Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of Dance of The Dragonwolf.
If you want to Read 18 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Drinor Patreon' on Google and Click the First Patreon LINK
Chapter 53, Chapter 54, Chapter 55, Chapter 56, Chapter 57, Chapter 58, Chapter 59, Chapter 60, Chapter 61, Chapter 62, Chapter 63, Chapter 64, Chapter 65, Chapter 66, Chapter 67, Chapter 68, Chapter 69, and Chapter 70 are already available for Patrons.
The Small Council gathered in their seats. King Viserys sat at the head, slumped slightly, dark circles under his eyes. Though the council room was warm, Viserys felt a chill deep in his bones.
Otto Hightower, seated to his right, noticed the fatigue in his king, and he leaned forward slightly.
"Your Grace, perhaps we might delay the council until the morrow. You appear—"
"No," Viserys cut him off, sounding feeble. "We'll continue. The realm does not rest, and neither shall I."
Otto inclined his head, deferring to Viserys's wishes, but the concern in his gaze lingered. The other council members exchanged cautious glances, sensing the king's state but saying nothing.
Grand Maester Mellos, his old hands shaking slightly as he adjusted the papers in front of him, was the first to speak. "Your Grace, news has reached us from the Riverlands. It has started snowing, and people fear an early winder. The harvests have been poor, and he fears famine might stir unrest among his bannermen."
Viserys let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his temples as if trying to ward off a growing headache. "Send grain from the Crownlands. We cannot have our vassals starving. Inform Lord Velaryon to divert shipments from his fleet to Riverrun. We'll make up the difference in the coming harvests."
Mellos nodded and made a note, but before the conversation could continue, another voice interjected.
It was Alysanne Targaryen. "Your Grace," she began, "there is darker news. Word has come from the Stormlands — Lord Estermont's firstborn daughter has been abducted."
The room fell into a hushed stillness. Viserys's tired eyes widened in shock. "Abducted?" he repeated, sitting up straighter, the weariness temporarily forgotten. "What happened?"
"A fleet of pirates attacked Greenstone. They seized the keep in a surprise raid, during a storm no less. The girl was taken — likely to be sold or ransomed, though in what condition they return her, if they do at all."
The Estermonts were a noble house loyal to the Baratheons. Such an attack was a brazen act of defiance that could not be ignored. But before Viserys could respond, Otto, saw an opportunity.
"Troubling news, indeed," Otto said smoothly. He leaned forward, his hands resting lightly on the table. "With so much of our fleet committed to the Stepstones, it was only a matter of time before our enemies grew bold enough to strike elsewhere. The pirates grow more daring every day. I fear the conflict in the Step Stones might have caused it."
Alysanne's eyes flashed, her lips tightening into a thin line. She turned her head sharply toward Otto, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Do you mean to suggest, Lord Hightower, that my great grandson's fight to secure the Stepstones is responsible for the abduction of an innocent girl? Or that securing our trade routes is a mistake?"
Otto's eyes met hers, his expression calm. "I suggest only that our current strategies have consequences, my Queen. With Prince Aenar in the Stepstones, much of our naval strength is focused there, leaving parts of our own shores vulnerable."
"Pirates need no excuse to act like the vermin they are. They have plagued the Narrow Sea long before my great grandson took up arms. To insinuate that his efforts to rid the realm of such filth are to blame for their actions is... unseemly, Lord Hightower."
"Enough," he said, though his voice was weary. "We must deal with the matter at hand, not cast blame upon one another."
Alysanne leaned back in her chair, still glaring at Otto, but she said nothing more for the moment. Otto offered a small nod of deference to the king.
Viserys exhaled slowly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "We cannot let this go unanswered. Send word to Lord Baratheon. He must muster his forces to track down these pirates. We will not tolerate such attacks on our lands or our people."
Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, cleared his throat before speaking. "Your Grace, it may be prudent to send more than just Lord Baratheon's forces. Pirates have grown bolder, yes, but they have also grown more organized. We should send a royal fleet to aid in the search for Lady Ellyn. The sight of Targaryen banners flying from our ships will remind them that we do not allow such acts to go unpunished."
Viserys nodded. "Yes. A royal fleet. Ser Harrold Estermont will lead it. He knows the waters, and he'll want justice for his daughter." His voice softened. "Make sure he has whatever he needs. I'll not allow this realm to fall to chaos."
As the king spoke, Alysanne's gaze softened, her anger at Otto momentarily replaced by concern for her great-grandson.
"Ser Harrold is a good man," Alysanne said, her voice quieter now. "He will stop at nothing to bring his daughter home. But we must act fast, otherwise she might be lost to us forever."
Viserys nodded in agreement. "Send word immediately. I want the fleet to sail within the week."
"Your Grace, there are other matters that require your attention. Reports from the Reach indicate that bandit activity has increased along the Gold Road. It seems that with the war in the Stepstones, lawlessness has begun to creep into the heart of the realm." Otto reported.
Viserys sighed heavily. "Then we'll send riders from the City Watch to assist in maintaining order. The realm is stretched thin, but we cannot allow disorder to spread."
As the murmurs of the Small Council died down, Viserys leaned back in his chair, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders. His mind, however, was elsewhere. As Otto mentioned the increasing lawlessness in the realm, a gnawing anxiety had taken hold of him. His thoughts drifted back to the war in the Stepstones. The pirates' attack on Greenstone and the abduction of Lady Ellyn had shaken him, but not nearly as much as the thought of his daughter, Rhaenyra, fighting in the Stepstones.
She had been adamant about joining the war, eager to prove herself, her dragon Syrax still young and not yet fully grown. And though Viserys had reluctantly allowed it, trusting Daemon and Aenar to watch over her, the knowledge that she was out there in the heat of battle haunted him. Now, with news of the pirate raid.
Without realizing it, he spoke aloud, "Is there any news from the Stepstones? About Rhaenyra?"
