the hall, his purple eyes scanning the activity with unnerving acuity. He was not alone. Just behind his left shoulder, cloaked and hooded in a grey that seemed to drink the light, stood the slender figure of his spymaster, The Shade. She was utterly still, a silent observer, and Lorren felt the weight of her unseen gaze more than the King's direct one.
"Maester Lorren," Aenar's voice was calm, devoid of royal pomp. It was the tone of one colleague addressing another. "Show me the state of the lexicon."
Swallowing his nervousness, Lorren launched into his report, calling Lyra to demonstrate the latest unstable construct. He guided the King through the principles, explaining the painstaking calibration of magical resonance and the fundamental, crippling problem.
"The source materials are insufficient, Your Grace," he concluded, a note of despair creeping into his voice. "The runes... their true power is gone with the heroes of the First Men. And the glyphs... well, Valyria and its catastrophic end took them. Without the original sources, we are like architects trying to build a castle without stones."
He expected disappointment. Instead, Aenar's eyes gleamed.
"The Citadel, after the purge, underwent great reforms under the command of Archmaester Vaegon," the King said, as if this were a necessary preamble. "Their new stance is... more collaborative. And help for your problems is already on its way." He paused, allowing the information to settle in the silent room. "As for the runes, do not worry about dead heroes. I have made an agreement with the children of the forest. In exchange for certain favors, they have agreed to share their ancestral runic knowledge. An emissary of theirs will arrive before next winter."
Lorren felt his knees grow weak. The children of the forest? They were about to gain access to the living, breathing knowledge of those who forged the magic of this world?
"Your Grace... that is... unbelievable."
"It is simply necessary," Aenar corrected him. "As for the Valyrian glyphs, no agreement can bring back what was lost. But knowledge... knowledge can persist in places the less daring fear to tread." He paused, and his gaze seemed to pierce Lorren's very soul. "I will go to Valyria myself."
The declaration echoed through the hall like thunder. Go to Valyria? Even the reformed maesters of Vaegon's Citadel considered those lands a death sentence.
"Valyria? But... the Doomed Lands... the singing ashes..."
"We need the source, Maester," Aenar interrupted, his decision final as stone. "If the glyphs survived anywhere, it will be there. In the meantime, prepare your team." His gaze swept over Lyra, Varly, and the other researchers, who had stopped their work to listen intently. "When the children of the forest arrive, you must be ready to learn. And when I return from Valyria..." His eyes settled on the cracked slate. "...you will have both halves of the key."
The Shade, a statue until then, inclined her head a millimeter, an almost imperceptible movement. Then, they turned and left, leaving Lorren and his team in a charged silence.
He looked at his researchers, seeing the same mixture of dread and dizzying excitement reflected on their faces. Lyra held the faulty rune with a new spark of hope in her eyes. The King wasn't just supporting their research; he was reshaping the world to accommodate it. They were no longer working with cold ashes. The King was about to give them not just the flames, but the very fire from which they were born.
Part 2: The Inheritance of Fire and Steel
The Hall of the Dragon Throne in Dragonstone held an unusual solemnity that morning. The sunlight, filtered through stained glass, cast dancing patterns on the stone walls, illuminating the grave faces of the Small Council. At the center, elevated on a platform, sat Aenar Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, his purple eyes observing everything with impenetrable calm. To his right, seated on a slightly smaller but equally impressive throne, was Queen Gael. Her posture was regal and erect, and her own inherited purple eyes scanned the room with meticulous attention.
To the King's left, Princess Rhaenys, as Hand of the King, conducted the proceedings with innate efficiency. Her silver hair was tied in a severe bun, and her voice, firm and clear, echoed under the vaulted ceiling as Lords Beesbury, Strong, and Manderly presented their reports. Viserys, in his role as assistant to Lord Strong, took notes meticulously. Daemon, meanwhile, was notably quiet, his fingers drumming lightly on the table, his mind clearly elsewhere.
Finally, when the last petition was heard and the final reports delivered, a silence fell over the hall. Aenar raised his hand, a simple gesture that commanded the full attention of all present.
