Prologue: The New Faith and the Promise of Eternity
The southern sun shone over Oldtown, but the light now emanating from the Great Sept was of a different kind, filtered through the new order that had been established. The news of the crushing of the Faith's Revolt in King's Landing and the execution of the High Septon echoed through the hills and mountains like silent thunder. The lords of the South, once nourished by the seditious whispers of septons, were now recalibrating their loyalties. The ghost of the Faith Militant had been exorcised, and in its place rose an unexpected figure: Maegelle. The "Saint" who had not only survived but was revealed to be the king's own carnage. Under her command, the Faith would not be extinguished, but redirected—an instrument of unity and control, loyal to the Iron Throne.
It was in this climate of tense expectation that Dreamfyre hovered over the city, her elegant shadow crossing the towers of the Citadel before landing in the courtyards of the Sept. Maegelle dismounted, her aura of sanctity now tempered by a cold, earthly authority. She was there to meet with the remaining leaders of the Faith, not to debate, but to communicate. The new laws of the realm and the new dogmas of the Faith would be established, and Oldtown, the intellectual and religious heart of Westeros, would be the stage for this transmutation.
Meanwhile, a much darker and more imposing presence plunged the skies. Balerion, the Black Dread, whose roars made the ancient foundations of the city tremble, landed with an impact that echoed like a warning. Mounted in his saddle was Aenar Targaryen. Standing over two meters tall, his build was that of an ancestral warrior, and his purple, slit eyes, which glowed with an inner light, scanned the Citadel with an assessment that went beyond mere sight.
He walked the same stone corridors he had years before, when his brother Baelon's death had demanded a vengeance that stained the walls of knowledge with blood. The air, once heavy with mildew and tradition, now whispered with a different energy. The most noticeable change, as he noted, was the presence of women wearing the habits of acolytes and maesters, moving with silent determination among the stacks of books. Archmaester Vaegon's reforms were not merely theoretical; they breathed and walked the halls.
Upon reaching the conclave chamber, the door opened to reveal his brother. Vaegon, now with 53 winters behind him, had aged, his back bent by the weight of countless hours over scrolls, his face marked by the lines of time and responsibility. His eyes, however, retained the same analytical sharpness as always.
"Brother," Aenar's voice echoed in the room, soft, yet filling every inch of the space.
"Your Grace," Vaegon replied with a slight, dry smile. "The reforms progress. The Citadel serves the realm, as you commanded."
The conversation flowed to future plans, to the research at Summerhall and the integration of recovered Valyrian knowledge. Aenar spoke of a kingdom that would evolve beyond current understanding, uniting magic, science, and faith under a single direction. Yet, Vaegon watched intently, studying his younger brother as he would a complex text.
"And now, Aenar," Vaegon said, finally, interrupting the flow of grand plans. "Tell me what truly brings you here, to my humble study. I know you too well to believe a routine inspection would require Balerion and your personal presence."
Aenar smiled, a rare expression that reached his slit eyes. His brother's perception had always been one of the few things that could match his own.
"Always the smartest of us, brother. You, who dedicated your life to preserving and expanding knowledge, are being consumed by time, the greatest enemy of wisdom." He paused, his gaze laden with colossal intent. "I have prepared a ritual. Not a trivial gift, but a transfer. I can share a fragment of my own essence with you. It will grant you a body with the resilience of a dragon, a much deeper connection to the magical weaves that permeate the world, and, most crucially... biological immortality. No one deserves this gift more than you, brother. Your mind is a treasure Westeros cannot lose to decay."
Vaegon fell silent, his penetrating analytical gaze. He did not marvel at the offer; he dissected it. He weighed the pros of centuries of uninterrupted research, the ability to guide the Citadel for ages, against the cons of watching everyone he knew wither and die, the burden of such a long existence, and the hidden price of being eternally bound to his brother's titanic power.
After a long moment, an ironic, weary smile touched his lips.
"So that's it," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "You are stealing from me the final rest, brother. Stealing from me death itself." He looked at the stacks of books, at the world of knowledge he loved, and then back at Aenar. "Very well. I accept. Someone needs to stick around to ensure you don't turn the entire kingdom to ashes out of boredom."
