Okay, guys, a little warning for this chapter. And a lemon scene warning, but you already know that there will be one in the story, only this time it will be between different species. So, be warned, if you don't want to see it, skip the epilogue. That said, enjoy your reading.
Prologue:
The small council room echoed with the sounds of their bodies meeting. Aenar had to temporarily enchant the council table because he couldn't hold it in, and without magic, the table would already be in ruins. He was pulling her by the hair, making her head close to him, her back as bent as possible. He whispered in her ear, calling her a naughty girl, while she called him "daddy" and begged for more. We saw the door to the room open and the council members enter, but Aenar didn't stop fucking her. Everyone sat down, and the meeting began normally, as if they didn't see the scene before them, which they really weren't, since he cast a powerful illusion in the room where they saw him sitting. Even though Galadriel was tall, much taller than any of his lovers, she was the thinnest, so she was young and so young. His cock was doing a lot of damage. She always wanted to be fucked like this, which her father, as a father who couldn't deny his spoiled daughter's requests, had no choice but to accept him. Then he pulls her right leg up, making her stand sideways, and with his body weight, he makes her leg perpendicular to her body. While answering the little advice, he continues to penetrate her. He thrusts one last time and finally releases his seeds inside her without fear. He stays engaged in her for some time, which only prolongs her orgasm, which came along with his. He then removes his cock, and his cum drips from her slit. He then pulls his wife by the hair, but in a way that is both processive and affectionate, in a way that only she has ever experienced. She uses it to clean his member. She remembers its entire length, and after that, she puts his entire member in her mouth and throat, showing an experience that shows all their intimacy. She then slowly withdraws his cock from her mouth, leaving at the end with an audible pop, being clean. He looks at his wife, who just smiles at him mischievously after cleaning his cock of his sperm and his daughter's juices, and speeds up the end of the meeting so he can better enjoy time with his family.
Part 1: The Whisper of Ice
The biting wind of the Wall carried with it the sound of thousands of years of solitude and vigilance. Cregan Stark, leaning against the frozen stone of the Wall's top, listened to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch with an expression as serious as Winterfell's granite.
"These aren't just sporadic raids, Lord Stark," the veteran man said, his face marked by cold and worry. "It's an agitation. A coordinated movement. The wildlings are uniting under a single command. They speak of a King... a King-Beyond-the-Wall."
Cregan needed no further explanation. A king among the wildlings meant an army. And an army meant a threat that the already weakened Night's Watch could not contain alone. His icy gaze swept over the endless expanse of white forests and hills to the north. "The Watch is not alone in this winter," he said, his voice a low growl against the wind. "The North remembers its vows."
He left behind a hundred of his best men to reinforce the forts, a demonstration of strength and unity that echoed through the ice. Back in Winterfell, the first thing he did was dictate a message for his oldest, hardiest raven. The message was direct, addressed to the Small Council in King's Landing: "A King rises Beyond the Wall. The northern winds bring war. The North prepares. The realm must be warned."
In King's Landing, the message arrived like thunder on a clear day. In the Small Council, the parchment was passed from hand to hand until it reached Aenar. He read Cregan's words, his purple eyes scanning every stroke of ink.
"A King-Beyond-the-Wall," the King announced, his voice calm but laden with a weight that silenced the room. "Cregan Stark is not a man given to alarmism. If he warns us, the threat is real."
He tossed the parchment onto the table. "Anything that comes from the lands of eternal winter should never be taken lightly. They are lands of shadows and legends, and legends sometimes wake." His gaze fell upon his nephews. "Jacaerys. Aegon. Prepare your dragons. We leave in two days for the Wall. I want to see with my own eyes what is frightening the wolves."
Two days later, the skies of King's Landing witnessed a spectacle of power. Zekrom, Aenar's dragon form, rose with a roar that rattled windowpanes. Beside him, the dragons of Jace and Aegon took flight, their shadows looming over the city like omens. The journey north was a relentless march through the clouds.
At the Wall, Lord Cregan, the most prominent Northern lords, and the Lord Commander were already awaiting them. The reception was serious, without unnecessary ceremony. Aenar dismounted and, with a gesture, went straight to the cage that would take them to the top.
Up there, the world was white and silent. The wind howled an ancient song. Aenar ignored the anxious looks around him and walked to the northern edge, placing his hands on the ice. He closed his eyes.
And then, he spread his sense.
