Prologue: Seeds and Shadows
The salty wind of the Narrow Sea whipped against Rhaenyra Targaryen's face as Syrax, her golden dragon, beat its powerful wings toward King's Landing. Below, the towers of Dragonstone diminished until they became tiny, a solid, black reminder of the power she wielded in the name of the King and the little Princess Galadriel. The pregnancy of her third child with Laenor was a heavy, uncomfortable presence in her womb, a burden she carried for duty and love. The castle was impeccable, its defenses strengthened, its administration a model of efficiency. There was no longer any reason to stay.
As the mainland approached, her thoughts, inevitably, flew to the court, a hornet's nest where every smile hid a sting. Specifically, she thought of her mother, Aemma, and Alicent Hightower. A growing unease stirred within her, observing the sudden and suspicious closeness between the two. And it wasn't just the proximity; it was the transformation. Her mother, once a faded shadow in Viserys's wake, now radiated a serene and vibrant beauty. Her eyes, once dimmed by pain and resignation, now shone with a vigor Rhaenyra hadn't seen since her childhood.
She knew. Knew what was happening. The path to Aenar's chambers was no secret to those who knew how to look. And, as much as a part of her wanted to fill with fury, to feel the betrayal, another part – larger, more weary – could not. The image of her mother being cut open like a sow in a slaughterhouse, on the orders of her own father, was a bloodstain on her soul that no fury could cleanse. If Aenar, with his terrible and merciless power, could give Aemma a spark of life and agency, who was she to condemn? Her resentment then turned towards Alicent. The pious Alicent, who now guided her mother like an experienced mare to the king's stallion. Rhaenyra thought of her own children, Jace, Luke, and the one she still carried. How would they fit into this new, strange House Targaryen that Aenar was shaping? And how could she curb Alicent's influence over her mother's newly recovered heart?
---
Meanwhile, in Aemma Arryn's chambers in the Red Keep, the air smelled of flowers and conspiracy. Alicent moved about the room with the familiarity of a mistress of the house, arranging a pitcher of herb-infused water as she spoke, her voice a honeyed and intimate whisper.
"Viserys is already on his way to his spiced wine," Alicent said, her dark eyes glinting. "He will be snoring in his chair before the moon is fully in the sky. We can meet with the King later. He will be pleased to see us."
Aemma, seated near the fireplace, blushed. There was a light in her eyes, a softness to her skin that had been absent for years. Alicent watched her, a deep satisfaction warming her chest. Finally, she thought, she blossoms.
"You look radiant, dear," Alicent murmured, approaching. Her hand, thin and deliberate, touched Aemma's silver hair, brushing an imaginary strand from her face. The touch was possessive, intimate. "The King's sacred seeds agree with you. The dragon's blood is an elixir for our lineage. See how your body responds, returning to its form, to its youth. It is proof you have become a true Targaryen woman."
Aemma lowered her eyes, a timid smile touching her lips. "I still feel... strange sometimes. So different."
"It is the blessing, Aemma," Alicent insisted, her voice firm and convincing. Her hand descended to Aemma's shoulder, massaging it gently, in a gesture that was both comforting and an affirmation of control. "The strangeness is the old you dissipating. What emerges is stronger, purer. You belong to him now. As we all do." She paused, her fingers squeezing Aemma's shoulder lightly. "And have you noticed the looks Viserys gives you now? Full of a pathetic desire he lacks the courage, nor the strength, to consummate."
Alicent let out a low, disdainful laugh. The hand on Aemma's shoulder rose to her chin, lifting it gently, forcing her to meet her gaze. "Let him look. Let him burn with a desire he can never sate. His lust is as useless as he is. You are no longer his. You are the Dragon's. And that is the only truth that matters."
In Aemma's eyes, the initial doubt seemed to dissolve under Alicent's touch and firm words, replaced by a resigned acceptance and, perhaps, a flicker of gratitude. Alicent smiled, inwardly triumphant. The web was being woven, thread by thread, and Aemma was now a fundamental part of it.