"A king must not only manage the present; he must secure the future by digging in the past," he declared, his deep voice filling the space effortlessly. "For this, I will embark on a journey. A journey to the lands from which our lineage sprang, to the cradle of our power and our tragedy. I will go to Valyria."
A reverent, yet unsurprised, silence hung in the room now. Everyone at that table knew the extent of Aenar's powers, and the superstitious dread the Doomed Lands inspired in common men had been largely replaced by respectful caution in the presence of the Dragon-King.
"I need volunteers for this expedition. The journey will be swift, but what we seek is vast."
Immediately, glances were exchanged, weighing duties against opportunity. Rhaenys was the first to speak, her voice practical and grounded in reality. "My responsibilities as Hand chain me to this office and this chair, Your Grace. Someone must keep the kingdom functioning, the seals must be applied, the minor disputes resolved. Dragonstone and King's Landing cannot be without firm governance in your absence."
Lord Beesbury shook his head, his double chin trembling. "The finances, Your Grace... the autumn taxes must be calculated, the payroll of the royal guard... my presence here is indispensable."
Lord Manderly, with a genuine sigh of regret, added: "And the new ships, Your Grace. The shipyards of White Harbor cannot halt. My fleet is yours, but my place is overseeing its construction."
Only two pairs of eyes met Aenar's with determination.
"I will go," said Viserys, standing. His voice was firmer than usual. "My work with Lord Strong can be paused, and he is more than capable of handling the laws in my brief absence. As a Prince of Dragon Blood, I yearn to see the lands of our ancestors. It is my right and, I believe, my duty."
"And Caraxes and I have been missing a good adventure," echoed Daemon, a dangerous and familiar smile playing on his lips, his eyes sparkling with the promise of chaos. "Valyria sounds like the perfect destination. I will go as well."
Aenar nodded his head. "So be it. Viserys, Daemon, prepare yourselves. We leave at dawn, in three days. Bring only the essentials. Speed is our ally."
The meeting was adjourned, and the lords began to withdraw, whispering among themselves about the audacity of the plan. When only Aenar, Gael, and Rhaenys remained in the hall, the air seemed to grow denser. Aenar turned to his queen, his expression serious.
"Gael," he said, his tone lower, more personal. "My absence, even if brief, and especially to a place like Valyria, will not go unnoticed. It may be seen as an opportunity by our... detractors. The Faith, who whisper in the shadows of Oldtown. Lords with long-suppressed ambitions. The Hightowers, who still grumble about their fall from favor. Order must be maintained. Without hesitation. Without mercy."
Gael turned to him fully. Her purple eyes, so like his own but with a spark of wilder, more protective fire, did not blink. "Aenar," she replied, her voice as soft as the whisper of a blade being unsheathed. "This throne, this kingdom, is ours. I will defend it as a dragon mother defends her nest. If they dare to stir, if a single word of treason is whispered, they will quickly learn that even in the dragon's absence, his fire still burns. I will not show the mercy that you, in your strength, might sometimes grant. I am your sword here. Trust me."
Aenar watched her, and a rare, genuine, and proud smile touched his lips. He needed no further assurances. He knew that in this woman, in this queen he had shaped, the kingdom was in more than capable hands. Her coldness was the perfect complement to his power.
"I trust," he said simply.
---
Three days later, the dawn at Dragonstone was broken by the guttural roars of dragons. In the training yards, a select retinue gathered. In the center stood Aenar, clad in dark leather armor and black steel scales, unadorned. He approached Zekrom. The former Cannibal, renamed and transformed by his unique bond with his rider, was a vision of pure power. His scales were black as the deepest night, absorbing the light around them. His eyes, two pools of phosphorescent green energy, glowed with an ancient intelligence. His size was terrifying, larger than any living dragon, his wings, when spread, casting a shadow that swallowed the yard. Whispers among the soldiers told that he did not merely spit fire, but concentrated his power into a devastating ray that annihilated everything in its path.
