Prologue: The Price of Peace
The return to King's Landing was a procession of dragons that would go down in history. Aenar Targaryen led the aerial cortege, mounted on Zekrom, with Balerion looming like an ancestral shadow to his right. One by one, the dragons descended from the sky like living meteors, landing with murderous grace in the designated field outside the city walls - a space the Emperor preferred to the traditional pit, allowing his flying mountains to rest under the open sky they so loved.
As the dragons settled, emitting low rumbles of satisfaction, Aenar leaped from his saddle with an agility that defied his apparent age. His slitted purple eyes scanned the group of riders now gathering around him - his wife Gael, his children Galadriel and Uriel, Daeron, and the others, all united by the blood of the dragon and the fire they had brought to the Empire's enemies.
The royal carriages awaited, and Aenar shared his with Gael and his closest kin. The silence inside the vehicle was comfortable, the kind of quiet that exists only between those who share not just family bonds, but the weight of absolute power. Through the windows, he watched the streets of the capital - cleaner, more organized, but still carrying that unique energy only King's Landing possessed.
Upon arriving at the Red Keep, Aenar went directly to the Great Hall of the Iron Throne. The great throne of swords seemed to absorb the room's light, its twisted blades whispering stories of past conquests. When he sat, his gaze swept over the crowd of nobles and courtiers packed into the hall, their faces a mixture of admiration and fear.
"The rebels," his voice echoed, clean and clear, without needing effort, "who tried to tarnish the peace of our Empire, have been dealt with. Their allies in Essos have learned the lesson that Pentos should have learned long ago." He paused, letting the words echo in the minds of all present. "This is not a display of strength, but a commitment. The commitment of my family - our family - to the peace we have built."
He could see the fear in their eyes - a healthy, necessary fear. The kind of fear that kept empires united and traitors hesitant.
After dismissing the court with an elegant wave of his hand, Aenar summoned Viserys to accompany him. He found his Hand of the King in the conference room, where Rhaenyra, his mother, was adjusting the collar of Viserys's robes as if he were still the boy she'd raised. The scene made Aenar smile - even immortality couldn't protect a man from a mother's care.
"Viserys," Aenar greeted, as Rhaenyra finally released her "adult" son.
"Your Grace," Viserys replied, with a mixture of relief and embarrassment.
Aenar placed a hand on his Hand's shoulder. "Send a message to the Free Cities. Remind them that Westeros is a sovereign empire, and that any threat to our peace - no matter how small - will be answered not with diplomacy, but with dragonfire. Let this lesson not be forgotten soon."
In the Small Council chamber, the atmosphere was one of renewed efficiency. Aenar took his place at the head of the table, feeling the weight of the decisions that would shape the Empire's future. It was then that the hooded figure who served as the public face of the Master of Whisperers leaned forward.
To the surprise of some of the less experienced present, a feminine, melodious voice emerged from the shadows of the hood. "Gabriel and the other riders are already on their way back, Your Grace." The voice was clear and professional. "They fulfilled their functions with precision - only the mansions of the Magisters who supported the attack were targeted. Collateral damage was minimal."
Aenar nodded, his face impassive. The information was what he had expected - efficiency, precision, a calculated show of force, not mindless slaughter.
"Good," he said, his eyes scanning the table. "Now, let us turn to the other matters of the Empire. Peace has been defended with fire. Now, let us build it with wisdom."
The council began its work, but in the eyes of every member present, Aenar could see the same understanding: the world would remember this day. It would remember what happens when you challenge the Dragon.
Parte 1: Memories Under the Imperial Sun
POV: Rhaenyra Targaryen
The sight filled her with serene pride. From the balcony overlooking the main courtyard of the Red Keep, Rhaenyra watched her son Viserys walking alongside Aenar towards the Small Council chamber. Both shared the same imperial posture, their silver hair gleaming in the sun. Seeing Viserys - her only son - flourishing as a Prince of the Empire was a comfort she would never tire of appreciating.
