Prologue
The salty wind of the Narrow Sea whipped the low hill where Aenar Targaryen, Emperor of Westeros, Lord of the Continent, and Shield of the Dawn, stood leaning. He was not in King's Landing, nor in the Red Keep, nor in any of his sumptuous castles. He was in the Stepstones, on those treacherous and barren islands that served as a stage for the lesser ambitions of men. A hill of rough stone and weeds was his throne, from where he watched the army of the Golden Company form up in the valley below.
It was almost comical. After having killed Daemon Truefyre at the Field of Fire in Grass, and later his brother Aegor "Bittersteel" Rivers, he thought the farce of the Truefyre Rebellions had ended forever. He had crushed their gilded dream with dragon and steel, incinerated their pretension to ashes. And for a time, it worked. There wasn't a Blackfyre bold enough to raise the banner for generations. Until this one. Maelys the Monstrous. The man who killed his own cousin to command the Golden Company. Aenar almost felt he should congratulate his ancestors for managing to hide from his wrath for so long. Their lineage was tenacious; he gave them that much credit.
But the emotion that prevailed in his chest was not concern. It was a deep, bony boredom that seemed to numb his bones. Peace was a heavy burden for a man forged in conquest. Administering the empire was a series of petty problems and tribal disputes that his Three Lords could solve in the blink of an eye. He yearned for the smell of blood and smoke, for the salty taste of sweat on his lip, for the simple, brutal dance of war.
That was why he had allowed this rebellion to gain momentum. That was why he had not brought any of his dragons to Essos. He left them in Westeros, under the plausible excuse of protecting the continent from any retaliation or audacity from the Exiles. The truth was that dragons made war a short, one-sided spectacle. And he wanted to see the spectacle. He wanted to see if the seeds he knew were there would germinate as he had foreseen. He wondered if the friendship between young Rickard Stark and the older Jon Arryn, which would likely begin here in the heat of battle, would still blossom into that Robert's Rebellion he envisioned in his more cynical musings. It was a doubtful bet, the future was a river of countless tributaries, but it was a possibility worth observing.
The sun, pale and distant, reflected off the helms and spear tips below. A sea of men, hardened mercenaries, all following a monster who called himself a king. Aenar let out a muffled sigh. The play was about to begin.
He wore dull, grey armor, without insignias, without dragons. Just functional Valyrian steel. Blackfyre, his sword, rested unsheathed against his thigh, absorbing the faint light as if it were a piece of solidified night. He didn't need a banner. His presence, even alone on that hill, was a beacon of authority that everyone on the field felt, a pressure in the air, a weight on the soul.
The warhorn sounded, a hoarse bellow that echoed across the islands, and the battle began. It was a clash of brute force, a calculated massacre. The knights of Westeros, eager for glory after years of peace, charged against the lines of the Golden Company. The crash of metal on metal, the screams of men, and the whinnying of horses formed a chaotic symphony that, for a brief moment, dispelled Aenar's boredom.
He watched, his purple eyes narrowed, as the conflict unfolded. He saw the "glorified bastard," Maelys, a man with a stunted, whispering second face growing from his neck, trying to advance toward him. It was a repulsive, yet powerful sight. Several Golden Company men, seeing their leader aiming for the hill, tried to cut their way through to reach the Emperor. They were veterans, the best fighters in Essos.
The first to reach the base of the hill was a huge man with a battle-axe. Aenar didn't even look at him. As the mercenary raised his weapon to strike, Blackfyre moved like a shadow. A single, fluid lateral movement. The man stopped, his eyes wide with disbelief, before his upper torso slid away from his lower half, guts slipping onto the dry stone with a wet sound.
Two others came together, one with a longsword, the other with a spear. Aenar took a step forward, avoiding the spear thrust with a minimal tilt of his torso. His blade sang, cutting the oak lance in half before finding the lancer's neck. As the man fell, choking on his own blood, Aenar pivoted on his heels, and the second man's sword shattered in two trying to block Blackfyre's swing, which continued its trajectory to bury itself deep in the mercenary's chest. It was as easy as breathing. And about as interesting as watching grass grow.