Part 1: The Weight and the Grace – 126 AC
The sun of King's Landing bathed the King's private gardens, but the light seemed to bend gently around the two figures at its center. Aenar Targaryen watched his daughter, Galadriel, and even for him, whose life was measured in centuries and impossible feats, it was a sight that inspired a rare and profound sense of wonder.
At fourteen, Galadriel was a fascinating contrast. Her stature was imposing, nearing two meters in height, an undeniable inheritance of the dragon blood that ran in her veins with unique strength. Yet, there was no bulk or brutality in her form. Every movement was one of supernatural grace, a fluid elegance that made her seem to dance even when standing still. She moved not like a warrior, but like a living blade, sharp and lethal.
Her outstretched hand, adorned with the Collar of the Threshold, the first of the two jewels created from the great Ulthos crystal, traced complex patterns in the air. Two beams of energy emanated from her palms: one, a thread of pure, stable silver, flowed from her own will. The other, a shimmering, golden, and much more powerful and volatile strand, was channeled and tamed by the collar.
"Good," Aenar's voice echoed, calm. "The collar is not a crutch, it is a conduit. It amplifies and stabilizes, but the source is you. The other bracelet we keep for your brother will function the same way."
Galadriel lowered her hands, the energy dissipating. "And the other two jewels? The bracelets for the other baby?"
"They are secure," he confirmed. "Your mother wears the other collar, and the bracelets await the children she carries in her womb." A slight smile touched his lips. Gael was, finally, pregnant again. Twins. The future, so meticulously planned, was beginning to materialize in tangible form.
He rose and, with Galadriel accompanying him with her silent grace, made his way to a covered balcony overlooking the main training yard. The scene unfolding below was the living personification of the new Targaryen generation he had cultivated.
There were Aegon and Jacaerys, both twelve namedays old, facing each other with wooden practice swords with the focused intensity of youths bearing the weight of conflicting lineages. Around them, the yard teemed with Rhaenyra's other children and all of Alicent's children. Helaena, Aemond, Daeron, Lucerys, Joffrey, Viserys – each a year younger than the last, down to the little Viserys, aged eight. It was the new brood of dragons, all present, all already bonded to their winged companions. For Rhaenyra's sons, nothing had changed in that regard. But Helaena and Aemond had found new eggs that hatched for them, as Dreamfyre and Vhagar remained with their original riders.
"They are loud," observed Galadriel, her voice serene as a mountain lake.
"They are the seed of the future," Aenar gently corrected. "Noise is a byproduct of growth." He turned to her. "Go. Your mother is visiting the orphanages. Your presence is a comfort to them."
Galadriel inclined her head in acquiescence and departed, her tall, elegant figure disappearing into the corridors.
Aenar, in turn, headed to his solar. Upon opening the door, the contrast was deliberate and profound. On one side, the room was the picture of order and intellectual power: a large carved ebony desk, heavy with scrolls, maps, and strange artifacts, all organized with mathematical precision. The walls were lined with shelves of rare books, and the air smelled of old leather, ink, and ozone.
On the other side of the room, adjoining the workspace, was a large four-poster bed, its heavy velvet curtains drawn back. And it was in this space that the severe aesthetic gave way to a more complex and somber reality.
Lying face down on the bed, naked, with their wrists bound behind their backs and their own smallclothes stuffed in their mouths as gags, were Alicent, Rhaenyra, and Aemma. Silk blindfolds covered their eyes. The reason for this scene was simple, almost domestic in its triviality: Alicent and Rhaenyra had fallen back into their old squabbles, their sharp tongues clashing in a dispute over Aemma's influence and attention. And Aenar would not tolerate disunity in his house. Aemma, unfortunately, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the punishment was extended to her as a collective lesson on the consequences of discord.
Ignoring the scene for a moment, Aenar sat at his desk and answered several letters, his calm a stark contrast to the silent tension emanating from the bed. The pen scratched the parchment with a soft, regular sound.
After some time, he finally rose and approached the bed.
Aenar walked toward the bed, coming to stand beside Rhaenyra. He looked at her not as one looks at a person, but rather as an object. By her shudder, she felt his gaze. With one hand, he spread her ass cheeks and unobstructed his view of her and the others. Metal objects with runic enchantments were in their pussies; they vibrated slowly. He said that in his house, he does not tolerate disunity and that those who cause it will be punished. He was alone in bed and positioned himself behind Aemma.