Deciding to enjoy the morning, she made her way to the gardens with her retinue of ladies-in-waiting. Even after centuries, she still appreciated these small courtly rituals. However, upon entering the garden, she saw her mother Aemma sitting with Alicent Hightower. A slight irritation arose in Rhaenyra - she had never been able to approve of the influence Alicent maintained over her mother.
She joined the two, observing their black dresses that contrasted with the garden's vibrant colors. Her thoughts flew to Laenor, her beloved husband, whose absence still pained her even after all these years.
She then noticed Alicent's fixed gaze. It was intense, calculating, as if assessing every detail of her appearance.
"I know I'm beautiful, Alicent. No need to stare," said Rhaenyra, her voice soft but cutting.
Alicent smiled, a gesture that didn't reach her eyes. "Your beauty remains worthy of the title you carry, 'The Realm's Delight'." The provocation in her voice was subtle, but Rhaenyra knew that tone well. She chose not to respond, maintaining a serene expression.
Seeing she wouldn't get a reaction, Alicent chuckled softly before running her hand over Aemma's thigh in an exaggerated gesture of intimacy. Rhaenyra's irritation increased. Perhaps it was time to ask Aenar to put that serpent in her place again.
It was then that her mother called her, pulling her from her thoughts. "What were you thinking about, dear?"
"Just reminiscing about the past," Rhaenyra replied, smiling.
Aemma nodded. "It's normal to travel through memories."
Alicent then spoke, her tone soft but laden with meaning: "The past should be remembered and respected, but we must not live in it. The present is where life happens."
Rhaenyra nodded in agreement, but the goodwill was short-lived. Alicent took the opportunity to place her hand on her thigh, and Rhaenyra, reacting on instinct, tried to push it away with a swipe. However, Alicent was faster, removing her hand in time, causing Rhaenyra to hit her own thigh.
Alicent's laughter and that of the surrounding ladies made Syrax, her dragon, respond with a muffled roar from the pit. Aemma, trying to contain her laughter, said: "Calm down, dear."
Rhaenyra smiled, but her eyes promised revenge. If Aenar had to discipline Alicent again, so be it. This time, she would make sure the lesson was remembered.
Her mind then turned to Daemon, as always happened when she felt like this. She remembered when Aenar brought Daemon and Laena Velaryon back to King's Landing. Time was already beginning to mark Daemon, but he was still sharp as Valyrian steel. Aenar offered them eternal youth, but both refused. Daemon explained that he had lived a full life beside Laena and later with Lysara Rogare, and was ready to rest.
Aenar, respecting his decision, granted Daemon the honor of being the first name inscribed in the Book of Names. Rhaenyra smiled to herself, remembering that moment. Alicent could laugh and provoke, but she would never understand the depth of those memories.
Part 2: The Pillars of the Empire
POV: Viegon Targaryen — City of the Green Horn, Sothoryos
The humid, hot air of the Sothoryos port carried the scent of rare spices, exotic woods, and the sweat of the stevedores. Viegon Targaryen, once known as Viegon Velaryon, a descendant of Jofrey Velaryon, watched the loading of the ships with a critical eye. His decision to adopt the Targaryen name, inherited from his grandmother, was more than a tribute; it was an affirmation of his place as the Emperor's right hand on the savage continent. Every bundle heading to Westeros was a tribute to the Empire's might and the effectiveness of his rule.
Back in his castle, a fortress that stood as a bastion of civilization against the jungle's savagery, he met with his counselors. The reports were mixed. The harsh battles against the Tiger Men had yielded some tribes who, having surrendered, were accepted by the Emperor and now lived in a vast area to the northeast. However, remnant factions persisted in a futile resistance.