His consciousness expanded like a mist, flowing beyond the Wall, over the haunted forests and frozen rivers. He felt the agitation, the thousands of human lives gathering under a single ambitious will – the so-called King. It was a brute force, a clenched fist ready to strike. But he searched deeper, beyond the human turmoil. He searched for the Cold... the Cold that was not just from winter.
And he found it. Far in the far north, in the lands of eternal winter, an ancient, glacial presence was stirring. The White Walkers. But it wasn't a march south. Not yet. It was a return, an awakening in their own lands. They were regrouping, their energy focused internally, a dormant but contained threat.
Aenar opened his eyes, a spark of quick calculation in his gaze. The situation was not desperate. It was... opportunistic.
"It's just an ambitious king," said Aenar, his voice breaking the icy silence. He turned to the group, his eyes now clear and decided. "Men are a threat that can be crushed. The true darkness has withdrawn to its kingdom of ice. And that..." he paused, looking north once more, "...that is an advantage."
He saw not an invasion, but a barrier. The Walkers, in their return, created a zone of terror between the wildlings' lands and the truly frozen lands. A natural barrier that could be used, manipulated.
"Perhaps," Aenar pondered, his voice a whisper almost to himself, but heard by all due to the absolute silence, "it is time to bring a certain 'freedom' to these lands. A freedom imposed by the point of a dragon's spear and the fire that purifies."
A new plan began to take shape in his mind. He was not there to defend. He was there to conquer.
Interlude: The Lord of Lys
The air in Lys was always warm, heavy with the scent of the sea, exotic flowers, and unspoken intrigues. Baelon Targaryen, son of Daemon, now a married man with the weight of a title on his shoulders, sat at the head of a long marble table. His wife, Alyssane, radiant as ever, watched from a corner of the room, her characteristic Lysene garments—light, flowing, and in shades of peacock blue and silver—standing out as a symbol of her new position.
Before him, the Magisters of the city smiled, their faces as polished as the table itself. They spoke of taxes, trade routes, and loyalty to the Crown. It was all smiles and sweet words, a carefully choreographed dance. Baelon, however, saw beyond the courtesy. In the center of the table, discreetly before him, rested a small obsidian artifact—a gift from His Grace, King Aenar. A faint pulse, almost imperceptible, emanated from the object, and Baelon had learned to read its signals. As the Magisters spoke, a subtle chill ran through the gem whenever a lie was uttered, a feeling of unease when greed overtook them.
He could perceive the true face behind the masks. They were smiling lambs, but with wolves' teeth. They agreed with everything, but their hearts conspired behind the scenes.
The meeting ended with handshakes and empty promises. Baelon held back an ironic smile until the last door closed. Then, he withdrew to his solar, an airy room overlooking the palace gardens. There, perched on the windowsill, a raven awaited him, its black feathers gleaming in the Lysene sun.
"I have verified," Baelon said to the raven, his voice low but clear. "All the Magisters are in conspiracy. They are making deals with merchants from Pentos and Myr who hide here, under their noses. Their loyalty is a farce."
The raven tilted its head, its intelligent eyes fixed on him. "I will pass the information to the King," it croaked, a rough, unnatural voice coming from its beak. "He will give his answer later."
The raven departed, flying off toward the north. At that same moment, a familiar roar echoed from the skies—a harsh, powerful sound Baelon had known since the cradle. Caraxes. His father had arrived.
Baelon went out to the courtyard to receive him. Daemon Targaryen dismounted from the Blood Wyrm, his bearing still imposing, but time, the great equalizer, had left its marks. At fifty years old, the Rogue Prince was not old in a debilitating way, but the relentless vigor of his youth had long since faded. His silver hair was thinner, his face marked by more lines, and there was a different weight in his eyes, the weight of decades of battles and disappointments. Even he could not escape time.
Close behind him, Laena Velaryon disembarked from her own mount, followed by Baelon's twin sisters, Baela and Rhaena. They were all there, an unexpected family gathering.
"Father," Baelon greeted, embracing Daemon. "You came."
"For my son's name day, the Lord of Lys?" said Daemon, a tired but genuine smile touching his lips. "A few conspiracies in Pentos will have to wait."
Baelon smiled, the tension from the meeting with the Magisters finally dissipating. He greeted Laena and his sisters, the familial warmth a welcome contrast to the political coldness.
"Come," he said, gesturing toward the palace. "Alyssane will be eager to see you all. And we have a feast that waits for no one, least of all foolish Magisters."
For a moment, the plots and conspiracies of Lys were forgotten. There was only family, the muffled roar of Caraxes resting on the cliff, and the celebration of another year of life. The rest could wait.