In the days that followed, the news swept through the Citadel and then the halls of the lords of Westeros like wildfire: Archmaester Vaegon, the old sage, had appeared rejuvenated. His posture was erect, his steps firm, and a new vigor shone in his eyes. It was not the immature youth of a boy, but the primordial vigor of a man in his prime, freed from the corrosion of the years. It was the final, incontestable proof of Aenar's power. The king not only shaped the present; he now conquered time itself, and his kingdom, witnessing the miracle, knew that a new age, for better or worse, had truly begun.
---
Part 1: The Whisper in the Sea of Blood
The unrelenting sun of the Stepstones beat down on the courtyards of Bloodstone. Daemon Targaryen stood with arms crossed, watching his son, Baelon, a strapping twelve-year-old with the silver hair of his mother Lysara, deliver precise strikes against two veteran knights. The boy was agile, having inherited his skill with a blade, but he lacked the raw, untamed fury of a true dragon. A proud yet critical smile played on Daemon's lips.
Under a shaded balcony, his wives, Lysara and Laena, observed the scene. Lysara, her Lysene heritage evident in her pale eyes and near-silver blonde hair, embroidered with focus, though her analytical gaze missed none of her son's movements. Laena, on the other hand, smiled openly, cheering the boy on.
"He has your natural talent with a sword, Lysara," Laena remarked. "But he still lacks the spark of his father's fury."
Lysara lifted her eyes from her embroidery, a subtle smile on her lips. "I'd rather he inherit my patience for numbers and administration. A kingdom, or even a fief, thrives more on gold and grain than on blades alone. And he has that in spades."
Daemon overheard the comment and turned to them, a smug but genuine smile on his face. "The boy's inherited the best of both. His mother's cunning and the adventurous spirit every Velaryon carries. He'll be a better lord than I am, no doubt." His praise was rare, and thus, treasured. The dynamic between them was solid, a triangle of affection built on mutual respect and familial loyalty.
Then, a hoarse, familiar sound cut through the air. A raven landed on the stone parapet beside Daemon. The bird did not caw. Its black eyes, however, held none of the vacant stare typical of a bird. They gleamed with a sharp, profoundly focused intelligence, fixing on Daemon with a distinctly human awareness.
"Well, look at this," Daemon said, his smile turning sharper. He turned to his wives. "My uncle's Shadow honors us with one of her many eyes." His attention returned to the raven. He leaned forward slightly, in a gesture of exaggerated, cynical courtesy. "My lady. Ever watchful. Tell your mistress she could save on feathers and send a boat, like normal folk."
The raven tilted its head, a movement strangely deliberate. It made no sound, but its gaze seemed heavy with meaning. Lysara and Laena exchanged a look of amused resignation, tinged with slight unease. They knew the King's Master of Whispers was a figure shrouded in mystery, but witnessing the strangeness of this communication channel was unsettling.
Daemon extended his hand. The raven, with an almost understanding precision, stretched out the leg clutching a small scroll.
"She's listening now, isn't she?" Daemon asked, his voice low, almost intimate, as he unrolled the message. "Seeing through your eyes."
The raven blinked slowly. Once. A clear, eerily human sign of affirmation.
Daemon's theatrical façade vanished. His face shed all traces of amusement, turning into a mask of cold fury as he read. He said nothing, only crumpled the paper in his fist with enough force to whiten his knuckles.
"Captains! To me, now!" his voice cracked like a whip, halting the training in the courtyard.
---
Minutes later, in the throne room carved into the rock, Daemon confronted his captains, his face a mask of restrained fury. "The scorpions of Dorne, cowards as ever, are preparing to sting us. They think they can disguise themselves as pirates and burn our smaller islands." He smiled, a gesture that didn't reach his eyes. "We'll give them a proper welcome. Ready the fleet. Caraxes and I will greet them personally."
