Here is another chapter of this story. I won't give the usual warnings, you're already sick of knowing. In this particular chapter, I liked it more than I thought I would, writing from Alicent's point of view. We see my attempt to combine the book's point of view with the series', showing her manipulative side and still without losing the essence of the series, which, let's face it, is pretty silly. So that's it. Happy reading.
Prologue: The Tournament of the Triumphant Dragon
The air in King's Landing was electric, a perfumed mixture of wine, roasted meat, and the sweet scent of fear disguised beneath courteous smiles. Under a relentless sun, the stands of the grand tournament were filled with the colors of all Eight Kingdoms – a name that now felt strange and new on many lips. The event had been called to celebrate the annexation of Dorne and Lys, a demonstration of King Aenar Targaryen's power designed not just to commemorate, but to terrify and consolidate.
The arena gates opened for the knights' parade. While the lords of Westeros cheered their champions, a heavy silence hung over the Dornish section. There, one did not find the proud faces of the Martells, Yronwoods, or Daynes of yore. The ranks were filled by children, some barely out of infancy, and by lords of cadet branches or minor houses, their black attire and pale faces telling a silent story of sudden and tragic successions. They bore the sigils of their houses, but Dornish arrogance had been replaced by a visceral fear. Whispers ran among them, reminders of the rain of fire that had consumed their castles and the imposing figure of the King who, alone, had carved a crater at the gates of Sunspear. They were there to swear fealty, but every glance cast toward the royal box was one of pure terror.
The tension was equally palpable among the Lysene delegation. The Magisters, dressed in expensive silks, tried to maintain a posture of dignity, but their eyes revealed the frantic calculations of men who knew their fate was irrevocably tied to the Dragon's will. For many of them, the annexation and the Iron Throne's new laws had been a devastating blow to their autonomy and wealth. It was whispered in the halls of the Dragonpit that some of those who fiercely opposed the new orders had simply... had their "time on Planetos reduced to zero." Only one faction seemed at ease: House Rogare. Its patriarch, a man with sharp eyes and an easy smile, exchanged cordial words with the lords of Westeros. For them, the new order was not a sentence, but a golden opportunity to expand their financial influence across the entire unified realm.
The Spectacle and the Speech from the Throne
The jousts proceeded like a ballet of controlled violence. Lance after lance, knights from all regions clashed in the sand, seeking glory and the King's favor. The audience cheered, rooted, and placed bets, but behind the facade of joy, all the lords, from the Northmen to those of the Reach, remembered the recent lesson. Aenar Targaryen was not just a king; he was the embodiment of dragonlord might, a living reminder that loyalty was the only currency that guaranteed survival.
When the final champion was crowned and the applause died down, King Aenar rose in his box. All eyes turned to him, and an absolute silence fell over the crowd.
"My lords, my ladies, people of the Eight Kingdoms!" his voice echoed, calm yet laden with unquestionable authority. "Today, we do not celebrate just a military victory. We celebrate the birth of a new world. Dorne, for so long a thorn in the side of Westeros, is now an integral part of our body. Lys, a beacon of pleasure and trade, now directs its light for the benefit of us all. The future we will build together will be one of unprecedented prosperity, united under one law, one throne."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd, resting for a moment on the fearful faces of the Dornish and the Lysene magisters.
"And to ensure this future of progress," he continued, "I have spared no effort. While the realms recovered, I, mounted on Balerion, journeyed beyond the Wall of Death. I returned to Valyria." A murmur of shock and disbelief swept through the audience. "Yes. From the ashes and shadows of our ancestral homeland, I salvaged what time and arrogance tried to erase. Books of lost knowledge, secrets of architecture, treatises on metallurgy and sciences long forgotten by the world now rest in the Citadel and in my royal library. This knowledge will not be hoarded, but used. Used to improve our roads, cure our diseases, and strengthen our bonds. The prosperity I promise is now within our grasp, reclaimed from the very womb of oblivion."
With these words, Aenar declared not only his military power but laid claim to Valyria's intellectual legacy. He was not a mere conqueror; he was the heir to an empire of wisdom, and the Eight Kingdoms, willing or not, were now the beneficiaries of a renaissance forged in fire, blood, and resurrected knowledge.