"We have received no new reports from the Stepstones, Your Grace," the Maester said, his tone regretful. "The last raven arrived over a fortnight ago. Prince Daemon's forces continue to press the Triarchy, but..."
Mellos trailed off. The king's face paled as the silence returned, and for a moment, his mind could see her. He saw Rhaenyra screaming for help.
What if the pirates targeted her? What if they captured her as they had captured Lady Ellyn? His imagination spun dark visions of Rhaenyra taken hostage, her dragon chained or killed, her Targaryen blood used as a bargaining chip. The thought of losing her, of Rhaenyra suffering such a fate, sent a wave of nausea through him.
Viserys clenched his fists, his knuckles white, and turned to his grandmother. "Fourteen days," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "No word in fourteen days. Anything could have happened..."
Alysanne's expression softened. She knew how much Viserys loved his daughter and how much he had always tried to protect her. She knew what it felt like to lose a daughter or a son; she had lost so many. For a long time, she was sure that she was cursed to suffer, that she would live, and everyone else around her would die.
"Viserys," she began, her tone low and calm, "I understand your fear, but you must remember this: Four dragons are fighting in the Stepstones. Rhaenyra is not alone. She has Syrax, and your brother Daemon has Caraxes. Aenar is there with Cannibal, and Laenor Velaryon rides Seasmoke. Four dragons can easily deal with any army."
"These pirates may be bold, but they are not foolish enough to attack a dragonrider—let alone four. Rhaenyra is safer than you think."
Viserys nodded slowly, but the gesture was more mechanical than heartfelt. His grandmother's words were meant to soothe him, and yet the gnawing doubt still clawed at him. Rhaenyra might be surrounded by dragons, but he had heard how war could turn in an instant.
Still, he forced himself to exhale, trying to let the tension bleed from his body. "You're right," he said softly, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. "Rhaenyra has Syrax. She's strong. Daemon is there... she's not alone."
But even as he said it, Viserys couldn't stop the images in his mind—the endless sea, the pirates lying in wait. He rubbed his temples, exhaustion pulling at him once more.
Otto, sensing the king's distress, spoke up in a more practical tone, hoping to shift the conversation. "Your Grace, the war in the Stepstones is indeed a matter of great concern, but our forces are winning ground. Prince Daemon has secured several key islands, and the Triarchy is on the defensive. We expect a full victory soon, once the Free Cities tire of their losses."
Viserys glanced at Otto, his eyes still distant. "And at what cost?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. The victory meant little if it cost him his daughter.
Alysanne leaned in slightly, her voice softer now, motherly. "Viserys, the blood of the dragon runs strong in her veins. Rhaenyra is as much Targaryen as any who have come before her. She rides a dragon and commands respect. You raised her to be strong—now you must trust in that strength."
He looked at her, seeing not just his grandmother but a woman who had seen generations of their family rise and fall. She had known loss, and yet she endured. There was comfort in that—however small.
Viserys let out a shaky breath and nodded again. "I just... I just want her to come home."
Alysanne smiled softly. "She will, Viserys. She will."
After a moment of silence, Lord Lyonel Strong cleared his throat gently. "Your Grace, if I may, it might be wise to send a raven to Dragonstone. If there is no word from the Stepstones, perhaps Dragonstone's household can provide an update. They may have more recent news than we do."
Viserys blinked as if coming out of a fog. "Yes," he said, sitting up a little straighter. "Yes, send a raven. I want to know if there's been any word—any word at all."
Lyonel nodded and made a note. "At once, Your Grace."
Viserys let out a slow, weary breath as the Small Council meeting finally seemed to wind down. His eyes felt heavy. For a brief moment, he thought he might find some relief — perhaps retreat to his chambers, pour himself a goblet of wine, and perhaps he could find some relief in Alicent.
But before he could rise from his seat, the large doors to the council chamber creaked open. One of the King's Guards peaked from beneath his helm and stepped forward. He bowed respectfully before addressing the room.
"Your Grace," he said, "six Holy Brothers of the Faith of the Seven have arrived at the Keep and request an audience with you. Among them is the High Septon himself."
Viserys closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to remain composed despite the sharp sting of frustration. The High Septon. The timing couldn't have been worse. His heart longed for rest and had already endured a full evening of difficult discussions. For a fleeting second, he considered sending them away, telling the guards to inform the holy men to return at morrow.
"Tell them to come back at morrow-"
"Your Grace," Otto began in that reasonable tone of his, "it might be unwise to delay an audience with the High Septon. His influence over the common folk is... significant. Refusing him could be seen as a slight, especially when tensions in the city are as they are."
Viserys opened his eyes, a tired frown on his face. "I had hoped for some rest this evening, Otto," he muttered, though he already knew Otto was right. The Faith of the Seven held immense sway, and the High Septon was perhaps the most revered figure in all of King's Landing. To turn him away would be seen as an insult, and the last thing Viserys needed was unrest among the people.
With a reluctant nod, Viserys pushed himself to his feet, suddenly feeling much older than he was, the skin on his right hand burned like fire. "Very well. I will meet with them." he said, trying to sound like a King. "Have them brought to the Throne Room."
The guard bowed and quickly exited to fulfill the king's command. Viserys glanced toward his grandmother, Alysanne, expecting her to remain seated, as she often did when religious matters arose. But to his surprise, she stood as well, smoothing the rich fabric of her gown and moving to his side.
"I'll come with you," Alysanne said warmly. There was a knowing gleam in her violet eyes, one that made Viserys wonder if she had anticipated something like this.
Viserys nodded, grateful for her company. With a final glance at the Small Council members, he told them that the meeting had ended and that they could go back to their chambers.
The walk to the Throne Room felt longer than usual. Viserys's mind raced with thoughts of what the High Septon and his Holy Brothers might want. The Faith had grown more vocal in recent moons, particularly since the rise of the Holy Brothers' militant wing — the Faith Militant. The idea of religious zealots wielding weapons had always unsettled Viserys, but he himself had agreed to allow them to carry weapons, to protect themselves from the Red Lady. The common people beloved the Faith, and any perceived attack on it could spark revolt.