---
The battle unfolded under the cloak of night, in the dark waters south of the Stepstones. Daemon's fleet, forewarned, intercepted the so-called "pirates." But the fight was far costlier than Daemon had anticipated. The Dornish were no mere raiders; they were an organized force, carrying a horrific secret in their holds. As Daemon's ships drew near, pots of wildfire were catapulted, erupting into massive, dancing green flames that clung to hulls and sails, creating a floating inferno that even the sea could not quench. One of the smaller islands, with its modest outpost, was consumed by green fire before any aid could arrive.
Without the raven's warning, it would have been a catastrophic defeat, a humiliation that would have tarnished Daemon's name before Aenar. His fury burned as brightly as the flames that sought to destroy him.
"Caraxes!" he roared, and the Blood Wyrm answered, diving from the clouds. Jets of pure red flame, a vivid reflection of his mount's red scales, met the Dornish ships, countering the green fire and consuming it in a blaze of raw heat. Across the sky, Laena rode Vhagar. The great dragon, with bronze and blue scales, unleashed a coppery inferno that vaporized a Dornish warship in a single, devastating breath, illuminating the night with a searing blaze.
It was a bath of fire and blood, and when the last flame flickered out on the water, only charred wreckage and ashes remained of the attacking fleet.
---
Back at Bloodstone, with the smell of smoke and bitter victory still clinging to his clothes, the flurry of preparations for a new conflict already consumed the castle. Hours after his return, as Daemon oversaw the loading of supplies for Caraxes, the castle's Maester found him.
"A letter, my lord. From King's Landing. Just arrived."
This time, there was no raven. It was a parchment sealed with the wax of the three-headed dragon. Daemon broke the seal and read. The message was short, direct, and unquestionable. A summons from Aenar. All dragonriders were to present themselves in King's Landing. Immediately.
He sighed, the exhaustion of the night's battle weighing on his shoulders. He sought out Lysara and Laena with his gaze, finding them on the steps leading to the main quarters.
"It's the King," he said, his voice heavier than usual. "I must go."
He approached them. First, he turned to Baelon, who watched with a seriousness beyond his years. "The castle is yours, son. Hold it. Your mother will guide you." The confidence in his voice was genuine.
Next, his eyes met Lysara's. He took her hand and squeezed it with a strength that conveyed what words could not. "Guard our legacy," he whispered. She nodded, her pale eyes radiating understanding and quiet resolve.
Finally, he turned to Laena, his dragonrider companion. "Looks like we're taking another journey, my queen." He pulled her into a brief but fierce embrace, sealing it with a kiss that promised shared battles. "Vhagar and Caraxes will burn the path together once more."
He bid farewell to his twin daughters, promising them tales of battle upon his return. Mounting Caraxes once more, Daemon knew this was no ordinary summons. Something vast was looming, and the fire of dragons would be needed again. Caraxes' roar as he took flight thundered over the Stepstones, a warning to the world that the Rogue Prince was riding to war once more.
---
Interlude: The Dark Realization
Point of View: Prince Qoren Nymeros Martell
The air in the audience hall of the Palace of the Sun in Sunspear hung heavy, not just with the Dornish heat but with the weight of conspiracies. Prince Qoren observed the representative from the Triarchy, a Myrish man with sharp manners and ambitious eyes, with calculated distrust.
"My attack on the Stepstones was more effective than many anticipated," Qoren declared, his voice laced with restrained pride. "Though Daemon's main fleet managed to respond, we inflicted significant damage with the wildfire your Myrish allies provided. The green flames burned like hell itself upon the waters."
The Myrish man inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Wildfire does not fail, Prince Qoren. And a dragon, no matter how alert, can be defeated with the right strategy."
"Meanwhile," Qoren continued, raising a hand casually, "our other efforts to pressure the Stone Dragon persist. My troops have been relentlessly harassing the Dornish Marches. Ambushes on merchants using the Boneway have become as common as the desert sun. Two minor lords who aligned too openly with King's Landing have been… persuaded to reconsider their loyalty."