Beside Zekrom, Balerion, the Black Dread, seemed almost... domesticated in comparison. Though he had grown somewhat under Aenar's care, he was visibly smaller than Zekrom. Yet, his presence still inspired reverential fear. It was said his flames did not burn, but simply disintegrated, an echo of the power that once forged the Iron Throne.
Daemon was already mounted on Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, whose long serpentine neck twisted and turned with nervous energy. Viserys, with an expression of determination mixed with anxiety, climbed onto Sheepstealer. The beast of brown scales and wary disposition seemed to tolerate his presence, a testament to the unique bond Viserys, against all odds, had managed to forge.
Vaegon the Old had insisted so much that he gained permission to come. Given his age and the nature of the journey, but Sheepstealer, under Viserys's command, was robust enough to carry both. The elderly maester was carefully hoisted into the saddle, positioning himself behind his great-nephew, his thin arms wrapping firmly around Viserys's torso to hold on. His eyes, still sharp, shone with the prospect of recording history firsthand, overcoming the discomfort of the journey.
The twins of the Kingsguard, Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk Cargyll, climbed onto Zekrom, behind Aenar. Ser Criston Cole, in turn, joined Daemon on Caraxes, occupying the available second saddle.
"The air of Valyria is death itself," Aenar announced. He raised his hands, and the Valyrian glyphs on his bracers glowed. A nearly invisible energy field enveloped the entire group. "I will protect you from its corrupting magic."
Without further ceremony, they took flight. Zekrom in the lead, followed by Balerion, Caraxes, and Sheepstealer, forming an impressive formation against the morning sky.
The journey was swift. Within days, the air began to change, bringing a distant smell of sulfur and ashes. Then, they saw it. A permanent grey haze hanging over a coastline of black, jagged rocks. Valyria.
Upon entering the air of the Doomed Lands, the feeling of oppression was overwhelming. It was like swimming in heavy, toxic molasses. The sunlight seemed weak and distant, filtered by the eternal volcanic dust. Below them, the landscape was a nightmare. Twisted towers of melted stone rose like the bony fingers of a giant corpse. Entire cities were skeletons of marble and obsidian, shattered by an unimaginable force. Amid the rubble, the white bones of foolish adventurers—men who sought the secrets of Valyria and found only death—dotted the ground like shells on a cursed shore.
As they flew over what was once a great public square, flanked by colossal, now headless and corroded statues, Aenar stretched out his hand. From a pile of rubble near the base of a statue, something glinted. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, a long, magnificent sword flew towards him, spinning in the air before he caught it by the hilt with supernatural precision.
The blade was Valyrian steel, with the distinctive watery appearance and wave patterns. The pommel was gold, with a large ruby that seemed to drink the weak light.
"Brightroar," he said, his voice flat in the dead air. He turned the blade, examining it. "The lost sword of House Lannister. They say Tommen II brought it to Valyria and never returned." He turned and handed the sword to Ser Erryk. "Guard it. It will be a powerful symbol when we return it to Casterly Rock. A reminder of the Crown's power and what we can recover."
As they approached what should have been the heart of the Valyrian capital, the air grew heavier, more charged. Aenar raised a clenched fist, the signal to halt. The dragon formation hovered, wings beating against the tainted air.
"Prepare yourselves!" his voice echoed, cutting through the supernatural silence. "A battle is imminent. The corruption here is not merely passive. It defends itself."
From smoking fumaroles and deeper ruins, shapes began to rise. First, two dragons of a size rivaling Balerion in his prime. Their scales were faded, stained green and black, with large chunks missing, revealing putrid flesh and exposed bone. Most horrifying were the fireworms—glowing red creatures that writhed under their scales and inside their open wounds, as if feeding on the beasts' very corruption. Their wings were tattered, full of holes, making their flight unstable and slow. Their eyes held no more intelligence, only an empty, burning rage. Behind them, several smaller dragons, equally corrupted and decayed, emerged, their roars sounding like tearing metal and agony.