"The numbers of these fools have dwindled so much," said Viegon, his voice echoing in the stone hall, "and yet they insist on resisting." An internal conflict consumed him. He did not wish to be remembered as the man who exterminated an entire species, but the peace of the Empire was non-negotiable. Loyalty to Aenar spoke louder. "Increase the number of troops. Press them harder. Let this be the final campaign against them." He would do what was necessary, even if it stained his conscience, for the Empire.
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POV: Laenor Targaryen — Lys
From the balcony of his palace, Laenor Targaryen, grandson of Baelon and Alyssane Targaryen, watched the city of Lys in all its prosperity. His lineage, which traced back to the Rebel Prince himself, Daemon Targaryen, had governed the city in the Crown's name since its conquest. The air smelled of salt and night flowers, and the city's marble towers shimmered under the sun.
His gaze, however, settled on one of the great mansions in the distance, its walls visibly worn: the Rogare Manse. They were of their lineage, connected through Lysara Rogare, Daemon's first wife. Even so, they had dared to plot in the shadows to undermine his family and gradually replace him, aspiring to crown themselves Kings of Lys. The plot was uncovered by the Emperor's Master of Whisperers, and his grandfather Baelon had applied punishments so severe they came close to extinguishing their line, spared only out of respect for the memory of his mother.
"At least they learned their lesson," Laenor whispered to himself. The Rogare house, though stained, was slowly regaining its prestige. Looking up at the sky, he saw his dragon, Matarys, cutting through the clouds. The creature, with green scales and a form reminiscent of Caraxes, was known throughout Lys as "Matarys the Serpent." It was a living symbol of the Targaryen power that ruled the city.
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POV: Maron Martell — Sunspear, Dorne
In the Water Gardens he had built for his wife, Princess Daenerys Targaryen, Maron Martell was receiving emissaries from Pentos. He knew, however, that these men were actually agents from Myr. Their proposal was an invitation to treason: they asked Dorne to secretly revolt against the Iron Throne, promising to place one of his sons on the imperial throne in return.
Maron nodded, a diplomatic smile on his lips. "Dorne gives its word," he said, while watching the men's movements become slower and heavier, until, one by one, they fell unconscious, their poisoned wine glasses rolling on the marble floor.
As soon as the trap was sprung, Maron called his guards. "Get rid of these bodies. The desert is vast."
Shortly after, Daenerys joined him, her face a mix of curiosity and concern. "Who were they, my love?"
Maron wrapped an arm around her, looking at the serene gardens. "Just a few flies, my dear," he replied, his voice calm and firm. "Flies who thought they could fly under a dragon's wings."
The three rulers, on different continents, proved that the strength of the Targaryen Empire lay not only in the fire of its dragons but in the unshakable loyalty of those whom Aenar had chosen to govern in his name.
Part 3: The Saint and The Sovereign
POV: Maegelle Targaryen
The final benediction echoed through the vast, incense-heavy space of the Great Sept of Baelor, a monument to a pious relative whose self-imposed folly she privately lamented. As the last of the faithful dispersed, their faces filled with reverent peace, Maegelle, the Saint of the New Faith of the Seven, allowed her own serene mask to soften. She retreated to her private chambers within the sept, a sanctuary of quiet contemplation.
The moment the heavy oak door closed, the air shifted. Leaning against her desk, a figure of impossible power and presence, was Aenar, her brother and Emperor. Her heart, which had been beating a steady, holy rhythm, instantly stuttered into a frantic, pagan drum.
"Your Grace," she breathed, the formal title a flimsy shield as she dipped into a deep curtsy. She kept her head bowed, hiding the fierce blush that heated her cheeks, a traitorous warmth that spread down her neck. Merely being in his presence was a sacrament of its own, one that left her feeling profane and sanctified in equal measure. She could already feel a telltale dampness between her legs, a silent confession that her body offered before she could form a single word.
He pushed off the desk, his movements fluid and predatory. He didn't speak, but his silence was more commanding than any prayer. He walked past her, and for a heart-stopping moment, she thought he would leave. Then, his arms circled her from behind, pulling her back against the solid, unyielding wall of his chest. A small, helpless sound escaped her lips.