As they approached the Throne Room, two gold cloaks pulled the great doors open, revealing the vast hall beyond. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end, its jagged metal spires casting shadows in the flickering torchlight. And there, in the center of the room, stood the six Holy Brothers, their cloaks pristine white and their heads bowed in deference. In the center of the group was the High Septon himself. His expression was serene.
Viserys paused for a moment. Alysanne was beside him. Otto Hightower followed just behind, his sharp gaze fixed on the High Septon.
Viserys ascended the steps to the Iron Throne, the weight of his kingship pressing on him more heavily than usual. He settled onto the throne's jagged surface, feeling the cold metal beneath his hands.
Viserys settled onto the Iron Throne, feeling its cold metal dig into his back, a discomfort he had grown used to over the years. The vast Throne Room was eerily silent except for the soft shuffle of the High Septon and his six Holy Brothers moving into place before him.
Viserys noted the subtle changes in their appearance as they came closer — no longer humble men of the cloth in ragged robes. Their clothes were fine, reinforced with armor at the elbows and knees. One of the brothers even bore a metal shield emblazoned with the Seven-Pointed Star. It was a marked difference from the last time he had seen them, and it made the king uneasy.
The High Septon himself, draped in ornate robes of gold and silver, stepped forward, his face calm and unreadable. Viserys could see the serene smile that the man was famous for, but his gaze shifted to the armed men behind him — the Faith Militant, with their spiked clubs. The sight of them stirred an old regret in the king's heart. It had been he who had allowed this, hadn't it? He had granted the Faith the right to arm themselves, all in the name of defending the city from the Red Lady's cult of R'hllor. At the time, it had seemed like the right decision. But now, looking at these men, it felt like a misstep.
"Your Grace," the High Septon began, not bowing his head. "I thank you for granting us audience at this late hour. We bring troubling news, and we seek your help."
Viserys forced a small, weary smile. He was a king who had learned to smile when he had no desire to. "I always have time for the Faith, High Septon. What troubles you?"
The High Septon lifted his head, his expression one of practiced concern. "The Faith of the Seven thrives, as it always has, but there are dark clouds gathering. The people are troubled by the war in the Stepstones, by the bloodshed... and by the growing influence of the Red Lady and her followers."
Viserys shifted slightly on the throne, the mention of the Red Lady immediately bringing a frown to his face. "The war in the Stepstones is necessary. Our borders must be defended, or pirates will raid our shores unchecked."
The High Septon inclined his head. "Of course, Your Grace. But the common folk do not understand the need for war in foreign lands. They see dragons, creatures of fire, waging war overseas, and they wonder if the Seven are watching over them still. They wonder if this conflict invites armies overseas to come here."
Viserys's expression hardened at that, and before he could speak, Alysanne stepped forward. Her voice, cut through the room like a blade. "Are you suggesting that my family's dragons are a threat to the realm, High Septon?"
The High Septon's serene mask did not falter, but Viserys saw a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "I suggest only that the people are fearful, my dear child. They seek reassurance. They seek protection."
"Fearful, you say? Oh, but the people have always been fearful, Your Holiness. When it's not dragons, it's the taxes. When it's not taxes, it's their neighbors' pig eating their garden. And when there's no more pigs or taxes or dragons to fret over, they turn to worrying about the gods themselves." She leaned forward slightly, her eyes glinting. "Perhaps the gods would do better to reassure the people, rather than fretting over what they should fear next."
Alysanne's gaze drifted to the Holy Brothers, their spiked clubs hanging at their sides, their postures rigid. "And I suppose the Faith Militant offers that protection? Armed men walking the streets of King's Landing?"
Viserys could hear the ice in her voice. His grandmother had always been skeptical of the Faith Militant. Now, as she stood beside him, that skepticism burned brighter.
"The Faith Militant exists to uphold order," the High Septon replied smoothly. "To protect the people from those who would lead them astray. The Red Lady's influence grows. Her followers speak of fire and a foreign god. They defy the Seven openly in the streets. If we do not act, Your Grace, the heresy will spread like wildfire."
Viserys's hand gripped the arm of the Iron Throne, his fingers tracing the jagged edges of the swords forged into the seat. The pain in his hand grew stronger, and he hoped he wouldn't have to amputate another finger. He didn't like this. The Faith Militant already had more power than he had ever intended to give them, and now the High Septon was asking for more.
"What is that you are asking from me?"
"More men and more coins, your grace." the High Septon said.
Alysanne spoke before he could, her voice cutting through the High Septon's calm. "You ask for more men. More weapons. More coin." She took a step closer to the Holy Brothers, her eyes narrowing as she took in their armor, their clubs. "The Faith Militant was once a symbol of humility. Now you stand before us with men dressed for battle, armed as soldiers. Is that what the people need? More armed men in their streets? Isn't that what the Golden Cloaks are for."
The High Septon's smile remained fixed, but his tone grew more insistent. "The people look to the Faith for protection, my dear child. And in these times, they must see that we are strong, that we can defend them from heretics. The Faith Militant does not seek power for its own sake. We seek to uphold the will of the Seven."
Viserys's gaze shifted between his grandmother and the High Septon, he wanted to take his grandmother's side. But he also understood the High Septon's position — the Red Lady and her cult had become a growing problem. If her followers continued to rise, the people might indeed turn away from the Seven.
But to give the Faith more power, more men... it felt dangerous.
"You speak of defending the people," Viserys said finally, his voice heavy with weariness. "But we must be careful not to turn protection into oppression. The Faith Militant is armed already — by my decree. To give you more..."
The High Septon interrupted, though his tone was soft and deferential. "Your Grace, we do not seek to oppress. We seek only to restore order and faith. The people are afraid. The Red Lady preaches of fire and chaos, of a god who is not of these lands. Her followers are growing bolder, and without the Crown's continued support, the Faith may not be able to stop them."