A cruel smile of satisfaction crossed the prince's face. "Our greatest triumph, however, was a stroke of pure audacity. We managed to capture a noble maiden, heiress to an important Stormlands house, who dared to visit the border region. She would have been a valuable gift to our allies in Lys—a clear symbol of our resolve. Unfortunately," he said, his smile twisting into frustrated bitterness, "fate intervened cruelly. During the crossing through a remote gorge, the group was attacked by a mountain bear, a massive and enraged beast. In the ensuing chaos, the cunning girl managed to escape. A certain victory, lost to the whims of nature."
The Myrish man maintained his calculating expression. "A loss, no doubt, but we must not underestimate the value of the chaos we are creating. It is through these thousand cuts that an empire bleeds into submission."
Then, a noise at the entrance interrupted the conversation. A guard appeared at the threshold, his face visibly pale beneath his helm.
"Your Grace," the guard announced, his voice clearly strained. "One of the falconry masters… he insists on seeing you. He's in a state of shock, Your Grace. Says it's a matter of life and death."
Qoren raised an eyebrow, a wry smile touching his lips. He considered it might be news of another successful ambush or perhaps the recapture of the escaped maiden.
"Let him in," he ordered with a dismissive gesture.
The young man who entered was a pitiful sight. His face was as white as lime, his eyes wide with primal terror. He trembled visibly, his hands opening and closing in involuntary spasms.
"Calm yourself, boy," Qoren said, his voice tinged with amusement. "Breathe. What's so terrible that you've forgotten all composure before your prince?"
The messenger gasped, struggling to form words. "Your Grace… it's… it's the king… King Aenar… he's… he's…"
The words died in his throat. Before Qoren could make a sarcastic remark, the world exploded.
A DEAFENING ROAR, as if the sky itself were splitting apart, shook the palace to its foundations. The marble floor trembled violently, causing wine goblets to topple and shatter. The young messenger collapsed to the ground. The Myrish representative clung to the table, his eyes wide.
And then came the ROAR.
It was a sound Qoren had never heard—a cataclysmic bellow that seemed to tear the fabric of reality. It echoed over Sunspear, penetrating the stone walls and freezing the blood in his veins.
Instinctively, Qoren ran to the balcony. What he saw stopped his heart.
The sunlight had been devoured. A colossal, monstrous shadow engulfed much of the palace courtyard and the adjacent towers. It was the silhouette of a dragon larger than anything his eyes had ever beheld.
In that moment, all his confidence crumbled. His attacks on the Stepstones, his ambushes in the Marches, the failed kidnapping… they suddenly seemed insignificant. The mistake he had made was not a tactical error but a cosmic one. He had not challenged a king, but a force of nature.
The Dragon King was not on his way. He was already here.
---
Part 3: The Gathering Storm
The Arrival and the Refectory Conversation
The Great Hall of the Red Keep buzzed with the comforting aromas of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spiced wine. The Targaryen family was scattered along the table in a scene of controlled chaos. The already charged atmosphere shifted with the entrance of Daemon and Laena. They arrived from the Stepstones, the faint scent of smoke and sea salt still clinging to them.
"Uncle! Aunt!" young Jace called, waving enthusiastically before his mother, Rhaenyra, gently placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him.
Daemon first approached his brother. "Viserys. You look well." It was a simple statement, but coming from Daemon, it carried the weight of years of shared history.
Viserys offered a weary but genuine smile. "And you still carry the air of battle, brother. Some things never change."
As Daemon and Laena took their seats, servants promptly set food and drink before them. Laenor was already there, tickling a giggling Lucerys while spinning a dramatic tale for Jace and Alysanne. "…and the knight declared, 'That wasn't a dragon, just a very large chicken!'" The children erupted in laughter.
It was Queen Gael who, from the head of the table, gracefully steered the conversation from familial pleasantries to the matter at hand. Her voice, calm but commanding, cut through the clamor. "We're glad to see you arrive safely. The Stepstones are far, and the seas can be treacherous."
Daemon took a sip of his wine, his eyes glinting. "The seas were calm, Your Grace. It was the Dornish who proved treacherous." He set his goblet down with a definitive click. "They attacked my islands with Myrish fire. Thought they could catch me sleeping."