With that simple contact, the world remade itself. The stone floor beneath them seemed to shimmer, and the tapestry-adorned wall beside them dissolved, replaced by the familiar hangings of a lavish bedchamber. A great bed, which had not been there a second before, now dominated the center of the room. She was long accustomed to his reality-warping magic, a power that made him less a man and more a force of nature.
He turned her in his arms and guided her onto the soft silks of the bed. His large, powerful frame settled over her, caging her gently, blocking out the light from the enchanted window until her world consisted only of him—the scent of his skin, the intensity of his slitted purple eyes, and the overwhelming weight of his desire. His presence was a divine fire, and she, the faithful, was ready to burn.
She feels his member over their clothes. He lifts her dress to her waist and pulls his waist to his face. She stands upside down, being held by him. His hand goes to his head and guides her to his cock, which she soon puts all in her mouth. He also goes to her vagina. He begins to guide her head and move her waist and fuck her throat while one of his hands holds one of her buttocks and his mouth attacks her entrance. He fucks her mouth hard, with her saliva starting to run down the corners and dirty her entire face. He continues like this for a good few minutes until she has a strong orgasm in his mouth, and he soon comes down his throat. After that, he puts her on the bed and watches the damage he did to her. He laughs and asks if this is the saint of faith. She laughs and says that this is her sacred mission to relieve the libido of the vile emperor by sacrificing herself to Lara so he doesn't attack the good women of the kingdom. The Aenar then says, "Well, let's continue your sacrifice, saint." He soon puts his entire inside into her, his entire interior molded by him, so the fit is perfect. He wastes no time with gentleness and starts at maximum speed. The noise of their bodies meeting spreads and continues for hours, ending with a final grunt from the emperor who releases his last load inside her. He pulls out of her and her slit explodes its contents and continues to shoot jets into her body. He laughs and is satisfied with the sight of the great immaculate saint of the kingdom. He then cleans himself and gets dressed and says goodbye, even though I didn't think she was listening to anything now.
Epilogue: The End of the World and the Beginning of Everything
The air in Castle Oath, now the imposing seat of House Thenn, was cold and clean, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke. From the heights of the rebuilt and expanded walls, Aenar Targaryen looked north, towards the silent majesty of the new, the second Wall. It was a cyclopean construction, as tall and wide as the original, but imbued with Uriel's magical writing, runes that glowed softly with a bluish light in the perpetual twilight of these lands. Its completion was not just a feat of engineering; it was the final milestone of an era. The Night's Watch, with its few but faithful men, had been completely transferred to their new posts on the icy heights of the new fortification. Their vigil was now not against wildlings or Others, but against the silence and the absolute cold of the Lands of Eternal Winter, a vast whiteness that began on the other side. The original Wall, farther south, would remain as a monument, still manned, but its military purpose had ended.
Inside the castle's Great Hall, the heat was intense, emanating from a dozen enormous fireplaces. The banquet to celebrate the completion of the work was a gathering of peoples that, in any other age, would have been considered a nursemaid's tale. Aenar, the Emperor, was at the head of the high table, flanked by his wife, Gael, and his daughter and heir, Galadriel. Around him sat Northern Lords, with their serious faces and clothes of wool and fur; the Thenn, with their bronze and austere demeanors; representatives of the Raven-Folk; and, most notably, the non-humans.
Leaf, the leader of the Children of the Forest, sat to Aenar's right, her small stature hiding a millennia-old authority. Her large amber eyes reflected the flames.
"And the new rituals, Leaf?" asked Aenar, his voice low, but cutting through the noise of the hall with ease. "Are they being well received by your people?"
Leaf inclined her head, a gesture of immense respect. "Better than any of us could have dreamed, Emperor. Our numbers... have grown. Quadrupled since your son, Uriel, perfected the rites. The forest sings with more voices again." Her eyes shone with a rare emotion. "Our gratitude to you and to Prince Uriel is eternal."