Then, he saw what he had been waiting for. A young knight, his plate armor still unmarred by battle, broke away from the fray. He moved with impressive grace and speed, his face hidden under a closed helm, but his determination was a visible flame even at a distance. He faced the monstrous mass of Maelys.
The duel that followed was worthy of the songs the bards would surely sing for decades. Maelys was a force of nature, brutal and crushing, every blow of his capable of cleaving a man in two. The young knight was the opposite: fast, precise, a whirlwind of polished steel. He danced around the monster, his sword an extension of his will, finding gaps in Maelys's heavy defense. Steel against steel, strength against technique, darkness against light. The entire battle seemed to stop and watch.
Aenar watched, a genuine interest finally kindling in his eyes. This was art. This was legendary. And it ended abruptly and lethally. In a move that mixed audacity and luck, the young knight launched himself inside the reach of Maelys's powerful arms, risking being crushed, and drove the point of his sword into the monster's neck, right below the whispering face. Maelys froze, a muffled roar escaping his two sets of lips, before toppling backward like a felled tower, hitting the ground with a thud that seemed to shake the very islands.
The male Truefyre line was extinct. At least for now. History had its tricks.
Aenar descended the hill, his steps calm and measured on the stone. The fighting around him had died down, the Golden Company's morale broken with the death of their king. He approached the young knight, who, panting, was removing his helm, revealing a serious, honorable face with blond hair soaked in sweat.
"What a magnificent duel," said Aenar, a low, genuine laugh escaping his lips. The sound was strange on the field of death. "A tale to tell your grandchildren. What is the name of the knight who provided me with such entertainment?"
The young man knelt, his head bowed. "Ser Barristan Selmy, Your Grace."
"Selmy," Aenar repeated, storing the name. "Rise, Ser Barristan the Monsterslayer. The Empire will remember you this day."
He then looked at the remnants of the enemy army, retreating in disorder toward their ships. A cold smile touched his lips. The fun was over. Now, it was time for the message. He had amused himself enough with the little rebellion. It was time to remind Essos that the patience of Westeros, and particularly his, had limits. After the Long Night, he would bring a taste of that "freedom" to these chaotic lands.
The lords and knights of Westeros looked at him, confused. Why didn't the Emperor order a pursuit? Why did he just watch the enemy flee? They were thirsty for a complete victory, to annihilate what remained of the Golden Company.
Then, the sun disappeared.
It wasn't an eclipse. It was a shadow. A vastness of scales, leathern wings, and pure terror that completely blocked out the sun. A deathly silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the wind and the creaking of armor from men who instinctively crouched. Eyes turned to the sky, and the shadow of the Black Dread filled their sight.
Balerion. The very one. The one Aenar had told to stay behind. But a dragon is not a dog to be contained by orders when it smells blood and its bond with its rider calls it.
And then, the flames descended. They were not orange or red. They were black, a fire of shadow and pure hatred that did not illuminate, but rather absorbed the light. They fell upon the coast, where the Exiles were running for their ships. There were no screams. The fire was so consuming it vaporized men, armor, and ships in an instant. The wood did not burn; it turned to dust. The metal did not melt; it simply vanished. The beach was scoured, leaving behind a surface of black, smoking glass where an army had once been. The famous Ninepenny Kings of the Golden Company – now eight, with Maelys dead – ceased to exist, their ambitions, their stories, their lives, erased in a breath from the world's most fearsome beast.
Aenar turned his back to the still-smoking coast and the dragon now circling high in the sky, a satisfied, vengeful god.
"Return to camp," he ordered, his voice clear and calm cutting through the mute terror that had gripped his men. "The battle is over."