Across the table, Viserys leaned forward, his face etched with concern. "We've received ravens from the Dornish Marches as well, brother. Ambushes on merchant caravans, lords attacked. It was a coordinated effort. How bad was the damage at Bloodstone?"
Daemon's smile lacked humor. "One of my smaller outposts is ash. Several ships were lost to their vile green flames before Caraxes and Vhagar taught them the difference between alchemy and dragonfire." He gestured with his goblet toward Laena, who nodded solemnly. "The message, however, was delivered. I doubt those pirates will trouble anyone again."
Gael listened, her hands resting serenely in her lap. "The King is aware of everything. And now that all the dragonriders are gathered, he wishes to speak with you." Her gaze swept the table, meeting the eyes of Rhaenys, Rhaenyra, Laenor, and Viserys. "As soon as you've finished eating, you are all to meet in the godswood."
The War Council in the Godswood
At the heart of the godswood, Aenar Targaryen stood before the ancient weirwood. His slitted, purple eyes saw more than a tree; they perceived the flow of magic emanating from it. One by one, they arrived, answering the King's summons.
"The Dornish and the Triarchy," Aenar began, his voice calm but cutting through the air like Valyrian steel, "thought they could nip at the dragon's tail and hide in the sand. They were mistaken." His gaze, suddenly heavy, swept across each face. "They attacked our islands, our borders, our people. Through my Master of Whispers, I uncovered their secret alliance. And now, we will respond."
He raised a hand. "With the exception of Maegelle, who is in Oldtown, every dragonrider present will take part in this response. We will split the skies of Dorne. Every lord who supported this madness will feel the fire from the heavens. Prepare for war."
Before they dispersed, Aenar closed his eyes. A wave of power emanated from him, a veil of magic that stretched to the dragons waiting in the pits and cliffs. It was a cloaking enchantment, a secret that would ensure their fury came as a complete surprise.
The Fury of the Dragons Unleashed
And then, fire fell from the skies over Dorne, invisible and undetected until it was too late. Rhaenys on Meleys descended upon Wyl. The scarlet flames of the Red Queen painted the castle's stubborn towers in brilliant hues of destruction. Laenor and Seasmoke swept over The Tor. The dragon's silver flames fell like a rain of liquid moonlight, beautiful and terrible, consuming stone and beam. Viserys, atop Sheepstealer, and Gael, riding her own dragon, brought yellow flames and those of her mount upon House Santagar (Sandstone) and House Godagrace, respectively. Yet, after this initial display of overwhelming power, Aenar ordered a withdrawal. They would not press on to other castles. The message of fire and blood had been delivered.
Simultaneously, from the sea, the boldest strikes occurred: Daemon and Caraxes fell upon Starfall. The Blood Wyrm, a beast as red as blood itself, defied the waters of the Torrentine River. Caraxes' fire bathed the fabled stronghold of the Lords of the Sword of the Morning, a warning that not even Dorne's oldest and noblest lineage was safe from Targaryen wrath. But the strategic target along the Stone Way was reserved for Rhaenyra and Syrax. The golden dragon soared above the imposing fortress of Yronwood. Below, the castle of the self-styled "Bloodroyal" stood as a challenge. From Syrax's maw poured a torrent of golden flames, a clear message that no Dornish lord who defied the dragon would emerge unscathed.
The Impact on Sunspear
High above Sunspear, the air was thin and cold. Aenar, astride Zekrom, surveyed the city sprawling below like a child's model. The black dragon, a colossus of night-dark scales with eyes glowing with unnatural green energy, hovered silently, its presence masked by its rider's magic.
Then, he rose in the saddle. Without a word, he leaped into the void.
The wind roared around him, becoming a deafening howl as he plummeted toward the ground, a meteor clad in the colors of his house. The magic shielding him dissipated in the tumult, and his fall became visible—a black and silver speck against the sun, growing larger by the second.
The impact was cataclysmic.
When his feet struck the ground, it was not a landing; it was a celestial collision. The force of his impact hit the earth like a hammer of the gods. The ground shook and cracked. A visible shockwave erupted from the point of impact, an elemental fury that reduced nearby buildings to clouds of dust and debris and sent distant houses swaying and crumbling. A crater was carved into the ground before the castle gates, and from its epicenter, Aenar Targaryen emerged.