This time, he gave her ass a strong slap that echoed off the walls of the room. He said that since she was caught in the crossfire, she would be released first. He spread her ass cheeks and positioned his huge cock, not at the conventional entrance, but at the entrance of her anus. He used a Valyrian spell he learned and cast it on her entrance, cleansing it and preparing it for anal sex. He penetrates his member into her wrinkled hole, which expands, and due to the spell, the pain is diminished and transformed into pleasure. When he was halfway through her performance, she reached her first orgasm, and when he put everything that would be impossible without the spell, she had another, bigger one. He stops and feels her heat and tightness, and laughs and begins to move. He increases the speed quickly, and with each thrust, she has a mini orgasm. After minutes of direct sex, he reaches the climax and releases his load inside her. He repeats the same with the other two women, but is much rougher. After finishing with all three, he pulls away and sees his seed dripping from their rear entrances.
When he was finished, the three women lay motionless, their breathing ragged and uneven. The animosity that had poisoned the air between Alicent and Rhaenyra had dissipated, burned away in the crucible of a shared, overwhelming experience. Now, they were united not by loyalty or affection, but by a state of ecstasy and exhaustion so profound it transcended any petty squabble. None of them could form a coherent thought, much less respond.
Aenar observed them, a brief, satisfied smile crossing his face. Unity, even if forged through submission and punishment, was preferable to discord.
With an almost negligent movement of his fingers, the bonds holding their wrists came undone, the blindfolds and gags dissolving into smoke. He did not utter a word as they, slowly, began to regain consciousness of their bodies and their surroundings, the noise of the outside world gradually replacing the inner silence to which he had led them. The lesson, for now, had been delivered.
Interlude: Bonds of Blood and Silver Wings
Rhaenys Targaryen, the Hand of the King, was in her chambers in the Tower of the Hand, a rare moment of relaxation filling the room. Her husband, Corlys Velaryon, freshly returned from his voyages, stood beside her, his face weathered by the sea lit up by a genuine smile as he listened to their grandchildren. Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys – all sons of Laenor and Rhaenyra – were recounting, in an animated chorus, about their day of training in the yard and how their lessons with the old maester had been unbearably tedious.
"Grandmother, can I go to the Dragonpit to see Vermax?" Jace asked, his eyes full of hope.
"I want to see Arrax too!"added Luke, tugging on the hem of his cloak.
"And I want to see Stormcloud!"little Aegon said, not wanting to be left out.
Rhaenys exchanged an amused look with Corlys. "After you finish your snack," she decreed, in a tone that brooked no argument but was laden with affection.
Immediately, the children descended upon the honeyed bread and fruits laid out on the table with a voracity that made Corlys laugh, a deep, gratifying sound. Rhaenys observed her five grandchildren, her heart warming. She saw in them the characteristics of both Houses: the strong build of the Velaryons and the distinctive features of the Targaryens, but she noted, not for the first time, how their hair was slightly wavier, a detail that made her think fondly of her own daughter, Laena.
"Perhaps," she whispered to Corlys, "a betrothal between our Baela and Rhaena and Laenor's older sons wouldn't be a bad idea. It would unite our blood further."
Corlys inclined his head in agreement. "A wise thought. Present the proposal to the King later."
As soon as the last crumbs vanished, the group headed out of the Tower towards the Dragonpit. On the way, they encountered Rhaenyra, who lit up upon seeing her sons. She greeted each with genuine affection before joining the procession, her determined stride matching theirs.
Upon reaching the Dragonpit, a surprise awaited them. There stood King Aenar and his daughter, Galadriel, a constant presence at her father's side. Aenar acknowledged the children with a solemn nod and inclined his head to Rhaenys and Rhaenyra.
"You have arrived at a good moment," he said, his voice as calm as ever.
Before Rhaenys could ask why, a vast shadow fell over them. All eyes turned skyward, witnessing the majestic Silverwing, the dragon of the late Queen Alysanne, descending in a graceful arc to land in the center of the pit with an elegance that belied her size.