Part 3: The Wall That Dances
Leaf watched from the rooted depths of the forest. Recent times had been... noisy. A dual agitation disturbed the world's song. Far in the distant north, she felt the Icy Enemies, the Others, retreating to their lands of eternal ice, not in defeat, but in strategic withdrawal, like frost yielding to the sun, only to regroup. And closer, the humans. Always foolish. Swarming like ants under the banner of a larger human, yes, but larger only in size and in folly. A King-Beyond-the-Wall. It was almost comical, if it weren't so tedious.
Her mind touched that of Grass, the young one sent to follow the Dragon King on his last visit. Grass's memories flooded her: the absolute power emanating from the man, a walking furnace. And the spark. Leaf remembered Grass's vivid account: a single, small spark, no larger than a squirrel's eye, that Aenar had conjured in his palm. And how that tiny flame, launched against a camp of the Others and their wight army, did not burn—it unmade. It liquefied stone, vaporized ice and ancient flesh in an instant, leaving behind only a valley of smoking glass. An entire vanguard of the eternal winter had simply ceased to be.
It was then that she felt him. The furnace had moved. He was no longer at the Wall. He had crossed the border, entering the lands of the Eternal Winter. Curiosity, the oldest and most dangerous companion of her people, pricked her. Where was the Dragon King going?
She moved among the shadows of the petrified trees, silent as falling snow, until she spotted him. His dragon, Zekrom, was a mountain of black scales and eyes glowing like volcanoes, a being of primordial power that made the air tremble. And the King, standing in the snow, not as an intruder, but as a lord examining his property. He wasn't looking at her, but his fingers traced patterns in the cold air, leaving behind luminous trails of energy.
Suddenly, he made a peculiar movement, pulling something from above his own head, as if adjusting an invisible crown, then turned and greeted her with a simple nod.
Leaf remained at the edge of the clearing, her amber eyes meeting his. Dragon's eyes, vertical and purple, which looked at her not with fear or hostility, but with a deep, impersonal lust, the same way a hawk observes an updraft—something to be mastered and used. She returned the greeting with a slight tilt of her head.
"What does the King of Stone and Fire do so far from his Wall?" she asked, her voice a whisper of dry leaves. He has left the Song, she grumbled inwardly, frustrated. His melody is silent to us now. He can no longer be tracked in visions.
"I am merely taking advantage of the opportunity the Night King has kindly offered me," he replied, his voice a deep, calm contrast to the howling wind.
She didn't understand. Before she could question him, he began moving his hands with more determination. The symbols he drew in the air weren't entirely strange; they echoed the writing of the First Men, but twisted, fused with an arrogant Valyrian geometry. The rumor was true. He had unified the knowledge.
Then, a supernatural cold loomed, not from the north, but from the east. An army emerged from the mist: hundreds of wights, their icy forms creaking under the faint light, led by at least ten of the White Walkers, their ice swords whispering promises of endless winter. The air cracked with the cold of death.
"Come," Aenar commanded, without looking back. "Stay close to me."
Leaf hesitated for only a moment before obeying, moving to stand beside him. Curiosity was a relentless master. The army of the dead advanced, a silent white tide. She was about to ask if he wasn't going to deal with them, when the beat of Zekrom's wings echoed above. But the dragon did not descend; it flew away, heading south.
Before perplexity could turn to alarm, she saw something in the sky. A star. A star that didn't twinkle, but grew. No, it didn't grow—it fell.
Within seconds, the "star"—a incandescent spear of pure magical power he had summoned from the firmament—struck the center of the army of the dead.
The world exploded in white light and silence. When her vision returned, there was no more army, no wights, no Walkers. Just a vast circle of black, smoking glass embedded in the eternal ice. The area around them, however, was untouched, perfect.
Meanwhile, Aenar finished his enchantment. With a final gesture, he pressed the web of glowing runes against the ground. The writing sank into the snow and granite, and then spread like roots of fire, running east and west, as far as the eye could see. An invisible yet tangible barrier of pure magical will rose from the soil, whispering with power of exclusion.
Leaf was speechless. He hadn't been there to fight. He had been there to mark territory. He had recreated the Wall's enchantment, but in his new magical language, creating a new frontier, separating the lands of men from the true realm of winter.
He winked at her, an absurdly human gesture coming from that divine figure. "Need a ride back? My dragon is available, and the route to the heart tree is long."