Part 1: The Price of Knowledge and the Restored Blade
The heavy oak door of the Throne Room closed behind Aenar Targaryen, muffling the constant hum of the realm's affairs. He walked through the icy corridors of the Red Keep, his boots echoing solitary against the stone, while Ser Lorent Marbrand, one of his Kingsguard, a imposing silhouette in white armor, maintained a respectful distance behind him.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Aenar's lips. His mind wandered to the expression on Lord Jason Lannister's face moments before. The old lion, normally so contained and calculating, had lost all his composure when Aenar, without ceremony, handed him what his house had been missing for centuries. Brightroar, the legendary Valyrian steel sword of the Lannisters, lost on a fateful expedition to Valyria, now rested on a crimson velvet cloth, its dark blade and rippled steel veins catching the torchlight. Jason Lannister's gaze was a mixture of disbelief, reverence, and pure ecstasy. If it weren't for the solemn presence of the Kingsguard, Aenar thought, amused, the proud Lord of Casterly Rock might well have knelt and sworn eternal fealty right then and there.
His destination was his personal library, a sanctuary of silence and knowledge that smelled of ancient ink, aged leather, and the subtle energy of magic. Pushing the door open, however, he realized he was not alone.
Leaning against his desk, illuminated by the soft twilight entering the high window, was a woman. Alys. Her long black hair fell like a cascade of ebony over her shoulders, contrasting with her pale skin and slender body clad in simple robes. She held one of the volumes recovered from Valyria, her fingers gently gliding over the runed leather. Her eyes, of a deep and inquisitive hue, rose to meet his, and in them was a mysterious look, a spark of intimate secret, as if she knew something that existed only in the core of her being.
As he approaches from behind, he immediately presses his body against hers. The guard will be at the door, so they have the place to themselves. He grabs a lock of her long black hair and sniffs it. He laughs and says she's come at a good time. He quickly puts a hand around her neck, pulling her toward him, causing her back to arch. Using his free hand, he runs it down her thighs and immediately begins to touch her pussy over her dress. After a few seconds, he bends her over a nearby table and lifts her dress, revealing that she's wearing nothing underneath. She looks at him, turning her head and smiling naughtily. He takes his monstrous cock out of his pants and lines it up with her entrance, then thrusts it in all at once. Her body accepts him perfectly and completely, where he shows no gentleness, and he begins to thrust into her quickly and hard.
The sounds of clapping and moans echo off the library walls. After several minutes, the king decides to finish and releases his load inside her. He removes his cock, and unlike others, nothing comes out of her as if her entrance was sealed, so much so that her belly shows a slight increase in size.
Sometime later, the air in the library was warmer, laden with a mixed scent of passion and ancient paper. Aenar, already dressed, headed to a pile of scrolls with the serenity of one who had just shared a moment of intense intimacy. Alys, still catching her breath lying on a low divan covered with bearskin, watched him with weary admiration. He found the book he was looking for and sat on a soft leather sofa. She, after a moment, rose and joined him, nestling into his side with a familiar ease.
"And so, my dear Alys," Aenar asked, his voice a low, intimate murmur as he opened the heavy volume on his lap. "Did you find anything to your liking in that tome?"
Alys tilted her head against his shoulder. "It's all fascinating," she whispered, her fingers tracing patterns on his arm. "Their approach to magic was... brutal. So focused on blood and sacrifice. It's a web of dark power. But," she added, her gaze growing distant, "if you look hard enough, you find interesting spells hidden among the rituals of carnage. One in particular caught my attention."
"Oh?" Aenar raised an eyebrow, interested.
"Yes. An enchantment that, if performed during a skinchange with a raven, would allow me... to talk to you through the beast. A form of long-distance communication, not just shared sight."
Aenar nodded slowly, understanding the immense strategic value of such a spell. "Intriguing. A useful tool." He then turned his attention fully to the book in his hands.
Alys was silent for a time, her curiosity growing. Then, playfully, she stretched her bare foot under the low table in front of them and began tracing soft circles on Aenar's leg with her toes, gently disturbing his concentration.
"And you, my dragon?" she asked, her voice a thread of silk. "What is so captivating that it steals your attention from me?"
He closed the book just enough for her to see the cover, though it bore no title. "A manual," he said simply. "On the making of Valyrian steel."