As his commanders began to move, slowly, still in a state of shock, Aenar let his gaze sweep the ranks. He saw the great players, the faces that would shape the coming decades. There were the young Tywin Lannister and Steffon Baratheon, side by side, their faces pale but filled with a fierce determination. And with them, Aerys Targaryen, his distant relative, a magnificent prince on his silver horse and splendid armor. But Aenar could see it. Deep in Aerys's vibrant eyes, behind the gleam of victory, was a flicker of something... unhinged. A spark of a madness that absolute power could one day feed.
And in the distance, he saw Jon Arryn, the Lord of the Vale, helping a young man with a long face and dark hair, Rickard Stark, to his feet from a pile of bodies. The friendship being born there, on the battlefield, as he had hoped. An alliance between the North and the Vale. It was an interesting thread in the great tapestry of fate.
A nearly imperceptible smile touched Aenar Targaryen's lips as he walked back to his tent. The boredom had dissipated. The Blackfyre Rebellion was over, yes. But the fun, he felt, was just beginning. The pieces were on the board. Now, it was just a matter of watching the game.
Part1
A quiet satisfaction settled over Aenar Targaryen as he watched from the royal box, high above the sprawling tournament grounds of King's Landing. The air thrummed with the energy of the crowd, the clash of steel, and the triumphant blare of heralds' trumpets. This was more than a celebration of a crushed rebellion; it was the living, breathing proof of a spiritual victory decades in the making. Below, the finalists for the grand melee received their accolades. But it was the ceremony beforehand that had truly cemented the new era. One by one, the finest warriors of the empire knelt, not before a septon of the Seven, nor a priest of R'hllor, nor a greenseer of the Old Gods, but before a united tribunal of all three. They were anointed with oils, blessed by fire, and sworn upon the ancient weirwoods, all under the watchful eye of the Three Gods—a seamless fusion of faiths that had once been bitterly divided. The masterful plans of his sister Maegelle and the Red Priestess Kinvara had reached their ultimate, perfect fruition. The realm was truly one in spirit.
His attention was captured by the final, earth-shattering duel that had just concluded. The dust was still settling in the center of the field where two combatants stood as testaments to the empire's vast and varied strength. On one side was the young Rickard Stark of Winterfell, holding his House's ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword, Ice. His breath was still labored, but his gaze was steady and focused. On his right arm, the sleeve of his tunic was shredded, revealing limb that was no longer entirely human. The skin was thick and grey, rippling with bestial muscle, and his fingers ended in sharp, black claws. The transformation, triggered by the runic magic his son Uriel had woven into the sword and the ancient blood of the North, had crawled up to his shoulder and touched part of his jaw, giving his face a fearsome, asymmetrical cast. It was not a shocking surprise, but a known, if terrifying, aspect of the sword's enhanced power.
Before him, bent but unbroken, stood Nuk Tar, the great leader of the Tiger Men of Sothoryos. A colossus of two meters and ten centimeters, his bronzed skin was marked by dark stripes, and his prominent lower canines rested on his upper lip. The great double axe he had wielded with such fury now lay on the ground, notched and scarred by Ice's supernatural blade. A deep, precise gash bled on his chest, but he remained standing, his dignity untouched by defeat.
The battle had been ferocious. Nuk Tar was brute force incarnate, every swing of his axe meant to shatter both man and sword. Rickard, in turn, had used agility and speed, dodging and blocking, until the overwhelming power of the Sothoryosi warrior forced a decisive move. The low, bestial stance—a hand on the ground like a wolf, the other gripping Ice—and the subsequent transformation had granted him the superhuman speed and power to parry the final blow and counter-attack. The roar that had torn from Rickard's throat was not entirely human as his blade found its mark.
The arena, which had been in a collective silence, now erupted in a thunderous ovation. It had been a battle worthy of legend.
