Prologue: The Dragon's Presence
The damp, heavy air of Sothoryos clung to the skin like a second cloak, laden with the smells of decay, wet earth, and primordial wildlife. Aenar Targaryen stood in the center of the small outpost, a bastion of order imposed against the lush, menacing chaos of the jungle. Beside him, the man in charge of the base, Ser Edric Storm, fidgeted, a mix of relief and embarrassment on his face.
"I swear, Your Grace," Edric began, his voice a bit louder than necessary, broken by the unusual silence. "It's not always this... quiet. Ever since Lord Corlys departed, the attacks were almost daily. But since your arrival... nothing. Not a whisper. It seems even the insects have stopped chirping. It's... strange."
Aenar did not even turn his head to look at him, his purple eyes scanning the wall of untouched vegetation surrounding them.
"It is not your fault or your men's,Ser Edric," his voice was calm, an absolute contrast to the hostile environment. "The beasts of this place are not stupid. They operate on instinct. And the most basic instinct of any creature is to recognize when a greater predator is in its territory. They do not attack because they sense me. And they fear me."
He paused, sensing the wildlife around them – not with his ears, but with something deeper, a perception that went beyond common senses.
"I will force them to retreat.Deeper inland. These shores need to be safe to be mapped and, eventually, conquered. The work cannot stop because of fear of them."
As Aenar walked towards the palisade, the men and women of the outpost continued their work, but the tension in their shoulders was visible. They couldn't see or hear anything different, but they felt it. The air seemed to have grown thicker, heavier, as if before a storm, but without a cloud in the sky. It was a psychological pressure, a weight on the chest that whispered to every fiber of their being that something immensely powerful was there, emanating a silent authority.
Then, the sound came. Not a roar or a bellow of challenge, but a background noise that quickly turned into a mass commotion. It was the sound of hundreds, perhaps thousands of creatures moving hastily through the dense forest. Branches snapped, leaves shook, and the ground seemed to tremble slightly with the rout. It was not an attack; it was a panicked flight. The beasts of Sothoryos were fleeing, and every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves, sounded like a sigh of terrible relief, as if the continent itself was expelling its most dangerous life away from that presence.
Aenar watched the invisible stampede, his eyes focusing on a group of figures moving with surprising agility among the more distant trees. They were tall, with long limbs, and even from a distance, it was possible to see the stripes that mottled their skin – the Brindled Men of Sothoryos. Unlike the natives of Ulthos, who possessed a civilization and curiosity, the gaze he felt coming from them was pure, undiluted by a complex culture. It was territorial hostility, an ancestral hatred for intruders.
Different from those of Ulthos, Aenar thought, analyzing the scene. These will not be receptive. Diplomacy will be a much more difficult path, if it exists at all. He pondered the options. Perhaps it is time to invest more in conquest. Bring a dragonrider to patrol the skies and burn any organized threat. Or... His mind considered a more radical option. Burn the entire forest to ashes and then use magic to restore life, but in a domesticated, controlled form. A complete fresh start.
The idea was tempting in its brutal simplicity, but he rejected it for now. It was a waste of resources and power, at least for the time being.
Perhaps,he reconsidered, the path is still communication. With the translation artifacts, we can at least try to understand what motivates them, what their price is, what their pain is. Conquest by force is quick, but loyalty won, even if by force initially, is more lasting.
He decided to think more on the matter. Sothoryos was not an enemy to be crushed impetuously, but a complex and dangerous puzzle. And Aenar Targaryen had always appreciated a good challenge. With a last look at the now seemingly empty jungle, he turned and walked back towards the base's structures, leaving the cursed continent to tremble in its newly acquired silence.