Alys's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Not because of the information itself – they had recovered more shocking texts – but because of the implications. Her mind, always agile, was already visualizing the armies of the Seven Kingdoms, or Eight now, equipped with such weaponry.
"Can we...?" she began, the question hanging in the air between them.
"No," Aenar replied, curtly. "Not for now. The process described here is incomplete. It lacks the most crucial component: the final alloying spells are not documented. And the text is quite clear about a fundamental requirement." He turned to look her in the eyes, his expression serious. "Human sacrifice. Souls are forged into the metal along with dragonfire to give it its properties. That is why I need to alter the process, find a way to circumvent this abominable necessity."
He stood up suddenly, his energy shifting from contemplation to action. "I'm going to Summerhall. I need to meet with my researchers and see how far they've gotten in fusing the runes of the First Men with Valyrian glyphs. I believe the key to creating a metal similar to Valyrian steel, but without the need to spill innocent blood, may lie at the intersection of these two magics."
He walked towards the door, stopping at the threshold. He looked back at Alys, and a cynical, hard smile touched his lips.
"And if we can't... well, there will always be rapists and pedophiles in the dungeons. They might end up 'volunteering' forcibly for the progress of the realm."
Interlude: The King's Purification
The crackling of the fireplace was the only sound breaking the heavy silence in Alicent Hightower's chambers. The dancing flames cast shadows that seemed to embrace the naked bodies of the two women in a play of light and darkness. The air, saturated with the sweet-sour smell of spilled wine and the heavy scent of unconsummated desire, bore witness to failure. Viserys lay on the bed, tangled in disheveled sheets, his rough snores echoing testimony to his inadequacy.
Alicent remained seated at the small oak table, her posture erect and dignified even in complete nudity. Her firm breasts and narrow waist contrasted with Aemma's more mature curves, as if visually representing the difference in attitude between them. Yet her dark eyes burned with an intensity that seemed almost to absorb the room's light.
Look at her, Alicent thought, her internal judgment as sharp as the blades her father's knights carried. Aemma Arryn, of the once-proud House Arryn of the Vale. Now, little more than a pale shadow, withering in the solitude of a sterile marriage. And the fault lies entirely with her. Her long, pale fingers tightened around the wine glass with near-shattering force. If only she would fulfill her sacred duty as a woman bound to House Targaryen, if she would surrender to the King without these endless questions that weaken her spirit, she wouldn't be in this pitiable state. Her weakness isn't just a personal failing - it's an insult to all of us who bear the weight of this alliance.
When she saw Aemma rise from the bed with hesitant, almost pained movements, Alicent reached out with determination. Her slender fingers wrapped around Aemma's wrist with a firmness that was both gentle and inescapable.
"Sit with me, dear," she said, pulling her into the opposite chair with a smoothness that brooked no refusal. Her eyes didn't stray from Aemma's older body, studying every curve, every sign of vulnerability.
"Stop looking at me with such pity, Alicent," Aemma whispered, her blue eyes - once vibrant, now dimmed - stubbornly avoiding contact.
"I am sad for you, Aemma," Alicent replied, her voice a perfect model of courteous composure. "Sad to see you cannot find... relief from the frustrations every woman of our station carries." Her left hand rested on Aemma's forearm, her thumb beginning to trace hypnotic circles on the soft skin, a touch both comforting and possessive.
Aemma cast a weary glance toward Viserys, whose inert body seemed to symbolize all her disappointments. "A woman in the flower of youth like you, Alicent, must understand this frustration better than anyone. Even I, who have more... experience in life's ways, feel suffocated by it."
Inside Alicent, something ignited - not empathy, but the cold spark of perceived opportunity. The Seven have heard my silent prayers! They are guiding her toward the truth she stubbornly avoids. "You have lived among the Targaryens for so long, Aemma," she began, her voice softening into an almost maternal tone, "and yet you still haven't grasped one of the most fundamental truths that has governed this House since the days of Valyria."
"Truth? What do you mean, Alicent?" Aemma's confusion was palpable, mixed with a spark of curiosity that Alicent noted with satisfaction.