"We must not act out of fear," Alysanne said, her tone firm but not unkind. "The Faith Militant was armed to defend the Faith, yes. But we must not forget that the power of the Crown and the power of the Faith must remain separate. One serves the people; the other rules the realm."
The High Septon bowed his head slightly. "Of course, my lady. We serve the realm, as we always have. But these are dark times, and we cannot stand idly by as heresy spreads unchecked."
Viserys rubbed his temples, the pressure of the crown feeling heavier than ever. He didn't want more conflict, but neither could he ignore the High Septon's concerns. If the Red Lady's followers continued to rise, it could lead to open conflict in the streets. And yet, to arm the Faith further felt like he was losing control, handing too much power to men who were not bound by the same rules as his soldiers.
"I will not grant more arms or coin to the Faith Militant," Viserys said at last, his voice resolute. "But I will instruct the City Watch to increase their presence in the streets. If the followers of the Red Lady grow violent, they will be dealt with by the Crown's forces. We must show the people that the Crown is strong."
The High Septon's expression remained neutral, though Viserys thought he saw the briefest flicker of disappointment in his eyes. "As you command, Your Grace. The Faith remains ever loyal to the Crown."
Viserys nodded, feeling the tension slowly ease from his body. "You have my thanks, High Septon. I trust you will continue to guide the people in the ways of the Seven."
The High Septon bowed deeply. "Of course, Your Grace. May the Seven watch over you."
As the High Septon and his Holy Brothers departed the Throne Room, Viserys let out a long breath, the exhaustion washing over him once more. He glanced at Alysanne, who remained by his side, her face stern and unreadable.
"Thank you," he murmured to her, his voice barely above a whisper.
Alysanne gave him a nod, her eyes softening just slightly. "You did well, Viserys. But the High Septon is not a man who will be content with 'no' for long."
Viserys sighed. "I know." He stared down at the Iron Throne, the sharp edges of the swords gleaming in the dim light. "And that is what worries me most."
As the High Septon and his entourage began to turn away. The High Septon halted, turning back to face Viserys, his expression now one of grave concern.
"Your Grace," the High Septon began, his tone somber, "before I depart, there is one more matter that I must bring to your attention. A tragedy has befallen the Faith. Five of our holy brothers were found dead in the streets of King's Landing this morning."
Viserys sat on the Iron Throne, his heart still pounding from the revelations. The torches flickered, casting long, wavering shadows over the room, and for a moment, the King could only stare at them. The High Septon had just dropped a heavy weight into the room—five dead brothers of the Faith.
Viserys took a breath, his voice tired but firm. "Five brothers of the Faith, you say? Dead in the streets of King's Landing?"
"Yes, Your Grace," the High Septon replied, his tone drenched in sorrow. "Found early this morning, beaten and bloodied. Such brutality against those who serve the Seven... it is a grievous offense. The common folk will be frightened by this, and—"
Before the High Septon could finish, Otto Hightower stepped forward, his voice urgent. "Your Grace, this is an attack not just on the Faith, but on the city itself. The people will be terrified. The Faith has always been their shield against chaos, and if even the Holy Brothers are being slain in the streets... we must act swiftly. The Faith will need your support now more than ever."
Viserys's brow furrowed as he stared down from the throne. "Who were these brothers?" he asked quietly, though his voice carried through the hall.
The High Septon nodded, stepping forward slightly. "Brothers Loras, Kevan, Mallador, Willem, and Harys. All pious men. They were known for their devotion."
Alysanne, who had been standing silent beside Viserys, let out a sharp breath, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Pious men?" she echoed, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. "Funny you should say that."
The High Septon turned to her, frowning slightly. "My dear child?"
Alysanne stepped forward, her eyes now fixed on the High Septon, her tone calm but dripping with disdain. "Those five 'pious' men were seen in an inn yesterday, weren't they? Causing quite a scene."
The room grew still, the tension palpable. Viserys felt a knot form in his stomach as his grandmother continued, her voice hard and unforgiving.
"They were drunk," Alysanne said, each word clear and precise. "Insulting the smallfolk, laughing at them. One of them—Brother Mallador, wasn't it?—he decided to lay hands on a little girl, didn't he? Tried to touch her in ways no man should. The mother—terrified, begging for help—was mocked by the other four, who found the whole thing amusing."
The High Septon's face turned pale, and Viserys felt a chill run down his spine. He shifted uncomfortably on the Iron Throne, his hands gripping the edges of the seat as Alysanne's words hung in the air like poison.
Alysanne continued, undeterred. "It was only when three Gold Cloaks walked in that these brave 'holy' men decided to leave the inn. And even then, they spat insults at the poor woman and her child as they left. So forgive me if I don't weep for them, High Septon."
The High Septon's serene mask faltered, his face tightening in frustration, though he quickly bowed his head in what was likely meant to be humility. "If such behavior occurred, it is... deeply regrettable. But these men—"
"Regrettable?" Alysanne interrupted. "They were more like thugs than men of the Faith. You preach about piety and virtue, yet you allow men like that to wear your colors and carry your banners? Is this what the Seven stand for now?"
One of the Holy Brothers behind the High Septon bristled, his hand tightening around the spiked club at his side. His face, reddening with anger, twisted into a scowl. "You insult the Faith, my lady!" he growled, his voice laced with fury. "You—" The moment he said that, all the guards in the hall and five Kingsguards unsheathed their swords right away, and the arches aimed their bows at every single Holy Brother in the Hall.
"I will cut out your tongue, piss brother." one of the guards threatened, glaring at the holy brothers.
"Enough!" Viserys's voice thundered across the room, silencing everyone instantly. He looked at the High Septon, his eyes hardening.
"If your men acts like that again, High Septon. I will order your men to give up all their weapons, and the faith militant will be gone. Do you understand me?" For the first time, Viserys sounded like a King as he glared down at the High Septon.
"...Yes, your grace." He muttered reluctantly.
