The year 56 AC arrived with a deathly chill that had nothing to do with the seasons. In the Red Keep, in the fortress she had helped build, the last of the three Conquerors lay dying.
Visenya Targaryen, the Queen Dowager, the wielder of Dark Sister, and the pragmatic, ruthless heart of the Targaryen dynasty, was on her deathbed.
Her chambers, always severe and militaristic, were now heavy with the scent of milk of the poppy and the oppressive silence of an era ending. Dark Sister was propped against the bedpost, still within her reach, as if she expected to fight death itself.
The entire royal line of House Targaryen was gathered near her bed, a silent, powerful assembly of silver hair and violet eyes.
King Aenys I Targaryen stood closest, his gentle features hardened by 15 years of rule, his grief visible. Beside him, his wife, Queen Alyssa Velaryon, held his hand tightly.
Behind them stood their legacy: their six offspring. They were all young adults now, ranging in age from their late teens to their mid-twenties. They were the first generation born to the purple, and their Valyrian blood ran strong.
At their head stood Prince Aegon, the heir to the Iron Throne, a man grown, possessing his father's sensitivity but his grandmother's sharp intellect.
Beside King Aenys stood his half-brother, Prince Maegor. Maegor was a mountain of a man, his presence a palpable force of suppressed violence and power. His wife, Ceryse Hightower, stood slightly behind him, her gaze as sharp and calculating as his.
Their own children, three offspring—all now over the age of sixteen—stood with them. They were reflections of their father: strong, intimidating, and radiating the dark magic Visenya had spent the last 15 years drilling into them.
The bridge between the two families, and the symbol of the dynasty's future, was the political marriage that bound them. Prince Aegon, Aenys's heir, was married to Maegor's formidable eldest daughter, Princess Rhaena. They stood together, a matched pair of Valyrian power.
This new generation, all ten of them, were not just princes and princesses. They were Visenya's true weapons. They had been raised on the Valyrian texts, mastering the Fire Magic and Wind Magic. The eggs he brought back had hatched with an awakening ritual, and this new generation had dragons of their own, bonded and growing.
Visenya's clouded eyes opened, the spark within them still burning with a cold fire. She bypassed Aenys, her gaze locking onto Maegor.
"He was a fool... to go himself," she rasped, her voice a dry rustle of leaves. "But he brought... the knowledge."
Her eyes scanned the room, landing on the nine young faces of her grandchildren and Maegor's children. "You... are the true dragons. Not just... the riders. The fire... is in your blood."
She looked back at her two sons, the King and the Prince. "Aegon... was bound by a contract. I... was bound by the same damned contract."
Her gaze sharpened, a final, terrible command. "I... am the last. When I die... the oath dies with me."
A faint, grim smile touched her lips. "Good luck... on your future endeavors."
With that final, chilling benediction, Visenya Targaryen, the warrior queen, closed her eyes and let go.
Aenys wept silently. Maegor merely closed his eyes, his massive hands clenching into fists at his side. The new generation remained perfectly still, their expressions unreadable, their training complete.
After the silent vigil, Visenya's body was prepared according to Valyrian custom. She was transported to Dragonstone, the island of their birth and their beginning.
There, after cremation with dragon fire, she was laid to rest beside Aegon's tomb. His sarcophagus was a monument not just to the man, but to his legacy, containing his personal crown, his personal belongings, and other artifacts he had deemed too personal.
With Visenya interred, the final link to the original Conquest was severed.
The ravens flew. The news of Visenya Targaryen's death spread throughout the realm like wildfire.
In the South, the lords felt a tremor of fear. In Dorne, Princess Deria and her heir Nymeria told their banners to prepare for the imminent, knowing what this meant.
But in the North, the reaction was immediate and absolute.
When the raven arrived at Winterfell, King Torrhen Stark, now an old, grey-bearded wolf, read the message. He looked out the window, toward the south, his gaze cold.
"It is done," he said to his son, Edric, who stood beside him. "The waiting is over."
He turned to his aides. "Send letters to every keep in the North. To White Harbor, to the Dreadfort, to Karhold, and Last Hearth. To every bannerman, large and small."
The message was simple, stark, and chilling:
"The last of the original dragon riders is dead. The contract is void. The peace is broken. Prepare for war. It can knock on our door anytime soon."
The entire North, which had been preparing for this day for 15 years, began its final mobilization. The forge at Winterfell began churning out rune-enhanced steel 24 hours a day.
The realm stopped breathing. Every farmer, every merchant, every lord and peasant knew what was coming.
In King's Landing, King Aenys I Targaryen finally, fully, stepped into his father's role. He was no longer the cautious prince overshadowed by his mother; he was the King of the Iron Throne, backed by his formidable brother, nine magically trained children, and a new flight of dragons.
He sent a decree, the royal seal affixed.
"I am sending letters to every Lord Paramount. You have two years to gather your levies, muster your supplies, and prepare your armies."
His gaze swept the room, daring any of them to object.
"In two years, the full might of the Six Kingdoms, augmented by the dragonfire of Old Valyria, will march. We will finish what my father started."
(A/n: Westerlands, Vale, Riverlands, Crownlands, Reach, Stormlands)
"We march north to break the ice, and we march south to burn the sand. The North and Dorne will be conquered. There will be one realm, one king."
The great war, delayed for nearly half a century by Alaric Stark's power and Visenya's pragmatism, had finally begun.