"It's simple," Alicent leaned forward, her brown hair forming an intimate curtain around their faces. Her hand now moved to Aemma's shoulder, fingers gently pressing the soft flesh. "All women bound to this family by blood or alliance belong to the King. To him, and him alone. Offering our bodies to the bearer of the dragon's blood is not a choice - it is a sacred duty, as ancient as the flames his ancestors mastered."
The shock that illuminated Aemma's face was almost physical, as if she'd been struck. "I... I always thought that... you found solace in secret. With one of the handmaidens, or perhaps..." Her voice dropped to an embarrassed whisper. "Not with... Aenar."
Alicent lowered her eyes for a moment, a calculated gesture of modesty that hid her growing triumph. "Aenar is no mere lover, Aemma. He is the King - the true bearer of the dragon's blood, the living incarnation of Valyria's power. Serving him isn't an act of lust, but a blessing that elevates us. This is how we prove our unquestioning loyalty." Her hands moved down to Aemma's trembling hands, pulling her gently to her feet with an authority born of unshakable conviction.
"Aenar..." The name left Aemma's lips as a whisper, laden with a mixture of terror and fascination. "Do you think he... that I... that he would even notice someone like me?"
Alicent couldn't contain a small, victorious smile - the expression of a hunter watching prey walk into a trap. "My dear Aemma," she said, rising with a solemn grace that highlighted her youth and determination. "There is only one way for a woman to discover if she is worthy of a king's gaze."
As she helped Aemma into her cloak, her hands deliberately lingered on her hips, her waist, her shoulders - each touch a silent message, a meticulous preparation for what was to come. In the dark, cold corridor, Alicent kept a firm hand on Aemma's back, guiding her with the confidence of one who knew every stone, every shadow of the Red Keep.
When the door to Aenar's chambers opened and Maegelle emerged, illuminated by the golden light spilling from within, Alicent gently squeezed Aemma's hip in a gesture of reassurance and confirmation.
"Good evening, my ladies," Maegelle said with a serene smile that seemed to know secrets they were only beginning to glimpse. Her eyes swept over them with an expression of silent approval before she disappeared down the corridor, leaving behind a trail of mystery and possibility.
Inside the solar, shrouded in the golden gloom of candles and ancient scrolls, Aenar watched them with his purple eyes that seemed to see through every facade, every pretense. Alicent didn't hesitate - her hands went first to her own fastenings, loosening the cloak with deliberate movements that were almost a ritual dance. Then, she turned to Aemma, her fingers working the fastenings of the other woman's cloak with a calculated intimacy that was both possessive and maternal.
"What brings Lady Hightower and Lady Arryn to my door at such an unseemly hour?" Aenar's voice was neutral, but his eyes seemed to read their souls like open scrolls.
Alicent looked at Aemma, then at the King, her heart beating not with fear, but with a conviction that burned like fire in her veins. "We have both come, Your Grace, to fulfill the highest function a woman can offer House Targaryen - our unconditional loyalty, manifested in the purest and most ancient form."
Aenar observed them for what felt like an eternity, his eyes tracing every curve, every shadow of their naked bodies with an assessment that was more alchemical than carnal. "You are soiled," he declared finally, his words laden with a meaning that transcended mere physical dirt.
He snapped his fingers.
A wave of divine warmth enveloped Alicent, followed by a sensation of absolute purity that made her tremble from head to toe. He didn't just clean us, she thought with a reverence bordering on religious ecstasy. He purified us - washed away the stain of Viserys, the embarrassing failure of his touch, the shame of his incompetence. This is the true essence of the dragon's blood.
Aenar rose, his imposing silhouette looming over them like a living statue of an ancient god. With another dry snap of his fingers, the wide leather sofa against the wall transformed, stretching and molding itself into an inviting bed that seemed to promise both sacrifice and transcendence.
"Come."
Alicent took Aemma's trembling hand, guiding her to the bed with the confidence of a priestess leading an initiate to her baptism. As they lay down, her hand rested on Aemma's arm in a gesture both protective and possessive - a silent reminder that she was not alone on this journey, that they were united not just by duty, but by a greater destiny.
Together, Alicent thought as she watched Aemma's eyes, once full of doubt, now shining with an almost ecstatic surrender, we are finally becoming true Targaryen women. A profound pride swelled within her. I have remained a pious woman, faithful to the gods and my house, and now I have molded Aemma to walk the same righteous path. Nothing, can deny us our place by the dragon's side now.