He rose calmly in the center of the destruction he had wrought, untouched, his cloak fluttering gently in the settling dust. Unhurried, his purple eyes fixed on the gates of Sunspear. He began to walk, each step a solemn echo in the sudden silence that followed the roar of destruction.
There would be reckonings. There would be terms. But in that moment, there was only the King, the dragon in human form, and the accounts he had come to settle.
---
Final part
A silence followed. Not a peaceful silence, but the thick, heavy silence that comes after a crash, a fall, the shattering of existence. Aenar Targaryen walked. His steps, calm and measured, echoed through the inner halls of Sunspear like the tolling of a funeral bell. The smoking crater he had carved with his arrival was merely the entrance, the signature of his wrath. Now, the lesson would continue through the intimate corridors of Martell power.
The first wave of guards emerged from the shadow of an archway, their copper and steel armor gleaming under a sun now obscured by suspended dust. They were men hardened by the desert sun, loyal, their war cries a harsh and familiar sound against the palace walls. They advanced with lowered spears. Aenar did not quicken his pace. He did not avert his gaze. He simply walked toward them.
And then, the impossible began to happen.
It was as if he carried a forge within him, the heart of a fallen star. The air around him began to ripple, turning liquid with heat. The spear tips, a mere arm's length from him, glowed a sudden, painful red. The metal did not soften; it flowed, dripping onto the stone floor with sharp hisses, like incandescent tears. The men, incredulous, looked at their swords. The steel blades melted from their scabbards, burning their legs, fusing to the leather sheaths that erupted into flames. And then came the true horror. Their armor, the breastplates meant to protect them, became their sarcophagi. The glowing metal seared against skin, against clothing. A scream—not of pain, but of primordial terror—preceded the ignition. It was not a burning; it was a transfiguration. Entire as a became living torches, consumed in a white-blue flame that did not smoke, only devoured. In three of Aenar's steps, where there had been ten men, there were ten piles of ash, scattered by the breeze of his passing. He had not even raised a hand.
He entered the shadowed corridors of the palace, an otherworldly being in the home of his enemies. The devastation that preceded him had created a vacuum of will. Servants and attendants, terrified, cowered against the plaster walls, trying to blend into the tiles, to become part of the decor. Women clutched their aprons, men hid their faces. For these, who bore no weapons and whose hearts beat only with fear, there was no fire. Only the weight. The weight of a presence that was an antithesis to life. One by one, like flowers wilting under a toxic sun, their eyes rolled back, and they collapsed, fainting, to the floor. They were the lucky ones. They were spared by their irrelevance.
His march was a river of fate, flowing straight and inexorable toward the heart of power: the great throne room.
---
The massive ebony and mother-of-pearl doors, carved with the suns and spears of House Martell, stood wide open. An invitation or an admission of defeat? Inside, Prince Qoren Martell stood, a statue of cracked dignity. His fingers, resting on the back of the stone throne, trembled faintly. Flanking him were his three children: two boys with faces taut with forced courage, and the eldest daughter, her wide eyes capturing the full horror of the situation. Beside them, a man clad in the garish silks of Myr, the Triarchy's representative, vainly tried to mask the sweat streaming down his temples. The stench of fear was tangible, a sour note in the air perfumed with incense.
Aenar entered, and the very sunlight streaming through the rose windows seemed to pale. His steps echoed on the polished marble, each one a nail in the coffin of Dornish resistance.
"Prince Qoren," Aenar greeted, with a slight nod. The courtesy was more terrifying than a shout. It was the politeness of an executioner who knows his craft. His slitted, purple eyes, pools of merciless antiquity, then shifted to the Myrish man, studying him as an entomologist might examine a rare insect. "And you must be the messenger. I hope your bags are packed. The journey back will be… direct."
Prince Qoren swallowed hard, the sound audible in the silent room. "Why are you here, Aenar?" His voice was a thread, a hoarse whisper. "This… this is an act of madness. This is war."