The stench was indescribable—rotten flesh, sulfur, and black magic.
"To the wings! They are slow! Exploit that weakness!" Aenar ordered, his voice calm but laden with authority.
The Targaryen dragons, healthy, agile, and protected by the shield, were falcons against diseased vultures.
Zekrom did not wait. With a roar that was not of fury, but of pure absolute power, which made the very ruins tremble, he opened his jaws. Instead of a torrent of fire, a concentrated beam of pure, devastating green energy shot forth—the Annihilation Ray. It was not hot, but cold and final. The beam hit the nearest giant dragon directly in the chest. There was no explosion, just a sudden silence followed by a sound of disintegration. A perfect, smoking hole, large enough for a mounted man to ride through, appeared in the beast's torso. The corrupted dragon let out one last hoarse screech, its limbs twitching in final spasms before all life left its body. It fell in the same silent, irrevocable manner, crushing a tower below with a dull thud that echoed through the valley of death.
Balerion, as if answering the challenge, advanced on the other giant. The Black Dread let loose his own Annihilation Ray, a beam of pure, silent darkness that seemed to absorb the light around it. It swept across the already damaged wing of the corrupted dragon. The wing simply... vanished, vaporized. The beast, unbalanced, began to spin uncontrollably, unable to stay aloft, until it collided sideways against a black cliff, its body shattering in a rain of bones and rotten flesh.
While the titans fell, the battle became an aerial chaos. Daemon and Caraxes, with Cole holding on tightly, dove into the fray with joyous fury. The Blood Wyrm, agile as a flying serpent, avoided a jet of black, foul-smelling flames from one of the smaller dragons and slipped under its belly. His claws, sharp as Valyrian steel blades, tore through the diseased flesh of the enemy, releasing a flood of fireworms and pus. Caraxes then spat his bright red flames, incinerating the beast's already fragile wings, sending it spiraling down, screaming until it smashed into the ground.
Viserys, on Sheepstealer, showed unexpected courage. The brown dragon, carrying Vaegon, avoided frontal attacks, using its greater mobility to flank an opponent. Sheepstealer grabbed the neck of a diseased dragon with its powerful jaws and, with a violent, decisive shake, broke it with an audible snap that silenced the beast's roar forever.
The battle was intense, a ballet of death and fire against decay and rot. The air filled with the smell of ozone from Zekrom's rays, the clean burn of Caraxes's flames, and the nauseating stench of corrupted flesh being destroyed. Within minutes, it was clear that the advantage of speed, overwhelming power, and magical protection was crushing. The corrupted dragons lay dead or dying upon the ruins, their bodies exhaling the last breath of their perpetual agony.
The group landed on a relatively safe plateau, a large, smooth stone esplanade that might have been a gathering square. A quick inspection showed no one was seriously injured, a testament to Aenar's shield and aerial supremacy. Vaegon was pale and breathless from the exertion, but Aenar revitalized him with a touch. Ser Criston Cole was visibly dizzy from Caraxes's sharp maneuvers but quickly recovered.
They began their search for treasures and knowledge. While gathering items in an open area, a horde of Stone Men emerged from tunnels and ruins. Before anyone could draw a sword, Aenar, without turning, raised his hand and clenched it into a fist. A hot, silent wind swept the plateau, and all the Stone Men instantly turned to ashes, which were carried away by a faint breeze.
Their search led them to an untouched structure: a low, wide building of immaculate white stone, untouched by the calamity. Powerful glyphs pulsed at its entrance. Aenar approached, studied the glyphs for a moment, and touched them. They dissolved like smoke.
Inside, it was a library. The air was fresh and pure, smelling of old parchment. Immense shelves stretched in endless rows, crammed with perfectly preserved books, scrolls, and obsidian tablets.
Aenar stopped at the entrance, and a wide, genuine smile of satisfaction lit up his face for the first time since they left Dragonstone.
"Here it is," he whispered, his voice full of rare reverence. "The beating heart of Valyria. What we came for."