Part 1: The Weight of the Crown
The year 131 after the Conquest brought with it the predictable weight of mortality. Lord Lyman Beesbury, one of the pillars of my Small Council since I took the throne in 110, finally succumbed to old age. His loyal heart simply stopped. It was a genuine loss. Men so competent and devoid of excessive ambition are rare in Westeros. I honored him as he deserved: a wake according to the rites of the Faith of the Seven to appease the pious, followed by the highest honor a non-Targaryen could receive. I ordered his body to be cremated by the fire of Balerion the Black Dread. The flames of the greatest dragon consumed his pyre, a final tribute from a dragon to a man who served the realm with tireless diligence. For the now vacant post, I promoted Lord Lannister. An ambitious man, but whose greed is easier to channel and control than Beesbury's rare virtue.
From my family, the years were carving their destinies. My children with Gael—the wife to whom I gave the strength and resilience of my own blood through an ancient ritual, though not the spark of magic that shapes reality—were all nearly adults. Galadriel, our firstborn born in 112, now nineteen years old, was the very image of Valyrian blood in its prime. Her eyes, the same deep purple as mine that seemed to contain constellations, had also inherited a sensitivity to magic that was uniquely hers. And, by the gods, the suitors swarmed like flies to honey. Lords from all provinces, famous knights, even princes from distant lands, all vying for a look of approval from her. And all failed.
I, who was reborn into this world with the knowledge of a past plot, watched her. Initially, I questioned if her indifference was a preference for other women, but no. She admired female beauty as one admires a fine blade—with aesthetic appreciation, nothing more. The conclusion became inevitable: perhaps my daughter, the most radiant flower in the Seven Kingdoms, was asexual. A complete spirit in itself, desiring no union with another. Acceptance brought peace, but also the colossal headache of finding a consort for someone who desires none.
Meanwhile, Gael's younger children, Uriel and Gabriel, now five years old, were living testaments to the heritage I granted her. Uriel was the epitome of seriousness, his almond-shaped, slit-pupiled eyes—an unmistakable mark of my blood—assessing the world with a cold, analytical intensity, like an archmaester cataloging rare specimens. Gabriel was his absolute opposite: a whirlwind of energy and charm, whose life's mission was to explore every inch of the Red Keep, dreaming of the ships and adventures he heard about in Corlys's stories.
The ongoing tournament was one of those necessary spectacles to maintain the illusory peace. My slit-eyed gaze scanned the stands, analyzing the board I had rearranged myself. There were Rhaenyra and Alicent, sitting side by side as court etiquette demanded, even arm in arm. An empty show of unity that fooled no one. The animosity between them, a legacy of Viserys's choice in 113 when he chose to save the child in Alicent's womb over his first wife, Aemma, was a subtle poison in the air. Aemma only survived because I saved her, an act that cemented my power but did not erase the resentment.
The court whispers were predictable. Why did Aemma, Rhaenyra, and Alicent herself maintain such disconcerting youth? The people credited the gods. The Faith in Westeros had been unified for years, and the people prayed freely to the Seven, the Red God, or the Old Gods, without conflict. Many saw the perennial youth of the queens as a clear blessing of this new religious harmony, proof that the gods, whatever their names, blessed our reign. An irony I appreciated, for I knew the true source was the magic I channel.
My eyes found Corlys Velaryon, sitting beside Rhaenys, my Hand of the King. Time, against whom not even I, with all my power, can fight eternally without a price, had been cruel to the great seafarer. The man who defied the seas was now chained to the land, his flame of adventure reduced to embers. A stark contrast to my own appearance, maintained in the vigor of a thirty-year-old man, decades after my coronation.
And then there is Viserys. Even in this timeline I shaped, a curse similar to the one that afflicted him in another life was consuming him. And I could cure him. The magic within me, capable of reshaping the world to my will, would certainly find a way. But the truth is I do not want to. Not out of covetousness for his wives—Rhaenyra and Alicent have been under my protection and influence for years—but because he disappointed me deeply. As a king, as a husband, as a father. His weakness is a stain on his father's legacy, and my compassion for him burned to ashes long ago.