"Madness?" Aenar repeated, his voice carrying an almost pedagogical disappointment. "War, Qoren, is what you and your Myrish friends started when you touched the dragon. I am merely finishing it." He paused, his gaze sweeping the room, dismissing its riches. "Listen. Had you stayed in your deserts, ruling your useless sands and scorpions, I would never have cared about you. I would have let you and your line reign over this dusty corner forever. Your pride would be intact, your children alive." He tilted his head, and for the first time, his voice gained a thread of ice. "But you… you dared. You supported an attack on my islands. On my borders. You challenged the Iron Throne. That, I will not allow."
He turned fully to the Myrish representative, as if Qoren no longer existed. "A simple question, then. Of the options fate offers you, which do you prefer? The quick, or the slow?"
The Myrish man paled, his face turning the color of the ashes he would soon become. His lips trembled, and a trickle of saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. "Q-Quick!" he stammered, the word escaping as a gasp of agony.
The answer still echoed in the room when the man was gone. There was no transition. A flare of white flames, so intense it painted the entire room in pure white for a second, consumed him from existence. There were no screams, no smell of burning flesh. Only a dry snap in the air and a small pile of fine ash, scattering across the marble like a stain. The silk glove he had worn fell to the floor, intact, atop the mound.
Aenar made a face of disgust, an almost human flicker of frustration. "A pity," he murmured, as if to himself. "I was truly hoping he'd choose the slow. The art of pain is a meticulous thing, and I was in the mood to indulge." His gaze, now devoid of any humor, returned to Qoren, who trembled uncontrollably, his legs buckling. "Do you see, Prince? At this very moment, the castles of Wyl, Yronwood, The Tor, Starfall, and Sandstone are burning. Their towers are torches lighting the Dornish night. Your alliance, your clever plan… it was a catastrophic mistake. You did not bring victory to Dorne, Qoren. You brought the storm to your own roof."
The prince fell to his knees, the weight of his ruin finally crushing him. His dignity evaporated, leaving only an old, terrified man. "Mercy, Your Grace. Please, I beg… for my children."
"Mercy?" Aenar mused, the word leaving his lips like something foreign. He began to walk in a slow, predatory circle around the kneeling family, his black cloak dragging softly across the floor. "Mercy is a luxury for those who can afford weakness. I was considering extinguishing House Martell forever. Uprooting it from history. Placing a loyal, obedient dog on this stone throne." He paused, his gaze weighing each child like a butcher assessing livestock. "But today… today I will be merciful. This time." The word 'mercy' sounded like the most terrible of sentences. "Choose. One. Only one will inherit your name, your throne, and the burden of my clemency. The others… will join your Myrish ally. It is the only decision you will make that matters to history."
Qoren Martell, in a final act of desperate pragmatism, looked at his children. His gaze passed from the youngest son, whose face was wet with silent tears, to the eldest, who tried to hold his posture, before settling on his daughter. She did not cry. Her eyes, wide open, were fixed on Aenar, and in them was an ocean of horror but also a strange, profound understanding. "Her," he whispered, his voice a broken, guilt-ridden rasp. "My daughter. Let it be her."
Aenar smiled. A hollow gesture that did not reach his eyes. "Good choice."
There was no sound. No explosion of fire. It was an implosion of flesh and bone. The two boys, one on either side of their father, simply unraveled. It was as if an invisible, cosmic force had crushed them from within. A wet, revolting burst of blood, viscera, and bone fragments painted the walls, the stone throne, and the surviving sister in a vivid, hot red. The young woman stood frozen, drenched in her brothers' blood, her beautiful face and gown transformed into a canvas of carnage. A thread of unidentifiable matter dripped from her hair. She gasped but did not scream. Her lungs seemed to have sealed shut. And then, her eyes, through the red veil, met Aenar's. All the hatred, all the fury, all the promise of vengeance simmering in her chest crashed against the absolute reality of those purple eyes. They showed no anger, no sadistic pleasure, not even interest. They showed only the fact of power. The total comprehension of her impotence washed over her like an icy wave, and the hatred drained away, leaving only a terrifying void and the raw truth: she was an insect. And he was the boot.