"Good, and you will never refer to Queen Alysanne as 'Dear Child' ever again but by her title. 'Queen Alysanne' or 'Your Grace.'" Viserys ordered, not seeing the small smile he got from the former Queen. The High Septon once again nodded his head quite reluctantly, and only then were the swords sheathed, and the archers stopped aiming their arrows.
"Back to what we were discussing about your dead 'holy' brothers. Is this true? Did those men behave as my grandmother claims?"
The High Septon hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking to the angry brother behind him before returning to Viserys. "Your Grace, I... I had not heard of this incident until now. But if it is as the Dowager Queen says, then it is a stain upon the Faith. These men were to be judged by the Seven, in this life or the next."
Alysanne let out a derisive chuckle, shaking her head. "Judged by the Seven? More like they judged themselves when they behaved like animals. They dishonored the Faith with every step they took."
Viserys's stomach churned with a mixture of fury and disbelief. The idea that men who were meant to be symbols of the Faith, who were supposed to represent the Seven and uphold their teachings, had acted in such a way filled him with a deep sense of revulsion.
He took a long breath, his eyes narrowing as he stared down at the High Septon. "These men were no better than common criminals," he said quietly, his voice steady but laced with anger. "If they died in the streets, then perhaps it was justice, though not the kind any of us would prefer."
The High Septon shifted uncomfortably, clearly feeling the weight of Viserys's disapproval. "Your Grace, their deaths will still cause unrest. The people will not know these... unsavory details. All they will see are dead brothers of the Faith."
Otto stepped in once more, his tone urgent. "Your Grace, the city will fall into chaos if we do not act. The smallfolk cling to the Faith for comfort in these trying times. If the Holy Brothers are seen as vulnerable, it will embolden those who would challenge the order."
Viserys closed his eyes for a moment, his mind racing. The city was already restless, and the last thing he needed was more unrest. But he could not, in good conscience, stand by and ignore what Alysanne had revealed.
"I will not condone the actions of these men," Viserys said firmly, opening his eyes again and staring directly at the High Septon. "Their behavior was a disgrace to the Faith. But the people must be reassured. They need to know that the Faith and the Crown are united in keeping the peace."
The High Septon nodded, his expression tight. "Of course, Your Grace. The Faith will do all it can to restore order and trust."
Alysanne gave the High Septon a withering look. "See that you do," she said, her voice dripping with finality.
"This matter is closed for now. But know this: the Faith will not act as a law unto itself. The Crown will not tolerate such abuses. The Gold Cloaks will take care of this."
The High Septon bowed deeply, though his eyes flickered with a hint of frustration. "As you command, Your Grace."
With that, he turned and led his Holy Brothers out of the Throne Room, their armor clinking softly as they departed. The door closed behind them with a heavy thud, leaving a silence that seemed to echo through the vast chamber.
Viserys let out a long breath, feeling the exhaustion return tenfold. He glanced at Alysanne, who stood beside him, her sharp eyes still watching the door.
"I'm not sure whether to thank you or curse you, grandmother," Viserys muttered, though his voice was tinged with gratitude.
Alysanne smirked, the sharpness in her gaze softening slightly. "Sometimes, the truth is the only sword that cuts deep enough."
Viserys nodded, but the weight of the crown pressed harder than ever.
Tomorrow
Viserys woke up feeling refreshed, the morning light against his skin. For a moment, he allowed himself the rare luxury of contentment, stretching beneath the heavy blankets, enjoying the peace. It had been too long since he felt this light. But as he reached for Alicent, expecting to feel her presence beside him, his hand touched nothing but cool sheets.
She wasn't there. Again.
Viserys sighed, the ease of the morning fading as disappointment crept in. Aemma never left my side, he thought. His first wife had always been there in the mornings, her warmth, her presence. He remembered how they would wake together, how they would talk about nothing and everything. With Alicent, it was different. She rarely slept in his bed; he rarely felt her presence and could no longer feel the love he used to feel. Now, she felt more like a friend.
In his dreams. Aemma was there, not Alicent.
He shook the thought away and sat up, his mind already turning to the day's tasks. He was about to call for a servant to bring food when the door swung open; he recognized her silver hair right away. His first instinct was to greet her, expecting nothing more than the usual morning routine. But when he saw Alysanne rushing into the room, her face pale, every ounce of peace he had felt drained away.
Her normally calm, steady demeanor was gone, replaced with something urgent, almost panicked. The sight of it froze Viserys where he sat, his heart sinking with a sudden dread that seized him by the throat. The last time he had seen that look on his grandmother's face had been the day Aemma died.
His voice came out in a hoarse whisper before he could stop himself, the words escaping from his deepest fear. "Rhaenyra... is she alright?"
Alysanne stopped in her tracks, her eyes meeting his with a softness, but her face still full of sorrow. "Rhaenyra is safe, Viserys," she said, her voice heavy with emotion. "It is not her."
Viserys let out a breath, relief flooding him for only the briefest of moments. His hands trembled slightly as he tried to steady himself. "Then... what is it?" he asked, his mind racing. If it wasn't Rhaenyra, then what could have shaken Alysanne so?
Alysanne took a step closer, her voice soft but steady, delivering the news with the weight of someone who had lived through enough grief to know how to handle it. "Word came from Dragonstone this morning. Seasmoke has fallen in the Stepstones. And... Laenor Velaryon is dead."
The world seemed to still around Viserys. "Laenor?" he repeated, disbelief thick in his voice. His mind struggled to catch up, to process what she was telling him. Laenor Velaryon—young, kind Laenor—gone? It didn't seem possible.
His chest tightened. "How?"
Alysanne stepped closer, her expression full of sorrow. "There was a wildfire explosion during the fighting. Seasmoke was caught in the blaze. Laenor went down with him. They did not survive."
Aliandra Martell
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the desert in shades of purple and deep red, Princess Aliandra Martell kept her gaze on the path ahead. Beside her, her younger brother Qyle rode with excitement. It had been hours since they left the Water Gardens, and the journey back to Sunspear had given her more than enough time to brood on the subject of her younger brother and his older brother. Lykard Martell.