A roar from the crowd interrupted my thoughts. Baelon, son of Daemon with Lysara Rogare, won the joust. A twenty-year-old boy, already a formidable knight. He took the crown of winter roses and, with a bold gesture, crowned my daughter Alyssane—Rhaenyra's daughter with Laenor, whose conception I myself ensured through rites and potions—as the Queen of Love and Beauty. The young Targaryen's face blushed, and a genuine smile illuminated her features. A marriage there might be politically shrewd in the future.
I turned to Galadriel, sitting beside me. She looked at me, and her dragon-like eyes, identical to mine, rested upon me with an intensity that, for the thousandth time, made me question if there was something more in that indifference towards everyone else. I returned the smile, already pondering the burden of one day finding a husband for her.
What I did not perceive, absorbed in politics and power, was the complete nature of that gaze. It was not just the look of a daughter to her father. It was intense, laden with a deep and ancestral desire, a fire that only another being with dragon eyes could understand. A yearning that burned for something that went far beyond mere politics, lineage, or reason itself. A desire that, if fulfilled, would shake the foundations of everything I had built.
The peace I had built was strong, but not impenetrable. And my greatest challenges, I realized at that moment, would not come from rebellious lords or distant kingdoms, but from the dragon gaze of my own daughter, who now saw in me something I refused to see. The most insidious danger was not on the battlefields, but in the very heart of the Red Keep.
Interlude: Seed, Faith, and a Dragon's Whisper
In the Great Sept of King's Landing, in the living room, on a large sofa, we see the plan of the three sarcodemas in action. On either side of Aenar are Kinvara and Melissandre, kissing his upper body while his hand descends over their backs and finds their pussies. On the floor, among his feathers, Maegelle is still dressed in her saint's dress. This new version now features slits on the sides and a design of the symbol of the seven in the neckline. She had his entire member in her mouth, on her face, saliva mixing with the mascara Aenar invented just for these situations. Due to her experience, the saint soon realized Aenar was coming and swallowed his entire cock. Aenar shot his load straight down her throat.
After he finished, she slowly withdrew his member from her mouth, leaving with an audible pop, completely clean. Aenar then tells her to lean on the table in front of him and stands up. Showing years of intimacy, he simply snaps his fingers and removes her dress, and his cock slides inside her, even with all its size and thickness, and begins to move hard and fast. The red priestesses soon arrive at his side and are pushed onto the table, where he fingers them. After minutes of intense penetration, Aenar reaches his peak and releases a dizzying amount into Maegelle. Using magic, he keeps everything inside her, causing her to turn over and have a visible bulge in her belly. He turns to Kinvara, who is face down on the table. He lifts her with magic and holds her with his arms under her knees while clasping his hands on the back of her neck. He bends over slightly and penetrates her, moving mercilessly. Kinvara feels he is reaching places normally impossible, and her moans spread throughout the room along with the noise of their bodies meeting. After she has several orgasms, Aenar's turn comes, and in an explosion, he fills her completely, preventing her from doing the same by magic. And after placing her on the table, he approaches Melissandre and tells her that he knows she was the mastermind of all that and that she deserves punishment for plotting against her king. He touches her groin. Melissandre feels that he did something to her body. He puts her aside and takes one of her legs and lifts it to his head and leans over her. He penetrates her slowly, and she realizes what happened because the orgasm she had just had with him, as he started to penetrate her, says that he messed with the sensitivity of her body. He puts it all in and begins to accelerate, and each time he penetrates her, she has an orgasm, and he holds his for a long time. If Aenar himself hadn't reinforced the red priestess's mind, she would probably have had a stroke, and after several minutes he finishes inside her, causing her to squirt heavily, making a mess on the floor. He steps away and sees the beautiful vision he created, satisfied, he cleans himself and dresses with a spell and waits for them to wake up.
He then sat in a high-backed chair, crossed his legs, and waited. The afternoon light, golden and dusty, streamed through the slats of the blinds, illuminating the women's bodies. It took only a few minutes for the first conscious sighs to break the silence.