Aenar turned to his daughter. "Galadriel. Claim your inheritance."
Without a word, the impressively tall young woman with a warrior's heart stepped forward. She approached the legendary female without a trace of fear, her slender posture masking the monstrous strength everyone knew she possessed. She reached out her hand, running her fingers over the silver scales on Silverwing's neck. The dragon let out a low rumble of recognition.
Then, in a move that made Rhaenys hold her breath, Galadriel, using only the strength of her legs, executed an impossible leap directly from the ground onto the dragon's saddle. The jump revealed, for an instant, the formidable physique her usual grace concealed. She secured herself in the saddle with familiarity and, with a silent command, made Silverwing raise her wings.
"To the sky," she ordered, her voice clear and firm.
Silverwing obeyed, beating her powerful wings and lifting into flight, carrying her new rider on a maiden voyage that was both an assertion of power and a fulfillment of destiny.
Rhaenys, catching her breath, turned to Aenar. "We should hold a tournament. To honor the family's new dragonrider."
The King inclined his head in agreement. "So be it."
And then, Rhaenys saw something exceedingly rare: in Aenar's purple, slit-pupiled eyes, and in the slight curve of his lips, shone an unmistakable and profound pride for his daughter. It was an expression as powerful as Galadriel's flight itself, and Rhaenys knew, in that moment, that a new era for House Targaryen had truly begun.
Part 2: The Tournament of Heirs
The tournament grounds erupted in a cacophony of cheers, the clanging of steel, and the thunderous charge of destriers. Above it all, seated in the royal pavilion, Galadriel Targaryen was the silent, captivating sun around which this entire universe of chivalry and ambition orbited. At fourteen, her beauty was not merely of face and form, but of an undeniable, almost palpable presence. Her height, her graceful elegance, and her status as the Heir to the Iron Throne made her the most coveted prize in the realm. A steady stream of knights, from the green valleys of the Reach to the stony shores of the Stormlands, approached her, offering their victories to her favor.
She dismissed them all with a politeness so perfect it was a weapon, a gentle but impenetrable shield. None could find offense, for her refusal was delivered with a serene dignity that felt like a honor in itself. When the time came to bestow her favor, her choice was a calculated one. She offered the scarf of silvery silk to Baelon Targaryen, son of Daemon. To any observer, it was a poignant scene: Baelon, at two-and-twenty, was a man fully grown, having inherited not his father's lean ferocity but the broad, powerful build of his namesake, Baelon the Brave. His devotion to Galadriel was an open secret, a flame burning brightly in his eyes whenever he looked at her. She accepted his devotion not out of reciprocated affection, for she felt no spark of desire for any man, but out of respect for their shared blood and his unwavering loyalty.
The tournament began. In the melee, to the surprise of many southern lords, the Northmen dominated. Cregan Stark, the Young Wolf of Winterfell, moved with a brutal, efficient grace, his greatsword a whirlwind of controlled power that proved him a swordsman of exceptional skill.
But the joust was Baelon's domain. As if possessed by a singular purpose, he cleared the lists with a relentless, thunderous force. He unhorsed Criston Cole , outmaneuvered his own formidable father, Daemon, and defeated a dozen other famed knights. Each splintered lance was a tribute to the princess who watched with calm, approving eyes. In the final tilt, he emerged victorious, his armor dented and dusty, but his spirit blazing. He rode before the dais, took the crown of winter roses, and without hesitation, placed it upon Galadriel's head, naming her the Queen of Love and Beauty. The crowd roared its approval for the poetic justice of a Targaryen prince crowning his Targaryen queen.
At the grand banquet that followed, Gael sat beside King Aenar, her belly swollen with the twins she carried. She watched her daughter, a profound understanding in her eyes. Galadriel moved through the throng of nobles and knights not as a girl among suitors, but as a queen among her subjects. She had them in the palm of her hand, her every word and glance a currency of immense value. She danced with the crowned champion, Baelon, whose heart was in his eyes for all to see. She danced with other brave nobles, and even, in a gesture of political significance, with the stern Cregan Stark, a dance of ice and fire that set the court whispering.