Part 2: The Call of the Sea and the Secrets of Ulthos
The rhythmic sway of the Sea Snake was more than just a motion; it was the very heartbeat of Corlys Velaryon. Standing on the deck, with the salty wind caressing his face, he finally understood the genius – or was it irony? – behind his "removal" from court. King Aenar, in his inscrutable wisdom, was not exiling him. He was freeing him. Freeing him from the golden dungeons of King's Landing, where the air was poisoned by the whispers of snakes and the sweet stench of ambition. Here, on the vast and untamable sea, the only sounds that mattered were the roar of the waves and the song of the wind against the sails. He had spent so many years navigating the treacherous waters of politics beside Rhaenys, trying to secure her place in the succession, that he had almost forgotten his own essence: he was not a courtier, he was an explorer. The greatest Westeros had ever seen.
His final port of call had been Ulthos, a continent shrouded in legend and mystery. The first contacts with the natives, a people of imposing stature and skin adorned with intricate jade tattoos, were tense, marked by mutual distrust. It was then that the artifact from the Arcane Sky Center – a small runestone he carried in his pocket that emitted a soft vibration – revealed its purpose. Suddenly, the guttural sounds and complex clicks of the local language organized themselves in his mind, transforming into understandable concepts and phrases. The insurmountable barrier crumbled, and a door to a dazzling civilization opened.
They called themselves the People of the Sun and the Serpent, and their culture was a treasure trove of complexity and sophistication that rivaled any great house of Westeros. They lived in city-states carved into the jungle itself, with massive stone pyramids that rose towards the sky like steps to the gods. The architecture was adorned with carvings telling stories of a history as long and rich as that of the First Men. The capital, the Golden City, was something that defied imagination. The name was not a metaphor. Gold was as common as stone in King's Landing, sheathing the temples, paving the main squares, and adorning the nobles. The wealth was so ostentatious and natural that, upon seeing it, Corlys couldn't help a bitter smile. The Lannisters boast of their gold, but here it is the very essence of the earth. They would seem like mere petty merchants before these lords.
Their leader, an old man they called the "Voice of the Earth," received Corlys not as an invader, but as a curious emissary. Seated in a hanging garden, with birds of vibrant plumage singing around them, Corlys spoke of Westeros, of the Iron Throne, and with a pride he didn't know he possessed, of House Targaryen and their Dragon King, Aenar. The mention of the dragonlords caused a frisson of reverent fear among the leader's advisors. The "Voice of the Earth" himself, until then impassive, inclined his head in a gesture of deep respect. Impressed, they gifted Corlys with several artifacts of gold and jade of religious significance, plus a dark green crystal that, according to them, "captured the breath of the earth" and allowed communication with the spirits of nature, for him to take to the "King of the Fire Sky."
But the respite in Ulthos was merely an interlude before returning to a darker reality. The stop at the Sothoryos outpost was a brutal shock. The base was a small point of light against a lush, hostile darkness. The jungles here, though superficially similar to those of Ulthos, were infinitely deadlier. The air was heavy, humid, and smelled of floral decay, poison, and blood. Even with the protective amulets provided by the King and the enchanted weapons from the Arcane Sky Center, losses were a constant reality. Men disappeared during the night, pulled into the darkness by unidentified beasts; others were struck down by strange fevers that made the skin blister.
The base commander, Ser Edric Storm, a bastard from Storm's End with a face marked by new and old scars, greeted him with a grim expression. "Lord Corlys," he said, his grave voice echoing against the wooden palisade. "Progress is minimal. We've mapped a few more miles of the river, but the creatures... are relentless. And the Bloody Gorillas are always there, watching us from the treetops." Corlys frowned. The tribe of giant monkeys was a nightmare that seemed to possess a sinister intelligence. "Was there another attack?" "Three nights ago," Edric confirmed, pointing to deep claw marks on the wooden palisade. "If it weren't for the magical barrier that activates at sunset, repelling them with... well, whatever it is, they would have broken through. We would have been massacred or forced to set sail. Perhaps both."