Maegelle was the first, a low moan escaping her lips. Her hand went instinctively to her belly, which seemed fuller, heavier, carrying the living heat of the seed her King had sealed within her. Her eyes met those of Kinvara, who was already awake, her expression serene but her red eyes burning with a deep and similar satisfaction.
"She will be a while longer to wake," said Aenar, his voice a deep bass that echoed softly in the room. His chin gestured towards Melissandre, who lay motionless, deeply asleep among the disheveled sheets. "A small price to pay for plotting against your King."
Kinvara let out a low, hoarse laugh, a sound of pure amusement. "Next time, it will be me who plots, then. To see if I can stay awake." Her lips curved into a mischievous smile.
Aenar responded with a brief smile, one corner of his mouth lifting. Their dark humor was a bond that went beyond loyalty or attraction. It was the complicity of those who shared secrets that could shatter kingdoms.
"And the expansion of the new faith?" he asked, his tone returning to seriousness.
Maegelle propped herself up on her elbows, her face still marked by pleasure, but her voice was clear and focused. "There was resistance in the Vale and the Riverlands, near Oldtown, as expected. The Andal septons cling to their old stones with their fingernails. But we advanced. The new dogmas are being followed, and the gods – all of them – are being embraced without discrimination."
"Good," Aenar nodded, satisfied. "And the North?"
Maegelle slightly furrowed her brow. "It's... different. The resistance isn't active, but it's deep. They are a singular people, with singular gods."
"Exactly," Aenar agreed. "Unlike the other regions, the North is homogeneous. Their religion isn't destructive like the Faith of the Seven was. The Old Gods are silent and do not demand conversions. For now, the order is merely to inform. Let the people of the North know that other options exist, without pressure. Their loyalty will be won with time and respect, not with fire and aggressive preaching."
Both women agreed in silence, understanding the pragmatic wisdom behind that decision.
Shortly after, Aenar rose and left the room, leaving behind the scent of power and the planted seed.
Silence settled again, broken only by Melissandre's deep breathing. Then, Maegelle, with a furtive movement, drew from a secret fold of her dress a small, light symbol: a black dragon, carved from polished obsidian. It was the emblem of a small, secret, and devoted group of women who followed the sect of the Powerful Dragon.
She looked at Kinvara, and a slow, knowing smile spread across her face. Kinvara returned the gaze, her own red eyes glittering with a shared knowledge that not even their King, in all his glory, fully perceived. The true game had more layers than he could imagine.
Part 2: The Blood of the Dragon
The evening light bathed the corridors of the Red Keep as Galadriel emerged from the Small Council chamber. Her steps were firm and measured, her black silk dress embroidered with ruby threads whispering against the stone floor. She was no longer the princess who observed in silence, a shadow beside the throne. Now, her chair was to the King's right, and her voice - when she chose to use it - was heard with the same attention paid to Aenar's own.
She found her ladies-in-waiting in the inner courtyard, where they usually gathered after the day's duties. She had chosen them herself, meticulously, after years of observing the court. They were not maids obsessed with knights and saccharine romances, but sharp minds from Oldtown, daughters of ambitious lords from the Vale, even a clever girl from King's Landing who possessed surprising sagacity. They spoke of the conquest of Sothoryos, discussing trade routes, exotic resources, and the logistics of establishing a permanent outpost. It was the kind of dialogue Galadriel appreciated - intelligent, pragmatic, worthy of her circle.
After some time, she bid them farewell with a courteous nod and withdrew to her chambers. The family dinner was approaching, and she needed to prepare. In her private quarters, a marble bath awaited her, filled with steaming water and aromatic oils. As the hot water caressed her skin, releasing the tension in her muscles, she began her daily ritual.