Aenar smiled, a genuine gesture he rarely showed in public audiences. "It was nothing, old friend. A more numerous and stronger people only benefits the Empire. Your magics, your connection to the land... are pillars of what we have built."
His gaze then wandered down the table until it found Mog, the chief of the Giants. The colossal being was sitting on a reinforced bench in the corner of the hall, occupying the space of three men. Opposite him, Lord Umber, a vast and bearded man in his own right, was challenging the giant to a mead-drinking contest. Mog lifted an oak barrel as if it were a goblet, emptying it in a few powerful gulps, while Umber struggled to keep up with a human-sized tankard. The giant emitted a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh, shaking his head with amused condescension when Umber, red and panting, gave up. Aenar chuckled softly, a deep sound of genuine amusement. It was in these small triumphs of coexistence that he saw the true victory of his empire.
Hours later, the banquet had ended. The hall was quieter, with only the servants clearing away the remnants of the feast. Aenar, Gael, and Galadriel withdrew to the Lord's chambers, a spacious suite with walls of black stone and heavy tapestries that retained the heat. A fireplace crackled, casting dancing shadows around the room.
Gael let out a sigh, removing the fur cloak she wore. "It was a historic day, my love. The last Wall is complete. The known world is, finally, fully mapped and protected."
Galadriel, ever practical, asked as she poured herself a cup of wine: "And the original Wall? What will become of it?"
Aenar went to the window, looking south, in the direction of the ancient barrier. "It will not fall into disuse. It will be maintained, manned by a symbolic garrison. It is a monument to our history, a reminder of where we began. And it is strategically wise to never completely abandon a fortification."
Gael approached him from behind, wrapping her arms around him and resting her face against his back. "And now? What is the next step for the Empire? What remains for a man who has tamed the world?"
Aenar turned within her embrace, his slitted purple eyes meeting hers, and then Galadriel's. An ambitious, almost voracious smile touched his lips. "The next step, my beloveds, is to continue the mission I gave to Corys, the explorer, so many generations ago. Gabriel will lead it. There are more worlds beyond this one. More lands beyond the Sunset Sea, more secrets hidden in the stars. The Targaryen Empire is not just a dominion over one continent. It is a legacy that must extend to where imagination reaches. Conquest never ends; it merely changes form."
The declaration hung in the air, laden with infinite possibilities. The silence that followed was not one of discomfort, but of shared understanding. The look the three people in the room exchanged was dense with an intimate history and a desire that went beyond simple political ambition.
Gael was the first to move. Her fingers went up to the brooch that held Aenar's robe, a dragon of onyx and ruby. With a skillful movement, she unfastened it. The Emperor's heavy black tunic fell open, revealing his pale torso marked by old scars beneath. Her eyes did not leave Aenar's, challenging him, inviting him.
Galadriel, seeing her mother's gesture, set her wine cup aside. Her own gaze, usually so calculating and controlled, was now clouded with a different intensity. She approached from the opposite side, her hands finding the leather and Valyrian steel belt of Aenar. There were no words. None were needed. The language they shared in that privacy was older and more eloquent.
Aenar allowed their hands to work. He raised his arms as Gael pulled the tunic back, letting it fall to the floor. Galadriel undid the belt, followed by the inner garments, until he stood before them, naked, his imposing and powerful figure illuminated by the fire. He was not a young man, but his body was that of a warrior in his prime, every muscle defined by the eternal youth he possessed, a tapestry of pure power.
Then, it was their clothes. Gael, with serene grace, undressed, her silver skin shining like the moon. Galadriel did so with practical efficiency, folding her garments before setting them aside, her own nudity an affirmation of strength and confidence. The two women, mother and daughter, closed in on him, their hands finding his skin, exploring the broad back, the strong chest, the powerful arms.
