Chapter 78: The Father-in-Law and the Dragon's Wrath
The finest rooms of the Celtigar keep were a stark contrast to the rough stone and wind-swept halls of Myrosh, but Maegor paid little mind to the luxury. He ate with a ravenous hunger, his long flight across the sea having drained him completely. He listened as Lord Ardrian spoke of the currents of the Crownlands, of the Lannisters' tightening grip, and of the rising tide of discontent. He learned that the Lord of Claw Isle had, with his son's and daughter's departure to Essos, quietly begun stockpiling weapons and drilling men, awaiting the inevitable call. He was a loyal vassal, now more than ever.
After a few hours of rest, Maegor felt his strength return. The exhaustion from the flight was gone, replaced by the relentless, burning purpose that drove him. He stood with Lord Ardrian in the courtyard, Balerion a terrifying, living mountain in the nearby field.
"Lord Ardrian," Maegor began, his voice imbued with a quiet, yet profound, power. "Your daughter, Malora. She is with child. My child."
Ardrian, a proud and stoic man, felt a jolt of shock, then a surge of unbridled pride. His daughter, a mistress to the Dragon King. A grandchild with true Targaryen blood. He was no longer just a vassal; his blood was now a part of the royal lineage, a permanent claim to power. "My King," Ardrian said, dropping to one knee, a profound awe in his voice, "this is an honor beyond measure. She is a brave and loyal girl. I will raise my grandchild's banner with pride."
"Indeed," Maegor affirmed, a cold, satisfied smile on his face. "You will be the grandfather of a dragon, Lord Ardrian. The father of a bloodline that will serve as the eyes and claws of the throne. Your loyalty will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams."
He then looked at Ardrian, his gaze hardening. "I must leave now. My business in the North is of the utmost urgency. But when I return, Lord Ardrian, I expect you to be prepared. When the Dragon lands on Claw Isle again, it will be a signal for war. Raise your banners. Call your levies. Let your men stand ready to march on King's Landing. And know that I expect you to still be alive, and in good health, when that time comes. For you are a crucial piece of this conquest. Farewell… father-in-law."
The use of the familial term, audacious and unexpected, cemented Ardrian's loyalty like nothing else could. He bowed, a fervent, unshakeable devotion in his eyes, as Maegor strode towards Balerion.
Maegor mounted the great beast, the dragon's massive form launching with a roar that echoed across the island and out to sea. With a few powerful beats of his wings, Balerion soared into the sky, banking north, leaving the awe-struck men of Claw Isle in his wake.
The journey north was long, but Balerion was a force of nature. He flew with a relentless, tireless grace, his wings eating up the miles. They crossed the Crownlands, then the Riverlands, a landscape scarred and broken by years of war, a testament to the chaos his House's fall had unleashed. Maegor saw burnt villages, shattered keeps, and the grim, skeletal remains of long-dead armies. It fueled his cold fury, his resolve to bring order back to this broken land.
Finally, they reached the narrow stretch of land that was the Neck, the natural choke-point between the Riverlands and the North. A vast, sprawling army, banners of lions and stags, of knights from the Crownlands and soldiers from the Westerlands, was encamped, preparing for a final, decisive push north. They were Cersei Lannister's men, seeking to crush Jon Snow's rebellion before it could truly begin.
Maegor's eyes narrowed. This was it. The first test. The first challenge.
He did not hesitate. He did not need to.
He looked down at the vast, unsuspecting army. He then leaned forward, his voice a low, fierce growl, the ancient tongue of his ancestors ringing out in a command of ultimate power.
"Dracarys!"
Balerion's massive jaws opened. A torrent of liquid fire, a river of searing heat, erupted from his throat, a column of pure destruction that arced down towards the encamped forces. The fire struck the center of the army, not just burning but utterly vaporizing everything it touched. Men, horses, tents, banners – all dissolved in an instant. The stone of their watchtowers glowed red and then melted, their very forms flowing into a river of molten rock. Screams, a hundred thousand voices of terror and agony, rose in a horrifying symphony, before being silenced by the sheer, overwhelming power of the dragonfire.
Maegor watched with a cold, detached fury. This was not a conquest; it was a message. A brutal, unambiguous declaration. The Army of Westeros, which had hoped to invade the North, was no more.
With his purpose complete, Maegor commanded Balerion to bank, to fly high above the smoke and the screams, to continue his journey north, his course set for Winterfell. A king was waiting for him there. And a family was about to be reunited.