Her hand slid over her smooth belly, up her flanks, to touch her firm breasts. There was no room for guilt in her heart, only the absolute certainty that this was natural, as much a part of her nature as the fire that ran in her veins. She imagined his hands, not those of a father, but those of a man, the hands that commanded dragons and sculpted kingdoms, touching her with the same authority. She imagined the strength contained in those arms, the mouth that uttered decrees and whispers of power, exploring her body. Galadriel's breathing became ragged, her hips moving against the water in an instinctive, ancestral rhythm. The outside world dissolved; only the images in her mind existed, the sensation growing in her womb, a storm of fire and desire. With a muffled moan, her body arched, reaching climax in an explosion of pure pleasure, leaving her trembling and revitalized in the water that now felt warm.
Sometime later, dressed in a dark velvet robe, she joined her family for dinner. The Great Hall overflowed with Targaryen life. She sat at the table, observing that vast clan. Since childhood, she had witnessed the growth of that power. At that moment, she doubted that even at the height of Valyria so many dragons had been gathered under a single name. Nearly twenty dragonriders, a force that made armies tremble.
Her eyes scanned the faces at the table, resting briefly on her cousin Viserys, Rhaenyra's son, and on Alyssane - both important for alliances, but distant from the central core of power. They represented the secondary branches of the family tree, necessary but not essential. They were also among the very few in the family without dragons of their own, a fact that further cemented their peripheral status. The true power, the force that sustained everything, was in her immediate family - her father, her mother, her brothers. They were not just dragonriders; they were dragons in their own right, each possessing a unique spark of the ancestral power that made the Targaryens so special.
Dinner proceeded with lively conversation, but Galadriel's mind was elsewhere. When the meal ended, she withdrew to her chambers, not to sleep, but with a clear purpose. She stood before the window, looking at the lights of King's Landing, a decision taking shape in her heart. The plan was audacious, dangerous, but inevitable. She would need help. Help from someone who understood the nature of her blood.
Mother, she thought. She will understand. She possesses his essence, even if she wasn't born with it. She knows what it is to be different.
The draconic logic was cruel in its simplicity. A dragon does not mate with ants. A human does not care about the feelings of an insect. Why should she, a being of fire and power, concern herself with the ephemeral nobles who crawled through the court? Her destiny was at the top, beside the only being who was her equal.
She closed her eyes, allowing her heightened senses to expand through the fortress. She located the familiar presence of her mother, Gael - a calm and powerful glow, alone in her chambers. And then she felt her father, a furnace of absolute power, in his solar. An ironic smile touched her lips. He was, no doubt, assisting Alicent and Aemma with their "sacred duties" to the House of the Dragon. The irony of the situation never escaped her.
With a deep breath, Galadriel left her room and walked through the silent corridors to her mother's door. She knocked softly.
Gael's voice came from within, serene. "Enter."
Galadriel opened the door and entered, closing it behind her. Her mother was sitting near the fireplace, a book in her lap. Her own purple, slit-pupiled eyes, a gift from her husband, rested on her daughter with a calm inquisitiveness.
Galadriel sat facing her, her hands clasped in her lap. The silence hung for a long moment, heavy with everything left unsaid.
"Mother," she began, her voice softer than usual, yet firm and clear. "I need to speak with you. About... about my place. About what I am. And about what I desire."
She stared into her mother's eyes, searching for a glimmer of understanding, of recognition.
Gael did not say a word. She merely stared back, her face an impenetrable mask of ancestral serenity, her dragon eyes capturing the firelight as they absorbed her daughter's unwavering confession.
Part 3: Genesis
The months passed, and the year 131 would forever be remembered in the eternal reign of Aenar as the year of great departures. In addition to the loss of old Lord Beesbury, the autumn of life came for two other notable figures.
King Viserys, whose body had already been consumed by the same grotesque illness from another timeline, met his end. His addiction to the wine of bitter docks, an escape from pain and disappointments, only hastened his final journey. Soon after, it was the turn of Corlys Velaryon, the Seafarer. Age, relentless, did its work, aided by his longing for the sea he could no longer sail. Two pillars of a bygone era.
Both were honored with funerals according to the purest Valyrian tradition. Elevated pyres, and the fire of dragons—not just Balerion's, but that of several of the family's beasts—lifted their souls in columns of smoke and flame, a tribute worthy of great men.