Aenar led them to the great bed, pushing back the heavy fur covers with a gesture. He lay down first, his presence dominating the bed. Gael lay on one side, nestling against him, her head on his shoulder, one leg entwined with his. Her scent, of jasmine and something uniquely her, filled his nostrils. On the other side, Galadriel positioned herself, her more angular body molding against his flank, her breasts pressed against his arm, her warm breath on his neck.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, in a silence broken only by the crackling fire and their synchronized breathing. It was a moment of possession, of acknowledgment. Then, the hands began to move again. Gael kissed his shoulder, her soft lips tracing a path to his neck. Her hand moved down his chest, down his belly, finding him with a firm and knowing pressure that made his abdominal muscles contract. A low grunt escaped Aenar.
Galadriel, meanwhile, was no less bold. Her mouth found his in a deep, possessive kiss, her tongue invading without ceremony. Her hand, rough from holding reins and wielding swords, gripped his hip, pulling him closer to her, her fingers digging into the flesh. Their duality was intoxicating: Gael's serene devotion and Galadriel's fierce passion.
Aenar, for his part, was not a passive participant. His hands, which could contain the power of dragons and shape reality, now explored the bodies of the two women with a mixture of possessiveness and adoration. One of his hands buried itself in Gael's silver hair, pulling her head back gently so he could capture her lips in a kiss that was both gratitude and affirmation of possession. The other hand traced the curve of Galadriel's back, down to the firmness of her buttocks, squeezing with a strength that made her moan against his mouth.
The dynamic in the bed was a perfect reflection of his rule: a balance of power, affection, and a deep, unquestionable desire that bound it all together. There was no jealousy, only a complete acceptance of the unique arrangement that defined their lives. The moans that began to fill the room were not of shame, but of triumph. They were the sounds of the world's most powerful family reaffirming the bonds that held it together, bonds forged not only in blood and fire, but in flesh and pleasure.
The scene that followed was a dance choreographed by the intimacy of centuries. It was Gael guiding Aenar's hand to where she most desired it, a breathless whisper in his ear. It was Galadriel taking the lead, riding his thigh with a determined rhythm, her purple eyes fixed on his, challenging him to follow her. It was Aenar, the emperor, the god among men, surrendering to the power that only these two women held over him, turning with them, their bodies entwined under the furs, a mass of pale limbs, silver hair, and ragged breath.
The climax, when it came, was not a noisy explosion, but a silent, expansive wave of released heat and tension. A prolonged sigh from Gael, a muffled, deep moan from Galadriel against his chest, and a low, satisfied roar from the depths of Aenar's throat. The air in the room seemed to pause, charged with the released energy.
And then, silence. A heavy, peaceful, and complete silence.
They lay entwined in the bed, the three bodies forming a single unit under the furs. The fireplace was the only witness, its flames now lower. Gael's head rested on Aenar's chest, her ear over his heart, which still beat at a rapid pace. Galadriel lay on her back beside him, an arm thrown over his belly, her eyes closed, a rare, serene smile touching her lips.
Aenar looked at the stone ceiling, feeling the satisfied weight of his women upon him. Outside the castle walls, an empire stretched, pacified, unified, prosperous. Beyond the new Wall, the Eternal Winter waited, tamed and watched. And in the comfort of his bed, he had the two pillars of his life, his queen and his heir, united with him in the most fundamental way possible.
The future was a promise of even greater conquests, of unknown worlds. But in that moment, at the end of the known world, Aenar Targaryen, the Dragon Emperor, had everything he needed. The conquest could wait. Tomorrow would come. But the peace of that night, sealed by shared warmth and the complex, unshakable love of his family, was a victory in itself. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, he did not dream of empires or conquests, but only of the perfect quiet of the now.
Well, everyone, this is today's chapter. It's a conclusion to the past. Now I find myself in a dilemma. I wanted to move on to the events before Robert Durandé's rebellion, the reign of the Mad King. What do you think?