It was then that an unexpected sound cut through the heavy air: the harsh caw of a raven. The bird landed on a nearby railing, its black, gleaming eyes fixed disturbingly on Corlys. Before anyone could react, the raven opened its beak and a strangely articulated, lifeless voice emerged, making Corlys's blood run cold. "Lord Corlys Velaryon. I am the eyes of the Master of Whisperers. Your discoveries in Ulthos are of great importance. The Dragon King will be informed immediately."
The raven inclined its head, a mechanically sinister gesture. "Upon your arrival in King's Landing, you will receive new orders from His Grace." And then, before taking flight, the raven added, its expressionless tone making the news even more surreal: "Ah, and congratulations. Princess Rhaenyra is pregnant again. The realm will rejoice at another dragon."
The bird departed, leaving behind a heavy silence. Corlys stood stunned, his hand still hovering over the report he held. Gradually, his breathing returned to normal and an incredulous smile appeared on his lips. More and more, things stray from what I consider normal, he thought, gazing at the horizon. Ravens that speak, kingdoms of gold on lost continents, kings who conquer time itself... Perhaps, in the realm of Aenar Targaryen, this is the new normal.
He bid farewell to Ser Edric with a firm handshake. "Hold fast. Help is on the way." As the Sea Snake set sail from Sothoryos, Corlys stood at the stern, watching the cursed continent disappear over the horizon. His mind wandered to his son, Laenor. Stubborn, reluctant, but in the end, he had agreed to undergo the fertility ritual the King had insisted upon. Corlys sighed. He would have preferred his son to fulfill his duties of his own volition, but the result was the same. In the grand scheme of things, what mattered was legacy. That the name Velaryon be remembered, that his blood continue. Whether through Laenor or Laena, his blood would sail into the future.
These new peoples of Ulthos, with their cities of gold and pyramids, their feathered serpents and their knowledge of nature... yes, they would bring a new and unpredictable dynamic to Westeros. A dynamic that, he suspected, King Aenar was not only eager to explore but for which he was already preparing. The world Corlys had known in his youth was fading, and a larger, stranger world was taking its place. And Corlys Velaryon, the Lord of the Tides, was once again at the forefront, exactly where he belonged.
Part 3: The Falcon's View
The world was a stained ball of blue, green, and white, floating in an infinite void. From a height that would make any other bird or dragon freeze and fall, Gael felt no cold. A constant, warm aura emanated from her body and the majestic white dragon beneath her, Reshiram. The air was so thin it was hard to breathe, but she didn't need to; her bond with the dragon sustained her. She could see the curvature of the world, a perfect rounded line separating the sunlight from the darkness of space. So small, she thought, and yet, so many problems.
She stroked the immaculate scales on Reshiram's neck. "You've grown so much, my beauty," she whispered, her voice lost to the roar of the wind that didn't touch her. The white dragon, whose size now rivaled that of Vermithor himself, let out a low rumble of satisfaction, feeling its rider's affection through their bond. Suddenly, Gael remembered her commitments. The silence and solitude of the infinite sky were tempting, but duty called her down below.
"We are late, my love. We must hurry."
Reshiram roared, an explosion of sound that dissipated in the partial vacuum. Then, with a powerful thrust of its wings that seemed made of snow and sunlight, the white dragon dove. The descent was a whirlwind. They cut through the clouds like a divine arrow, their speed so terrifying it would make Caraxes seem like a lazy wasp. Within minutes, the tiny landscape transformed into the continent of Westeros, then the Riverlands, and finally the towers and courtyards of King's Landing. It was a silent show of force, a demonstration that while Balerion was the Terror of the night, Reshiram was the Bolt of the day.
In the Dragonpit, the handlers barely dared to approach as Reshiram landed with an ethereal grace. Gael slid from her saddle, gave a final pat to her mount's snout, and headed straight for the Red Keep. A quick bath to wash away the sensation of infinite altitude, a change into clothes more suitable for the city, and she was on her way again, descending the streets of King's Landing.
Her destination was one of the many orphanages she sponsored. She had "inherited" them from her mother, the good Queen Alysanne, who had started the charity network, and Gael had made a point to continue and expand her legacy. Upon entering, she was greeted by the sound of laughter and simple music. One of the children, a girl of perhaps six, was celebrating her birthday. Gael's gaze, so piercing from the heights, softened completely. She sat on the floor, played, ate a piece of simple cake, and listened to the children's invented stories. For an hour, there was no queen, no dragonrider, just Gael and the smiles she could protect.