With mourning came the need to consolidate the future. In an act of pragmatism and perhaps a touch of curiosity, Aenar led Viserys, Rhaenyra's youngest son, to the pens where Sheepstealer, the brown-scaled, reclusive dragon, had made its lair. He remembered. In another life, this same youth, after the bloodbath of the Dance, would be the true ruler behind three kings, a regent in all but name. Aenar watched the scene closely, analyzing the boy who, hesitant yet determined, reached out his hand to the beast. Will you be comparable to that version? the King pondered, finding no immediate answer in the boy's gaze.
With Cregan's rejection in favor of marrying his childhood friend, the path was completely clear. Rejected by Galadriel, the young Baelon turned entirely to Alyssane. The marriage proposal was made, and Aenar promptly approved it. The union between Baelon and Alyssane was politically solid and, judging by the girl's easy smile, emotionally fitting.
The wedding feast was a grand event, the first Targaryen marriage since the union of Rhaenyra and Laenor in 114. The Red Keep filled with music, dance, and the light of torches reflected in the colors of the great houses. To honor the couple, Aenar ordered a magnificent tournament, as was customary. The atmosphere was one of celebration and renewal.
It was at the height of the festivities, after the preliminary jousts, that Aenar decided to make his move. In the great hall, with the court assembled, he rose. A respectful, yet curiosity-laden silence fell over all.
"My lords, my ladies," the King began, his voice calm yet cutting through the air like a blade. "Years ago, when I returned from my travels to Valyria, I brought back not only artifacts but knowledge. The powerful knowledge that once flourished in those lands, and which the world has long lost."
He paused, his purple eyes scanning the audience. "Many of you know that the Solarestival research center has worked tirelessly, under my direction, on a singular project: to unite the ancestral knowledge of the runes of the First Men with the magical glyphs of Valyria. Today, I come to tell you that after years of attempts, we have finally succeeded."
A whisper of awe ran through the room. Aenar gestured, and an acolyte from the Citadel, wearing gray robes, approached carrying a rectangular object covered by a black velvet cloth. The King took the object and, with a dramatic motion, pulled away the cloth.
On the cushion rested a sword. Yet, it was unlike any other ever seen. Its metal lacked the scaled, dark appearance of Valyrian steel, instead shining with a dull, inner light. What drew the most attention, however, were the intricate runes engraved near the base of the blade, close to the hilt. They seemed to pulse with a barely perceptible energy.
"This," Aenar announced, raising the sword for all to see, "is Genesis. The first truly enchanted sword forged in this age."
The declaration was met with absolute silence.
"The Valyrians of old," he continued, "used fire and blood, sacrifices of countless lives, to infuse their power into metal. We have taken a different path. A path of understanding, not of brutal domination. Magic is not bled into this blade; it is woven into it through the arcane script we created. And unlike Valyrian steel, whose power is static and locked at the moment of its creation, these blades... these blades grow. Their power deepens and strengthens with time, with the deeds of their wielder, with the very history they help to write."
He then took a second sword, similar but with slightly different runes, which a guard handed to him.
"This newly enchanted blade," he declared, "shall be the prize for the winner of today's joust. Good luck to all who compete for it."
He then concluded, his challenging gaze sweeping the crowd, especially those who bore the legendary Valyrian blades.
"And I invite all noble bearers of Valyrian steel to journey to Solarestival. Your blades can be... improved."
The court's reaction was an explosion of voices. Astonishment, disbelief, ambition, and a cold fear mingled in the air. Lords exchanged significant looks, some filled with greed, others with suspicion. Aenar Targaryen had not merely presented a new weapon; he had rewritten the rules of power, challenging the very heritage of Valyria and offering a future where magic was not a relic of the past, but a living, evolving force. And everyone in that hall knew that the world had, once again, just changed.