Days passed inside that chamber of knowledge. They worked methodically, gathering the most promising texts and artifacts. Carefully organized piles of books and objects were loaded onto the dragons. Finally, with their mission accomplished beyond any rational expectation, they prepared for the journey back.
Already in the sky, with the sun shining cleanly above the clouds and the blue sea stretching ahead, Aenar, mounted on Zekrom with the twins, looked west, towards King's Landing. Suddenly, he let out a laugh. It was not a laugh of derision or triumph, but a low, genuine, and deeply amused chuckle, like a man who has just heard a brilliant inside joke.
The others looked at him, curious. But Aenar offered no explanation. His purple eyes sparkled with amused and distant knowledge. Something had happened in King's Landing. Something that he, and only he, seemed to be aware of at that moment, and which he found irresistibly funny. Whatever it was, it would be a surprise for everyone when they finally landed.
Final Part: Faith and Fire
Point of View: The High Septon
The news of the King's departure for Valyria was the sign the High Septon had been waiting for. Sitting in his chambers in the Great Sept of Baelor, he smiled for the first time in weeks. The sorcerer, the very demon who sat the Iron Throne, had left the realm exposed. Only women remained to defend his crown of sins: Queen Gael, Princess Rhaenys, and Princess Rhaenyra. Women. Emotional, weak beings, incapable of decisive action. The time to act had come.
For two weeks, the Faith Militant had been gathered in the shadows, its members infiltrating King's Landing like worms in the kingdom's rotten apple. The great day arrived. In the large courtyard before the Sept, the High Septon stood before a mixed crowd of fervent believers, the curious, and the skeptical. The air was strangely charged, with the incessant cawing of ravens perched on eaves and towers, but he ignored the omen. His voice, trained for prayer and condemnation, echoed over the people's heads.
"People of King's Landing! Brothers and sisters in the Seven!" he shouted, his arms open wide. "For too long, a cancer has grown in the heart of the Seven Kingdoms! A sorcerer, a practitioner of forbidden arts, sits the Iron Throne! He and his sinful family, steeped in debauchery and demonic pacts, corrupt our holy land!"
He spoke of the alleged sacrifices, Maegelle's unnatural youth, the queen's abominable strength. His words were fire, but the crowd's fuel didn't catch completely. He saw looks of doubt, of fear, but not the blind fury he expected. People whispered among themselves, some moved away. They didn't listen to him as the voice of the gods themselves! Anger boiled within him. Their blindness was the demon's work.
"Do you see?!" he screamed, his voice growing hoarse. "Even now, the demon blinds your eyes and softens your hearts! Those who do not join us are no longer our brothers! They are possessed by the king's vile magic! They are heretics who must be purified! Send them to meet the Stranger so they may repent in the next life!"
That was the spark. The fanatics, armed with swords, clubs, and scythes, shouted and charged those who hesitated. Chaos erupted, with fights and screams. But it wasn't the total insurrection he had imagined. Only part of the crowd had joined. The High Septon, furious, was about to order his knights to attack when a sound cut through the air: a roar. It wasn't the roar of a common dragon. It was melodious yet powerful, like a giant string being plucked.
A dragon, pure white as snow, with bright blue eyes, hovered above them. In its saddle, static and with a terrifying coldness, was Queen Gael. Her purple eyes burned with icy fury.
"High Septon," Gael's voice wasn't a shout, but cut through the noise like a blade. "You stain the names of the Seven with your blood and ambition."
With a gesture from Gael, Reshiram lowered its head and a wall of white and bluish fire erupted from the ground, separating the fanatics from the common citizens and the Crown forces now arriving—the Gold Cloaks. The queen then, to everyone's astonishment, leaped from her saddle from a height that would kill anyone. She landed with a dull thud that cracked the courtyard stones, rising unscathed, her figure imposing.
The High Septon, regaining his speech, pointed at her. "See! Witchcraft! She made a pact with demons! No woman is capable of this!"
He stared at her, confident. She was known for her gentleness, a quality he always associated with female weakness. They're only good for spreading their legs for real men, he thought disdainfully. He expected to see her hesitate, to negotiate.