Lykard Martell, the black sheep of their house, had returned. Exiled for reasons she didn't know. Her parents never told her, and every time she asked, they would order her to never ask again. And now, after years of silence, he was back, unannounced and unexpected. Whatever his reasons, they couldn't be good. Aliandra felt it in her bones.
Qyle's voice cut through her thoughts. "Why now, Aliandra? Why come back after all this time?"
She didn't answer immediately, keeping her eyes on the darkening landscape. The cool desert wind tugged at her cloak. "I don't know, Qyle. But I promise you this—he's not here to catch up on old memories."
Qyle shifted uneasily in his saddle, clearly unsatisfied. "You've always been sure about him. You think he's dangerous?"
Aliandra turned to him. "Qyle, if you ever find me not being sure about something, assume it's because I'm dead or drunk. And even then, I'm probably still sure of it."
Qyle chuckled despite himself, but the tension between them didn't ease. The unknown of Lykard's return hung over their heads like a storm cloud. As dusk gave way to full night, Aliandra raised her hand, signaling for the guards to stop. It would be foolish to continue through the desert without rest, and though she was impatient to get back to Sunspear, she knew during the night, the desert could be as cold as The Wall.
"We'll make camp here," she called, and the guards immediately dismounted, beginning to gather what little dry wood they could find among the dunes.
Aliandra handed her reins to one of the guards, then shrugged off her cloak, folding it carefully before tucking it under her arm. As she glanced around, she noticed the guards busy collecting dry branches for the fire, and without a second thought, she strode over and began picking up the scattered bits of wood herself.
One of the guards looked up and hurried over to stop her. "Princess, we talked about this a hundred times; you shouldn't be doing that, your mother wouldn't be pleased," he said, glancing at her fine silks. "That's not—"
Aliandra raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a mischievous grin. "And my answer will be the same every time, Ser Art. What? Think I'll get a splinter and suddenly stop being the heir to Sunspear? Don't worry, I've faced far worse than dry branches."
The guard hesitated, clearly unsure how to respond. Aliandra pressed on with a glint of humor in her eyes. "Besides, if I help, we'll get the fire started faster. And I'm not sleeping out here without one. Do you know how quickly this desert gets cold? I'd rather be burnt to death than frozen—if I wanted that, I'd marry some northern lord."
The guard let out a reluctant laugh, as did a few of the others who had overheard. Soon enough, they returned to gathering wood, but now with Aliandra right beside them, dress and all, clearly undeterred by the fact that she was a princess.
Qyle, having dismounted, watched his sister with an amused expression. "You're not exactly what people expect of royalty, you know that?"
Aliandra shrugged, her grin widening. "Good. Expectations are for people with no imagination." She straightened up, brushing dust off her gown, her eyes glinting. "And besides, I like to keep people guessing."
Within a short time, the fire was blazing, casting a warm glow over the group. The guards settled around it, their faces illuminated by the flames as they spoke in low murmurs about the road ahead and the situation in Sunspear. Qyle and Aliandra sat a little closer to the fire, its warmth cutting through the desert's nighttime chill.
It didn't take long before the conversation shifted, as Aliandra knew it would.
One of the guards, an older man with a scar across his cheek, spoke hesitantly. "Your Highness, forgive me for asking, but... do you know why Prince Lykard returned? We heard whispers... but no one's ever said outright why he was exiled in the first place."
Qyle perked up at the question. "I was wondering the same thing," he said, turning to his sister. "Everyone always avoids talking about him. But I never knew the full story. Why was he sent away?"
All eyes turned to Aliandra. But she wasn't listening. Her gaze had drifted to the flames, and her expression had turned distant, almost haunted. Suddenly, in the midst of the fire, a face appeared.
It was a woman's face—her features sharp and striking, her skin sun-kissed like the Dornish but with purple eyes like a Targaryen. Her eyes, locked with Aliandra's through the flames. Everything around her disappeared for a moment, and the woman's lips moved, uttering a single name.
"Rhaenys Targaryen."
The sound of the name jolted Aliandra back to reality, her breath catching in her throat. She blinked rapidly, the face disappearing from the flames as if it had never been there. The fire crackled quietly, and the conversations around her continued, but her mind was racing.
Rhaenys Targaryen?
Why had that name appeared to her? She thought of the first Rhaenys, who was shot down with her dragon, Meraxes, but that woman had no reason to have Dornish features. All those with Valyria Blood had the same unique features: purple eyes and silver hair and were always handsome or beautiful. So, her thoughts went to Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, but it couldn't be her. The Princess had black hair from her Baratheon heritage and purple eyes but no Dornish features. Why would a Targaryen have Dornish Features? She would have known if someone from Dornish had ever married a Targaryen and had children with them, so who was this princess?
"Aliandra?" Qyle's voice pulled her back to the present; concern etched on his face. "You've been staring at the fire for a while. Are you alright?"
She blinked but forced a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Yes," she said, her voice steady but her thoughts far away. "I'm fine. I'm just thinking."
"Well, that can't be good. Don't think too much, or you might get tired."
"Shut up." Aliandra said with a cute voice before giggling as her little brother laughed.
As her brother laughed. Her mind went to the face in the flames and the name.
Why had she seen that face? And what did it mean?
As she drifted off to sleep that night, she dreamed of the same boy with handsome features, dark curly hair, and purple eyes.
Laena
Laena Velaryon stood on the rocky outcrop, her gaze locked on the massive form of Vhagar resting on the distant island. The dragon's hulking body rose and fell with each breath, her scales gleaming in the light of the setting sun like burnished bronze. Laena's heart raced in her chest. Vhagar is the oldest and largest of all living dragons. Mounting her meant grasping a power few could ever imagine, but more importantly than anything else. Her dragon would be bigger than Aenar's dragon, and she would win their bet. She could already imagine his handsome face when she lands on Dragonstone with Vhagar.
This is your moment, she told herself, though fear curled cold in her belly. If you turn back now, you'll never get another chance.