The next day, in the quiet of his solar, Aenar received Lord Cregan. The Wolf of the North, ever direct, came to ask a boon. "Your Grace," he began, his voice rough-hewn as the North itself, "the marriage pact between our houses... I must ask that it pass to my heir. I have married my childhood friend." He expected offense, a king's pride wounded.
Aenar showed none. His expression remained as unreadable as Valyrian stone. "The North keeps its oaths in its own way. The pact will be delayed, not broken." As he spoke, a memory, sharp and clear from the annals of a future he had read, surfaced in his mind: Cregan's wife would die in childbirth in a few short years. He filed the knowledge away. If the members of my house maintain their current pattern of births, he thought, I know exactly whom I will send North.
As the last of the tournament's guests departed and the echoes of celebration faded, Aenar stood at his window, looking over the city his power had reshaped. His thoughts turned to the future of his house. Galadriel's star was ascendant, a ruler in the making. The realm was united, stronger than ever. And soon, with the two new heartbeats quickening in Gael's womb, the dynasty would be secured further. The game of thrones continued, but he, the Dragon King, was already playing for generations yet unborn.
Final Part: Flames and Progress
In the Temple of R'hllor in King's Landing, a structure of black stone and red stained glass that the King had permitted her to build, Kinvara felt a deep satisfaction. The air, thick with the scent of incense and the heat of the eternal fire burning on the great altar, was the same, but the sound was different. It wasn't just chants in High Valyrian dedicated to the Lord of Light that echoed under the vault. Mixed with them were whispers of prayers to the Seven, and even the contemplative silence that honored the Old Gods. Together with Maegelle, they had succeeded not in imposing one faith, but in intertwining all of them. Following Aenar's express order that there be no discrimination, they had woven a new spiritual tapestry where the people of the city prayed with equal fervor—or equal pragmatism—to the God of Fire, the Mother, the Warrior, and even to the faceless gods of the trees. Kinvara watched through a large stained-glass window one of the weirwoods the King himself had planted in the temple gardens, its leaves blood-red under the sun. Even the ancient faith of the North flourished here, nurtured by a land that was once hostile to it.
She felt a familiar presence before hearing the steps. One of her priestesses approached and whispered, "High Priestess, Melisandre has arrived."
Kinvara could not contain a slight smile. She quickly went to the entrance courtyard, where the famous flame-haired priestess awaited, her pale skin and red eyes as striking as in memory.
"Melisandre. The flame guides you to us, finally."
"The flame,and the promise of a king, Kinvara," Melisandre replied, her tone laden with meaning.
They took her to Kinvara's private chambers. The door closed, the atmosphere shifting from public devotion to intimate conspiracy.
"He is at Summerhall,"said Kinvara, pouring a deep red wine. "The researchers have made a great breakthrough. But the true reason for your coming isn't just to report progress, is it?"
Melisandre accepted the goblet, her long, pale fingers wrapping around the crystal. "No. I have spent all these years since he came to Volantis... since that night... preparing myself. What we saw in the flames, the power he carries... my place is here, by his side. And by your side, Kinvara."
Kinvara felt a spark of anticipation. Joining with Maegelle, she thought, the three of us can offer him a communion of faith and fire that will make any night unforgettable. The web of loyalty and power around the Dragon King was strengthening in a beautiful and dangerous way.
---
Meanwhile, in Summerhall, far from the bustling capital, Aenar Targaryen was witnessing the birth of a new age. In the great research chamber, he held a sword forged not in lost secrets, but in newborn knowledge. The researchers, following his directives, had finally managed to fuse the ancient runes of the First Men with the complex glyphs of Valyria, creating a new arcane language, a bridge between two ancient magics.
The blade before him was the test. Applying the new magical script during the tempering process, Aenar channeled his will through the symbols. A beam of silvery energy enveloped the sword, enchanting it with properties once unimaginable: an edge that would never dull, near-indestructible resilience, and a supernatural lightness. It was meant to be the ethical equivalent of Valyrian steel.
The result was a resounding success. Striking a block of tempered steel, the blade cut through cleanly and silently, without a single notch. Compared to a Valyrian steel sword, it was inferior only in raw, inherent power—the kind that came from the souls and blood sacrificed in the forges of Old Valyria. However, there was a compensation: while Valyrian blades were static relics of a past power, this new sword, through its fused runes, absorbed the natural magic of the world around it passively. It was not static; it was growing.