He was terribly mistaken.
Gael's eyes showed no hesitation. "Captain of the Gold Cloaks," her voice was steel. "Seize all weapons from the rioters. Arrest the High Septon and the leaders of this treacherous revolt. Resistance will mean death."
The High Septon was stunned. This wasn't the reaction of a weak woman. It was the order of a sovereign. As the Gold Cloaks advanced, he watched, horrified, as the Queen herself moved. She was a whirlwind of speed and superhuman strength, disarming and incapacitating fanatics with precise blows that shattered bones. It was a massacre.
This... this wasn't the plan, he thought, panic rising. But... but the distraction is working. While she's here... the real plan is underway. A crooked smile returned to his lips. Saint Maegelle and the most faithful knights weren't at the sept. They were inside the Red Keep, using the confusion to kidnap Princess Galadriel. They could still win.
Point of View: Maegelle
Days dragged like thick molasses within the Red Keep. For Maegelle, every hour since the massacre in the hidden room was a heavy burden. The bright aura she maintained—the divine halo of light meant to symbolize purity—now seemed a cruel irony. She kept it lit not out of vanity, but as a reminder of the oath she had taken. The room had been cleaned, the bodies of the Faith Militant knights and fanatical septons removed, but the ghost of violence still hung in the air.
She spent these days in apparent devotion, praying in the fortress's private sept, receiving the most prominent faithful who saw her as a beacon of hope. But behind the saint's mask, her mind worked incessantly. The Seven, in their wisdom, had shown her the true rot consuming the Faith from within—not the simple devotion of the people, but the greed, the thirst for power, and the manipulation of dogma by the very leaders meant to guide them. They had chosen her to be the instrument of purification, and she would fulfill her duty to the bitter end.
The true test, she knew, was yet to come. The leaders of the rebellion—the High Septon, Septon Mordecai, and others—were now locked in the Black Cells. They were venomous snakes that needed to be eliminated before they poisoned others.
When the keys turned in their cell's lock, days after the revolt, the prisoners stirred. Seeing Maegelle, illuminated and immaculate on the threshold, an insane spark of hope lit their bruised and dirty faces.
"Saint Maegelle!" Septon Mordecai stammered, crawling on his knees towards her, chains scraping the stone floor. "The Seven have sent you! Free us from this darkness! You are our salvation!"
Maegelle smiled at them. It was a sad smile, laden with infinite disappointment and a deep disgust she no longer bothered to disguise. She didn't say a word. Then, Aenar entered the cell.
His presence immediately filled the space, a heavy, absolute silence that made even the prisoners' breath catch for a moment. He didn't look at them. His purple eyes were fixed only on her. He approached from behind, and his hand, large and calloused, didn't simply touch her waist.
His fingers slid with deliberate intimacy along the curve of her neck, a touch that was both possessive and reverent, before his hand settled on her waist, pulling her back against his chest. The warmth of his body was a stark contrast to the damp cold of the cell.
"You did well, my love," he whispered, his voice a deep, intimate echo that brushed her ear, a sound meant only for her. "The Faith is purged. Thanks to your strength."
He then bent his head and buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent like a man finally finding refuge after a long battle. The gesture was one of such complete, visceral possession that the prisoners choked, their brains refusing to process the scene. Their saint, the representative of the Seven, being handled with such carnal intimacy by the very man they swore to destroy.
Aenar then slid his hand to the curve of her hip, giving a light but firmly possessive slap that echoed in the silent cell. "Now, let me deal with the remaining trash."
Maegelle didn't refuse, didn't pull away. On the contrary, she tilted her head to the side, granting him more access to her neck for a brief moment, a silent sign of submission and complicity. Before leaving, she cast a last look at the prisoners. In that look, there was no sanctity, only absolute contempt and a cold rage for everything they represented. The message was clear: she had always been on his side, not out of obligation, but by choice, by a bond that went far beyond any religious dogma.