She glanced down at Ghost, standing by her side, his white fur stark against the dark rocks. He whined softly, sensing her hesitation.
"No," she murmured, kneeling beside him. "You stay here, boy. I need to do this alone."
Ghost gave a small whimper but sat obediently, his sharp red eyes never leaving her. Laena straightened, taking a deep breath before shedding her cloak and boots. The cool evening air kissed her skin, sending a shiver down her spine, but she barely noticed. Her focus was entirely on Vhagar, the dragon's massive form looming like a shadow on the horizon.
Without another thought, she plunged into the narrow channel separating her from the island. The cold water bit into her skin, but Laena didn't stop. She swam with strong, determined strokes, her mind racing ahead of her body. Fear crept into her thoughts—of the dragon, of failure, of the very real possibility that Vhagar could kill her with a single snap of her jaws. But she shoved those thoughts aside, pushing forward. There was no turning back.
By the time her feet touched the sandy shore, Laena was breathless, her muscles aching from the swim. She stood, dripping and cold, but she didn't allow herself even a moment to recover. Vhagar stirred.
The massive dragon's head lifted slowly, the movement almost lazy, as if Vhagar barely deigned to notice the small girl standing before her. But Laena knew better. Vhagar's eyes, each the size of a man's shield, fixed on her.
Laena felt her heart stutter in her chest. For a brief, horrifying moment, she felt the urge to turn and run, to swim back to safety. But she clenched her fists, forcing her feet to stay planted. Fear will get you killed, she reminded herself.
She took a deep breath and began to approach the dragon, slower now, each step deliberate. Vhagar's nostrils flared, sending out a puff of smoke that curled through the air, hot and acrid. The dragon's massive tail shifted, causing the sand to tremble beneath Laena's feet.
Laena stopped a few paces away, her chest tight with tension. She could feel Vhagar's heat even from this distance, the dragon's breath like the wind from a furnace. If Vhagar wanted to, she could reduce her to ash in an instant. Laena knew that. And yet, she refused to back down.
Her voice, when she spoke, was steady, though her heart pounded in her chest. "Lykirī," she said in High Valyrian, the language of her ancestors. "Lykirī, Vhagar."
Calm Down.
The ancient dragon's eyes narrowed, but she didn't move. Laena knew she needed to take control. She took a step closer, her voice low and commanding. "Obey nyke (Obey me,)" she said, her tone firmer now, the words rolling off her tongue like a challenge. "Nyke issa Laena Velayron, se āeksio Valyrio lentor iksā ānogar ñuhys ēngos. Aōha jaelā. (I am Laena Velayron, and the blood of Old Valyria flows through my veins. You will Obey Me.)"
Her hands trembled, but she raised them slowly, palms out. She had heard the stories of how a dragon would test its rider and see the truth of their heart. If she faltered, if she showed weakness, Vhagar would know, and she would be lost.
Vhagar's great bronze head tilted slightly as though considering the girl before her. Smoke curled lazily from her nostrils, and her wings shifted, the leathery skin stretching and flexing. The dragon let out a low, rumbling growl, her tail flicking behind her like a serpent.
Laena swallowed, her mouth dry. She took another step closer, her bare feet sinking into the sand. "Aōha iksan, (You are mine,)" she said, her voice firmer now. "Aōha jaelā ñuhys.(You will obey me.)"
Vhagar's massive head lowered slightly, her nostrils flaring as she took in Laena's scent. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the sea and the dragon's low, steady breathing.
If you're going to do this, do it now, she told herself.
She moved swiftly, closing the distance between them. Her hands reached for the rough, ancient scales of the dragon's flank, and she began to climb. Her legs wrapped around the dragon's powerful shoulders, her fingers gripping tightly as she hoisted herself up. Vhagar shifted beneath her, but the dragon did not shake her off. Not yet.
Laena's heart thundered in her chest as she found her place on Vhagar's back, the world seeming to shrink beneath her. She could feel the dragon's strength beneath her, the sheer power waiting to be unleashed. But she couldn't afford to think about that now. She had to take control.
"Sōvēs. (Fly,)" Laena commanded. "Sōvētēs, Vhagar."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a great roar that shook the air itself, Vhagar's wings unfurled, casting a shadow over the island. The dragon's muscles coiled, and with a powerful leap, Vhagar took to the sky.
Laena held on tightly as they soared higher and higher, the ground falling away beneath them. The wind tore at her wet clothes, her hair whipping around her face, but she didn't care. The fear that had gripped her earlier melted away, replaced by an exhilarating sense of freedom.
She had done it. She had claimed Vhagar. And now, the skies belonged to her.
For the first time in her life, Laena felt truly alive. The fear was gone. She had faced it, stared it down, and come out the other side. She had taken the largest dragon in the world, and nothing could stop her now.
She let out a laugh, wild and full of triumph, as they flew through the sky, the wind howling in her ears. Vhagar roared again, her great wings cutting through the air, and Laena knew—she was born to fly.
Laena soared through the skies above the Crownlands, Vhagar's massive wings cutting through the air with effortless power. The wind whipped her hair back, her face flushed with exhilaration as they climbed higher, the world below shrinking to a distant blur of islands and sea. She had always loved flying as a child, clinging to her mother when she took her up on Meleys, the Red Queen. But this—this was entirely different. She was not just a passenger anymore. She was the rider.
For the first time, Laena understood the true power that came with being a dragonrider. She had heard it said often enough that the Targaryens were "gods among men," but now she felt it. Up here, above the world, with nothing but the sky and the wind and the power of Vhagar beneath her, she could almost believe it. This was what it meant to command the skies. To be one with a creature so vast, so full of fire and fury, and yet to bend it to her will.
This is why they call us gods, she thought, a thrill running through her.
She flew for hours, riding the winds as Vhagar carried her across the Crownlands. Laena guided Vhagar effortlessly, and a bond formed between them that felt natural and instinctual. She had been born for this.