From there, her path led her to the Great Sept of King's Landing. The incense hung heavy in the air, mixing with the smell of beeswax candles. And it was in the sept's inner garden that she found Maegelle, her sister. The hug between them was genuine, a rare anchor of true affection in that sea of ambition.
The conversation flowed about casual matters, the orphanages. Until, inevitably, the subject turned to Aenar.
"So, sister," Gael asked, her slanted eyes blinking with curiosity. "How was your... encounter with our king the other night?"
A serene, intimate smile illuminated Maegelle's face. "It was wonderful, as always. Aenar is never... ordinary." She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. "But I have a little gossip to tell, if you wish to know."
Gael rolled her eyes mentally. What woman in the world doesn't enjoy gossip? Outwardly, she merely raised an eyebrow, an elegant and skeptical gesture. "Are you going to tell me or not, sister? Or do you intend to let me die of curiosity?"
Maegelle laughed. It was a harmonious, melodious laugh, one of the remnants of the blessing – or curse – of the Seven that she carried. "Very well. After leaving his chambers that night, I... witnessed an arrival. Lady Alicent was approaching the door."
Gael let out a dramatic sigh. "Oh, by the gods. Came to fulfill her 'sacred duties' to the family, I suppose?" The sarcasm in her voice was as thick as the incense in the air.
"Precisely," confirmed Maegelle, her smile growing sharper. "But the news, my dear sister, wasn't Lady Alicent. That's a story as old as Rhaenyra's stubbornness in being a masochist, preferring that husband who needs aphrodisiac potions to become an animal to a night with Aenar."
Gael nodded. It was a known and sad fact. "So, what was the news? Don't keep me in suspense."
Maegelle paused, savoring the moment. "The news... was who was with her."
Gael stayed silent, refusing to take the bait. She simply stared at her sister, her face a mask of forced patience.
Seeing that the provocation hadn't worked, Maegelle relented with a smile. "It was Aemma."
A genuine sigh of relief and satisfaction escaped Gael's lips. "Finally. It was breaking my heart to see her withering in that marriage with Viserys, the idiot." Her face contorted with pure anger for a moment. "The audacity of that man... what he did to her during the last birth... ordering the maester to cut her open like a pig in a slaughterhouse... without even thinking to call Aenar to stabilize her." Her fists clenched. "If Aenar hadn't heard the order with his beyond-human hearing and gone to save her, she would be dead. Viserys didn't deserve the air she breathed."
Maegelle watched her sister's righteous fury and then, softly, asked the question that had always lingered between them. "And you, Gael? Seeing so many women, even poor Aemma, now going to our husband's bed... do you not feel jealous?"
Gael looked at her sister, and for the first time in that conversation, her purple, slit eyes seemed to glow with a soft inner light. A calm, absolute smile appeared on her face.
"Jealous?" she repeated, as if the word were foreign. "No, Maegelle. Never. Because no matter how many women lie with him, or how many he loves in his own way... I will always be the only one equal to him."
The light in her eyes intensified for a split second, and Maegelle understood. She wasn't referring just to the title of queen. It was something deeper, a bond of blood, power, and essence that no one else could replicate.
Maegelle, satisfied with the answer, picked up a bottle of Dornish wine from a nearby table. "Well, in that case," she said, filling two crystal glasses, "now that Dorne is ours, I can drink this without hiding." She handed a glass to Gael and raised her own. "A toast. To our Dragon King... and to his infinite lust!"
The laugh that escaped Gael was a true, free, and lively guffaw that echoed through the sept's silent garden, a sound as profane as it was divine. She raised her glass.
"To infinite lust!"
As the echoes of the toast faded, the truth behind the "masochistic" Rhaenyra unfolded in another corner of the castle. Her chambers with Laenor Velaryon were plunged in gloom, the air heavy with the smell of the strong wine Laenor had, once again, been persuaded to drink. The aphrodisiac potion Rhaenyra insisted on giving him turned the normally artistic and free-spirited Laenor into a beast of brutal, artificial strength. He would grab her with a violence that wasn't his, responding to her whispers for more roughness, for more pain. It was a theater of domination orchestrated by Rhaenyra, a punishment she herself requested.