Epilogue
Solarestival had become, as Aenar imagined, the center of the world. All the bearers of Valyrian steel, driven by a mix of greed, curiosity, and the fear of being left behind, had heeded the King's call. The enchantment chamber was the heart of the project, and there, Aenar worked on the last and most interesting of the blades. Uriel, his five-year-old son, observed with his serious dragon-like eyes, a silent and attentive apprentice.
The sword of House Stark was unique. Not only was it the only greatsword, a imposing and heavy weapon, but also because of its history. It was, without a doubt, one of the oldest blades in Westeros, so ancient that not even the Starks kept records of its origin. Aenar felt the echo of that lineage in the metal, a deep and dormant cold. The work was meticulous, weaving glyphs of power that would converse with the essence of the North and the Ice.
Finally, he finished. In the throne room of Solarestival, under the light filtering through the stained glass, Aenar summoned Cregan Stark. The Young Wolf entered the room with his characteristic posture, suspicious and direct. Aenar simply held the sword out to him.
"Ice," said the King.
The moment Cregan's fingers touched the hilt, the blade underwent a transformation. An intense, dry cold emanated from it instantly, so strong that the breath of both men became visible in the air. The metal, once dark and dull, seemed to gain a icy depth, as if a piece of the eternal night itself had been forged into steel. Aenar watched, fascinated, as subtle wolf-like features seemed to emerge in Cregan's traits—his eyes grew sharper, his presence more wild, more ancient. The sword was not just enchanted; it had fused with the very lineage of its bearer.
"My gratitude, Your Grace," said Cregan, his voice slightly deeper, laden with a new power. He withdrew, and Aenar was left thoughtful. With the blade's control and acceptance complete, perhaps he could become a full werewolf. That would be interesting.
The transformation of Ice was the most extreme reaction, but not the only one. The sword of House Reyne, Red Rain, gained a sinister property: the blade now continuously dripped a dew of fresh, scarlet blood, a curse transformed into power.
After inspecting the researchers' work and the advances in runic writing—obviously, he had not offered the best of his art to the other lords; the discovery was years old, and he had long surpassed the level he made public—Aenar departed. He mounted Zekrom, his dragon, while his son Uriel, now five years old and the youngest dragonrider in history, surpassing even Rhaenyra's Arrax, flew beside him on Vermithor.
Upon arriving at King's Landing, his heightened perception noted an absence. He could not feel the vivid presence of his wife, Gael, nor the unique spark of his daughter, Galadriel. But there was no worry; he perceived that Galadriel was actively hiding both presences. A challenge. A call.
He followed the void to his private quarters and opened the door.
For the first time in his long life, Aenar Targaryen was completely in a state of shock.
His bed. His wife and his daughter. Naked.
Gael was lying behind Galadriel, her body molded against her daughter's. Galadriel was facing him, leaning against her mother, her dragon eyes burning with a flame he had never wanted to see before. Without shame, without guilt, only a raw and ancestral truth. Gael, with her hands, gently opened Galadriel's legs, exposing her completely to her father.
"It is time, my love," said Gael, her voice a whisper laden with millennial certainty. "To claim your right."
Aenar, paralyzed, closed his eyes for a second. For the first time, he intentionally read the mind of his own daughter. The flood of feelings, of pure desire, of an absolute devotion that bordered on worship, and of the unshakable belief that she could only belong to him... was overwhelming. He felt like an idiot. How had he not noticed? How had he been so blind?
Then, the draconian logic, the only one that had ever guided his deepest core, reasserted itself. He opened his eyes, the surprise giving way to a silent and inevitable acceptance.
Without a word, he walked towards the bed. His clothes, with a thought, began to dissolve, dissipating into the air like smoke. In his mind, the truth echoed, absolute and clear::
A dragon can only belong to another.
Hey guys, what did you think of the new chapter? So, after seeing that most people wanted Galadriel as the protagonist, it happened, but you'll have to wait for the next chapter to see that, hahaha. So, until next time, if you find any errors, let me know and I'll fix them soon. Bye