Now that she had a dragon, Laena realized that she should probably apologize to Laenor. She had blamed him that she had no dragons, she had blamed him that their parents never smiled at her as they did with him, but now she had Vhagar, she knew her father would smile at her the same way he did with Laenor as would her mother. She decided at that moment that she would apologize to Laenor the moment she met him again.
As the sun began to sink lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the islands, Laena felt the great dragon's rhythm slow. Vhagar's wings beat more steadily now, less sharply, and Laena knew her dragon was growing tired. Laena scanned the coastline below, recognizing the small rocky outcrop where she had left Ghost.
"Belmot, riña.(Let's go back, girl,)" she whispered, patting Vhagar's neck gently. She guided the dragon toward the shore, where she could make out Ghost's white fur standing stark against the dark rocks.
Vhagar descended slowly, her massive body casting a long shadow over the beach as she approached. Sand and small rocks flew up in all directions as Vhagar's enormous claws touched down on the beach with a thud, sending small tremors through the ground.
Ghost, standing near the water's edge, did not move. Despite Vhagar's enormous size and the force of her landing, the direwolf simply watched, his ears perked but his posture steady. He showed no fear, not even as the dragon's colossal form loomed above him.
Laena dismounted with ease, sliding down Vhagar's side and landing lightly in the sand. Her legs wobbled slightly, still unsteady after hours of flying, but her heart was full of exhilaration. She had done it. She had flown Vhagar—her dragon.
As soon as her feet touched the ground, Ghost bounded toward her, his tail wagging furiously. Laena laughed and crouched down, rubbing his head affectionately as the direwolf nuzzled her.
"You're a brave one, aren't you?" she murmured, stroking his thick fur. "Didn't flinch at all, even with Vhagar right here."
Ghost gave a low whine and leaned into her touch, and Laena smiled, pressing her forehead against his. "Good boy," she whispered. "You waited for me."
She stood up and turned back to Vhagar, who had settled into the sand, her wings folded neatly against her body, and her massive head resting on the ground. The dragon's great eyes were half-closed, and a low rumble vibrated through her chest as she rested.
She walked over to Vhagar and gently placed a hand on the dragon's flank, feeling the heat radiate from her. "Keso va. (Thank you,)" she whispered in High Valyrian. "Aōha rēbagon iksan. (You were magnificent.)"
Vhagar let out a low, rumbling growl, but there was no hostility in it. The great dragon had accepted her.
Later
Laena raced through the stone corridors of High Tide, her footsteps echoing off the walls as she ran with abandon. Ghost padded behind her. The thrill of the sky still coursed through her veins—she had flown Vhagar.
She couldn't wait to tell her mother.
She imagined the look of pride on her mother's face, finally giving her a look of approval, finally smiling at her like they always did with Laenor, who was perhaps busy earning glory in the war and making their father proud. She would soon be there with them, fighting alongside Aenar.
"Mother!" Laena called, breathless. "You'll never believe it! I mounted Vhagar. I flew her—"
Her words faltered as soon as she entered her mother's chambers.
Her mother stood on the balcony, her back to Laena, gazing out at the darkening sea. Her posture was stiff, almost unnatural, and her hands gripped the railing as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Laena's heart stuttered. Something was wrong—terrible wrong.
"Mother?" Laena repeated, more quietly this time. She took a step forward, her joy dimming with each second of silence. "I... I flew Vhagar."
Still, her mother didn't turn, didn't respond. The sound of the sea was the only answer Laena received. And then she heard it—soft, muffled, but unmistakable. Her mother was crying. Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, unshakable and proud, was weeping.
Laena's chest tightened with a cold, creeping dread. She took another step forward, her eyes flicking to her hands. They trembled as they held a letter, its edges crumpled, the paper stained with tears.
Laena's heart began to pound. "Mother... what's happened? Is it Aenar?" Her voice quivered with fear, each word laced with panic. "Is he—?"
Rhaenys shook her head, but she still didn't turn. She couldn't. Her sobs broke through now, each one cutting through the room like a blade. Laena could feel her stomach churn.
"Mother, please," Laena begged, her voice cracking as she stepped closer. "What is it?"
Slowly, Rhaenys extended the letter toward her. Laena hesitated for a moment, her fingers hovering above the letter.
She took the letter, her hands shaking as she unfolded it. She read the letter, her heart beating faster, and the last words made her heart stop.
I'm sorry, my love. Our son is gone.
The letter slipped from Laena's fingers, falling silently to the floor. Her body froze, her mind numb as the words echoed through her like a nightmare she couldn't wake from. Laenor... gone?
"No..." Laena whispered, the word barely audible, her voice thick with disbelief. She shook her head, her legs suddenly weak beneath her. "No. It can't be."
Rhaenys finally turned to face her, her face streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen with grief. The sight of her mother—so strong, so fierce—brought Laena's world crashing down.
"He's gone," Rhaenys whispered, her voice breaking as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her daughter. "My boy... my sweet boy is gone."
Laena couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. The tears came fast, streaming down her face as she clung to her mother.
She and Laenor never had a good relationship; she hated him for always taking all the attention from their parents and being seen as nothing but the girl they would marry off to someone to give Laenor one more alliance and their last conversation. Laena had yelled at him and said that it was all his fault she didn't have a dragon, and because of him, her parents didn't care for her happiness.
"How?" Laena managed to choke out, her voice small and broken as she pulled back to look at her mother. "How did it happen?"
Rhaenys's lip trembled, her own tears still falling. "Wildfire," she said, her voice thick with pain. "There was an explosion... during the fighting in the Stepstones. Seasmoke... Laenor... they were both caught in it."
"We'll never see him again," Laena whispered, her voice raw. "He's gone... I will never hear him again. I can never tease him again." I can never apologize to him, she realized. At that moment, Laena had never felt more guilty.
Rhaenys pulled her daughter close again, holding her tightly. Laenor was gone.
If you want to Read 18 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Drinor Patreon' on Google and Click the First Patreon LINK