This was the contrast that justified Gael's sarcasm. While enduring the staged brutality with Laenor, Rhaenyra was truly seeking a surrender she only found in Aenar's chambers. There, without potions or theatrics, she would kneel and genuinely beg the King: "Please, don't be gentle. I... I need to feel like I'm not in control. That you are the one who commands everything. Forget Rhaenyra, the princess. Make me nothing."
And Aenar, with his strength that was that of the earth itself and not a borrowed fury, would comply. It was to him, and not to the husband turned animal by chemicals, that she truly wished to submit completely. In that authentic pain, she found a paradoxical liberation from the burden of her own name and lineage.
Epilogue: The Dragon's Gaze
The Small Council chamber hummed with a subdued energy, the afternoon light filtering through the high windows to illuminate the serious faces gathered around the table. At its head, Aenar Targaryen presided, his relaxed posture belying the absolute authority that commanded the room's respect. To his right sat his queen, Gael, her presence as integral to the council's workings as any of the traditional roles. On a smaller stool near the sideboard, their daughter Galadriel, a vision of serene focus at just five years old, performed her duties as cupbearer with unnerving grace.
Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin, tapped his ledger. "The integration of Dorne, combined with our new trade agreements with Lys, has exceeded even our most optimistic projections, Your Grace," he reported, a genuine smile gracing his features. "The treasury's health is robust. The flow of Dornish spices north and our timber south has created a prosperous new circuit of wealth."
Lord Strong, the Master of Laws, offered a grim but satisfied nod. "The rebuilding in Dorne continues. It is a slow process, born from ash and fear, but it is progress. The new lords understand the... permanence of their new reality. The 'Great Lesson' was thorough."
It was Rhaenys, the Hand of the King, who steered them toward the future. "Your Grace, Lord Corlys's reports from Ulthos are remarkable. This 'People of the Sun and Serpent'... what are our intentions?"
All eyes settled on Aenar. He let the silence stretch, his slit-pupiled gaze seeming to look through the stone walls to the continents beyond. "For now," he declared, his voice a calm, measured instrument, "we will establish a conduit. Not for conquest, but for commerce. Their artifacts, their knowledge of the land—these hold more value than fleeting submission. We will trade. We will learn." His focus then shifted to Lord Manderly. "To facilitate this, you will go to Braavos. Oversee the production of the enchanted vessels at our royal shipyard. The Sea Serpent's Wrath has proven the design. We will need a fleet of its kind."
From her seat, Gael spoke, her voice melodic yet firm. "A cultural exchange should accompany the trade. Not just goods, but ideas. Their understanding of architecture and their connection to the land could benefit our own builders and farmers." A few murmurs of agreement and nodding heads greeted her suggestion, her counsel valued as much as any present.
With the council's business concluded, Aenar rose. The meeting was adjourned. Little Galadriel carefully set down her carafe and immediately went to her father's side, slipping her small hand into his. Gael joined them, falling into step beside her husband, and together, the royal family exited into the sun-drenched Royal Gardens, leaving the weight of governance behind for a moment.
Among the fragrant flowers and the distant sounds of their other children at play, Galadriel looked up at her father, her composure giving way to childlike wonder. "Papa," she asked, her voice a soft chime, "the big, shiny stone from the sun-man in the far land... what will you do with it?"
Aenar looked down at her, a rare, gentle smile gracing his features. He knelt, bringing himself to her eye level. "That crystal, my little star, is a vessel of immense power," he explained. "It is perfect for our blood. I will have the master artisans of the Arcane Sky Center shape it into artifacts of great beauty and purpose. For your mother." He glanced at Gael, whose eyes shone with love and understanding. "For you." His own eyes, glowing with a faint, otherworldly light, held his daughter's gaze. "And for the brothers and sisters who will join you one day."
Galadriel's eyes widened, a spark of excitement igniting within their serene depths. "When? When will I have brothers and sisters?"
Aenar stood, his hand resting protectively on her head. He looked out over the gardens, at his queen, at his heir, at the kingdom he was forging into something new, powerful, and eternal.
"Soon, my child," he said, his voice a low, resonant promise that seemed to hum in the very air around them. "It will not be long now."