"Continue," Aenar ordered the researchers, his voice echoing in the stone chamber. "Perfect the script. Document all changes in the blade. Observe if the accumulation of power alters its nature."
Leaving the chamber, his thoughts raced ahead. What will happen when they are saturated with magic? Will they develop unique characteristics? Perhaps... even a will of their own?
The unknowns didn't matter. The answer to the final question was clear. They had succeeded. In that moment, in an underground chamber in Summerhall, a new foundation for the future of the realm had been forged, not in fire and blood, but in knowledge and unity. A turning point that would echo through all the ages to come.
Epilogue: The Dragon's Legacy
The soft light of dawn filtered into the royal nursery, casting a golden glow over the two ornate cradles of dark, polished weirwood. The air was still and serene, carrying the gentle scent of milk and fresh linen. Aenar Targaryen stood between the cradles, a silent, imposing figure whose presence seemed to both command and calm the very room. By his side was his queen, Gael, her face radiant with a mother's exhaustion and joy, and their daughter, Galadriel, who at fourteen observed her new brothers with a serene, almost otherworldly curiosity.
"They are perfect," Galadriel said, her voice a soft melody in the quiet room. Her gaze lingered on the two infants, her slitted purple eyes taking in every detail. "I find the names most pleasing. Uriel and Gabriel. They sound like names from an old song of power."
Aenar nodded, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips as he looked at his sons. "They are names of strength and purpose. They will bear them well."
He moved first to the cradle of the younger twin, Gabriel. From a velvet-lined box, he produced a dragon egg, its scales a deep, shiny obsidian crossed by veins of bone-like white. He placed it carefully beside the sleeping babe, where the egg seemed to pulse with a faint, warm light in response to the infant's steady breath.
"For Gabriel, a companion for journeys yet to come," Aenar murmured.
He then turned to the cradle of Uriel, the firstborn. "For you, my son, a different legacy." He did not produce an egg. Instead, he placed a hand on the cradle, his voice dropping to a low, prophetic tone. "He will not be hatched from stone. When he is ready, he will claim the bronze fury of the hills. He will be the rider of Vermithor."
Gael looked at her husband, a mixture of awe and fond exasperation in her eyes. She gently touched his arm. "My love, you spoke beforehand and during the birth about their future as if you had already read the pages of their lives. How can you know Uriel will be a scholar, his head forever in scrolls, or that Gabriel will have the soul of a traveler, forever yearning for the horizon?"
Aenar turned his gaze to her, the familiar, knowing glint in his fuchsia eyes. A low chuckle escaped him, a rich, warm sound that was echoed by Galadriel's soft, chiming laughter.
"After all you have seen me do," he said, his amusement evident, "After the cities reshaped, the very laws of nature rewritten, and dragons answering my call... this is the miracle that gives you pause? Knowing the hearts of my own sons?"
The three of them shared a moment of light laughter, a bubble of warmth and intimacy in the quiet nursery. It was a laugh that acknowledged the impossible as their everyday reality.
Beyond the stone walls of the Red Keep, across the expanse of the Eight Kingdoms, the news of the princes' birth was met with celebration. Bells rang in Lannisport and Oldtown, bonfires were lit in the riverlands, and even the stern Northmen offered quiet toasts in their halls. The realm rejoiced not just for the birth of two infants, but for the palpable strength and enduring future of the House of the Dragon. The dynasty, once fractured and threatened, now stood more powerful and united than ever before, its roots deepening with every new heir, its destiny stretching as far as the eye could see and beyond, guided by the unwavering hand of the Dragon King.
This chapter is a little shorter than the previous ones because it's a transition. Now, a few points I want to ask: first, I didn't intend for Galadriel to get married in the story; she would be single for the entire duration. But I saw some people asking if she'll be part of the MC's harem. Like, is that what you want? I think the Dance Generation will start to say goodbye soon. I think we'll start to enter the timeline of post-Dance and Blackfyre Rebellion events in about two chapters or so.