She sighed, accepting. When he lifted her to place her in the saddle, his hands gripped her in distinctly unconventional places—one hand splayed firmly against the small of her back, the other gripping the curve of her hip, his fingers pressing into the softness of her lower abdomen with an intimacy that utterly ignored human conventions of decency. Combining human lust with that of a dragon is... excessive, she thought, rolling her eyes internally, but allowing it, for the efficiency of transport outweighed the nuisance.
He sat her on his lap, and Zekrom took flight. But Leaf quickly noticed. He wasn't taking the most direct route back to the great weirwood. He made gentle turns, flew over icy valleys and peaks without hurry. And during the entire flight, the hand resting on her hip did not remain still. His fingers traced slow, hypnotic circles against the thin fabric of her tunic, his touch possessive and exploratory, his palm occasionally sliding lower to rest on the upper slope of her thigh with a deliberate, claiming pressure. It was his uncontrollable curiosity manifesting in another form, and she, with an internal grumble, realized he was taking the longest route on purpose. The dragon within him wasn't just claiming lands; it was claiming everything within its reach.
Epilogue: Seed and Secrets
The wind howled louder now, sharp as blades, but under Zekrom's black wings, Aenar and Leaf existed in a bubble of relative silence. The King's large, warm hand pressed against the slender back of the Child of the Forest, a gesture both gentle and undeniably dominant, making her recline against the leather saddle.
He adjusted her, positioning himself. The size difference between them was absurd, a contrast between the divine and the ancestral, and he moved with deliberate slowness, a test. He expected resistance, perhaps even pain, but what he found was... warmth. A deeply calming warmth that enveloped his draconic member, so tight that in any other being, it would be unbearable. His purple eyes stared into hers, searching for any sign of suffering. Instead, he found only the same archaic curiosity, now tinged with a glint of surprised pleasure.
Surprise overwhelmed him. How could her physiology accommodate him so completely? "Do you... have organs?" The question escaped his lips, laden with genuine scientific perplexity.
"Shut up and keep going," she whispered, her voice a rustle of autumn leaves, without malice, only a practical impatience.
A malicious smile appeared on Aenar's face. The pleasure, then, was mutual. That was enough for all his limits to dissolve. He lost himself in that divine sensation, in the contrast between his own incandescent nature and her welcoming coolness. Time lost meaning, marked only by the rhythm of their bodies and the constant wind. He climaxed repeatedly, each more intense than the last, not noticing the passage of hours until the canopy of the children's hiding place weirwood grove appeared below.
Upon landing, he turned her to face him, holding her light body with disconcerting ease, and dismounted from the dragon. On the cold ground, before the wise, ancient face-trees, he continued. The possessiveness of the dragon within him didn't care about the audience of amber eyes watching them from the forest darkness. He was claiming, marking his territory in the most primal way possible.
The dawn sun found them still entwined. When Aenar finally withdrew from her, his sharp mind noticed something immediately: despite the intensity and frequency with which he had released his seed inside her, there was no trace, no overflow. Absolutely nothing spilled out. It was as if her body had absorbed it completely.
"I need to finalize the preparations to deal with the King-Beyond-the-Wall," he said, his voice a bit rougher than normal, as he dressed.
Leaf just nodded, her eyes closed, seeming more an extension of the forest itself than ever.
He mounted Zekrom and took off. As they gained altitude, a movement below caught his attention. Leaf, now standing, was surrounded by other Children of the Forest. And to his absolute astonishment, he saw her extend her hands, and from her palm, small portions of his own essence, the seed he had left inside her, glowed with a soft light before being gently passed to the others. It was a surreal scene, without any malice or negative intent he could perceive, just an ancient and incomprehensible ritual.
Curiosity burned within him, stronger than any jealousy or concern. Why? He decided he would ask later. That mystery would have to wait.
Zekrom roared, diving towards the Wall. Down below, he could see the Northern armies organizing, the Stark banners fluttering in the wind, and his nephews' dragons circling the skies. The battle was approaching, but his mind was already flying further. The conquest of these frozen lands, the expansion of his domains... his Eight Kingdoms would soon be Nine. The thought brought a cold, determined smile to his face. The future was being forged, both on the battlefield and in the ancient secrets of the forest.
First of all, I apologize for the shorter chapter. I promise the next one will be much longer. Secondly, this generation is almost reaching VIM, so we'll soon enter the pre-Blackfyre Rebellion era. And one thing, after finishing this Dragon Dance part, we'll have a fast-forward to the events near the game, probably the War of the Nine Coin Kings, then it'll go back to normal. As always, if you notice any errors, let me know and I'll fix them as soon as possible. Any suggestions, especially for the Blackfyre Rebellion, I'll accept them.