As soon as the door closed behind her, the prisoners exploded into a torrent of muffled insults, their voices hoarse with horror and betrayal. "Traitor! Whore! Witch! The demon has corrupted you completely! The Seven will curse you!"
Aenar watched them, impassive, until they tired, panting and defeated.
"You played at being the gods' representatives for too long," he said, his voice calm as death. "You wore the robes of faith to hide the ambition in your hearts. Your games are over." He raised his hand, and the glyphs on his bracers glowed softly. "But don't worry." His purple eyes seemed to see through their souls. "By my hand, the Faith will find its correct path. A Faith that serves the realm, that brings order and progress, not the whims of small men like you."
The guards entered the cell. The prisoners tried to shout their final blasphemies, their last curses, but no sound left their mouths. Aenar had sealed their lips with his magic, denying them even the right to a last word, a last breath of defiance.
They were dragged in silence to the execution platform, their eyes wide with terror and disbelief. Aenar followed, his steps firm. As he headed to witness the end of that threat, his thoughts were already on the future. One less enemy was gone. The Faith would now be remolded. Now, with his power uncontested and with Maegelle by his side to guide the realm's spirituality on a more... docile path, the kingdom could finally begin the true evolution he had planned from the start. The era of progress, free from the shackles of superstition and treason, was about to begin.
Epilogue: The Serpent's Coil
The chamber was thick with the cloying scent of spiced wine and desperate ambition. In the dim light of a Tyroshi manse, far from the eyes of Westeros, the three Magisters of the Triarchy leaned over a heavy oak table, their faces etched with a mixture of hatred and fear.
The Magister of Tyrosh, his beard dyed a garish blue, spoke first, his voice a low hiss. "He humiliates us. Again. This... this sorcerer-king not only returns from Valyria unscathed, but he flaunts its secrets as if they were mere trinkets. His power grows like a cancer."
The Magister of Lys, pale and slender, nodded slowly, his fingers steepled. "Aegon the Conqueror we could understand. Fire and blood. But this? This is an affront to the natural order. He twists the very fabric of the world to his will. It is only a matter of time before he turns his gaze east. Before he decides the Stepstones are his, and then our very cities."
"He will not stop," grumbled the Magister of Myr, his fist clenched. "Two crushing defeats were not enough. Our pride, our fleets... shattered. But this time, it is not just our pride at stake. It is our survival. We must strike at his foundations before he is untouchable. Strangle his trade, bleed his economy dry in the Stepstones. Make him weak."
Their collective gaze then fell upon their guest, the one man in Westeros they believed shared their peril: Prince Qoren Martell of Dorne.
Qoren sat with a deceptive calm, swirling the dark Dornish red in his glass. The words of the Magisters were poison, but a seductive one. He saw not their fear, but the truth in their warning. Aenar Targaryen was unlike any threat Dorne had ever faced. His ancestor, Aegon, could be fought with guile and desert sun. This new king could likely extinguish the sun itself if he wished.
"The Targaryens have always craved Dorne," Qoren said, his voice quiet but firm. "My ancestors spilled rivers of blood to keep our freedom. You are right, Magisters. Alone, our spears may not be enough against sorcery. But Dorne does not bow." He set his glass down with a definitive click. "I agree. An alliance. Together, we will clip this dragon's wings before he can truly take flight."
A thin, triumphant smile spread across the face of the Tyroshi Magister. "A wise decision, Prince Qoren. Together, our combined strength will be a shield against his fire."
What Qoren, in his pride and pragmatic fear, failed to see was the true nature of the coil he was entering. He believed he was signing a pact of mutual defense, a necessary evil to preserve Dorne's independence. In reality, he was signing the warrant for its end. And the Magisters, blinded by their hatred and humiliation, could not comprehend that in challenging a man who remade reality, they were not planning the downfall of a king, but orchestrating the doom of their own Free Cities and the last free kingdom of Westeros. They had sown the seeds of a war that would not weaken the dragon, but give him the pretext to unleash a fire that would consume them all.