Aenar turned to Qoren for the last time. The old prince was kneeling in his sons' blood, his eyes glassy, his mind already shattered. "Until never again, old friend," Aenar said, with the same casual courtesy as before.
And the Prince of Dorne exploded like his sons. His blood joined theirs, forming a larger, deeper pool at the foot of the throne.
Aenar then looked at the young woman, now the last Martell, a blood-soaked ghost in the center of a slaughterhouse. "Sit," he ordered, his voice strangely light, almost playful, as if inviting her to tea. He gestured to the Dornish throne, now drenched and dripping, stained with the essence of her own family.
Like an automaton, her legs moved. She walked to the throne, each step a sacrilege. Her soles left red prints on the marble. She turned and sat. The fabric of her robes absorbed the blood with a low, wet sound.
"I name you Lady of Dorne and Protector of the South," he proclaimed, his voice echoing in the empty hall like a decree from the gods. "You will have time to prepare. To bury what remains. To remember. Then, you will come to King's Landing, with all the lords who survived my… visitation, and swear fealty to the Iron Throne. On your knees."
He turned and began to walk out but paused at the door, casting one final glance at her. His eyes surveyed the infernal scene, the blood queen on her throne of horror.
"Congratulations on your coronation, Lady Martell," he said, and a genuine, fleeting, terrifying smile touched his lips. "It was a pleasure."
The ebony and mother-of-pearl door closed with a dull thud. The sound echoed, then died. And then, there was only silence. The silence of the abattoir. The silence of the end. She sat, motionless, the queen of a kingdom of the dead. And as the darkness began to swallow the corners of the room, the young woman who was now the ruler of Dorne saw not a king, or a god, or a man. She saw only the final form of power: a monster, cloaked in the deceptive, graceful skin of a person, who could, in the blink of an eye, turn life into an abstract art of blood and ash. And she knew, in the deepest part of her frozen soul, that the monster would always win.
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Epilogue: The Lesson of the Free Cities
The air above Lys was warm, humid, and smelled of fear. Mounted on Balerion, Aenar Targaryen watched the City of Voluptuousness writhing in panic below. The screams did not reach him at such heights, but he could feel the terror rising like a mist.
His consciousness, expanded by the magic of his blood, touched the minds of his riders. Through it, he saw Tyrosh being consumed by a triumvirate of fire: Daemon, Laena, and Laenor, on Caraxes, Vhagar, and Seasmoke, reducing the island city to an inferno of melting roofs and burning harbors. Further east, Myr faced the same fate on the wings of Meleys, Syrax, and Sheepstealer, ridden by Rhaenys, Rhaenyra, and Viserys. The Great Lenses of Myr burst, their glass gushing like the tears of a blind giant.
The maps will have to be remade, thought Aenar, his decision cold and absolute. As of today, Tyrosh and Myr are no more. They are merely lessons written in ashes.
His original intention was clear: the Triumphant Trilogy of Treason would be erased from history. Lys, the third leg of the stool, would follow its sisters into oblivion. He could already feel the order forming in his mind, the final word that would condemn a city of millions.
It was then that the memory struck him, not as a plea, but as a strategic fact. Daemon's request. The mention of a name: Lysara Rogare. His nephew's first wife, a fragile but existing link to this decadent city. It was not an appeal for pity; it was an argument of blood and alliance. Destroying Lys would dishonor that memory, tarnish a bond that, though he personally despised it, had its value.
Mercy, when justified, could be a tool of governance sharper than fire.
No, he corrected his own thought. As of today, Lys will not be ash. It will be under new management. That of the Iron Throne.
Balerion, sensing his rider's resolved will, tilted his black wings. The great beast dove in terrifying silence, a living meteor descending upon the palace of the Council of Magisters.
Aenar hoped the men who ruled Lys would be sensible. That they would see the fire that had consumed their sister-cities reflected in their eyes and accept the new world without question.
But if they weren't... he shrugged mentally.
This world has no shortage of idiots, he thought, as the ground approached at a terrifying speed. And the forge of destiny always has room for one more.