Aenar rose. His simple movement was enough to quiet the crowd. He descended to the arena, his dark robes contrasting with the pale dust of the field. He addressed Nuk Tar first, speaking in the harsh, consonant-rich language of Sothoryos, a gesture that did not go unnoticed and echoed with respect among the present lords.
"You were a worthy opponent, Nuk Tar," Aenar said, his voice carrying authority, but also recognition. "Your strength will be sung of in our halls and, no doubt, in yours. The bravery of the Tiger Men is a treasure to the Empire." He signaled for the maesters, who approached to tend to the giant's wound.
He then turned to Rickard Stark. The young Northerner stood firm, his transformed arm hanging powerfully at his side. There was no shock or fear in his eyes, only the grim acceptance of the power he wielded.
"The North has never had a fiercer defender, Lord Rickard," declared Aenar, his purple gaze sweeping over the young man and the sword he held. "The blood of the Wolf proves, once more, to be our land's greatest strength. The magic your brother placed within Ice answers your call. You have mastered it well." Rickard gave a single, sharp nod, a gesture of understanding between them regarding the power Uriel had helped unlock.
The night brought the feast in the Great Hall, and it was a spectacle to warm any ruler's heart. Unity was no longer a concept, but a loud, vibrant reality. Aenar, seated on his high throne at the main table, observed the scene with an analytical and satisfied gaze.
In the noisiest corner, the Lords Umber, faces already flushed and voices booming, were challenging Nuk Tar—whose wounds had been treated and sealed—to a new battle, this time of drink. The Sothoryosi giant, impassive, drained tankard after tankard of strong mead, while the Umbers fell one by one under the table, defeated by the warrior's superhuman tolerance.
Not far away, the young Rickard Stark, whose energy had been drained by the duel and the transformation, was slumped over the table, completely unconscious. To the surprise of many, it was the Dornish lords—of a temperament normally so opposite to the Northerners—who aided him, laughing as they carried him to a more comfortable seat where a Dornish girl awaited with water and fruit for when he woke. It was a powerful image: ice and fire, united not by obligation, but by mutual respect earned on the battlefield.
Aenar saw his eldest son and heir, Gabriel Targaryen, his imposing figure surrounded by his wife, Cassandra Baratheon, and her father, Steffon Baratheon. They laughed and conversed with representatives of the People of the Sun and the Serpent, their colorful robes and gold adornments shining in the torchlight. His second child, his firstborn son Uriel, the architect of the magical runes that fortified the kingdom, was across the hall. The cunning Tywin Lannister, still young but already with an aura of calculative power, was in deep conversation with Prince Aerys. The Targaryen blood vibrated in Aerys, but Aenar could see the spark of an almost feverish intensity in his eyes, a brilliance that promised both greatness and ruin. Uriel's wife, Lorena Lannister, was with them, weaving the ties between the Crown and the West even tighter.
It was a perfect tapestry. All the threads of the realm—North, South, Reach, Rock, Dorne, and even distant lands like Sothoryos—were intertwined before him.
It was then that Aenar rose.
He did not need to raise his voice or strike anything. An immediate and respectful silence fell over the Great Hall, as heavy and absolute as the thickest velvet. Every eye turned to him, every breath was held. It was the silence that only genuine and uncontested authority could command.
"My lords! My ladies! Knights and allies of the Great Empire!" His voice, calm yet projected to every corner, filled the void. "Today, we celebrate not only a military victory, but the triumph of an idea. The idea that different peoples, different beliefs, different bloods can unite under one banner, forging a whole stronger than its individual parts. The Truefyre Rebellion was the last gasp of an era of discord. What we have built since is an era of unity."
He spoke of the bravery of all men, the sacrifice of those who fell, and the peace their blood had purchased. Then his tone shifted, becoming more personal, more directed.
"But some acts of bravery shine even on the brightest field. And the deeds of one man can change the course of a war before the armies even clash." His purple eyes scanned the room until they landed on a young man with blond hair and a serious face. "Ser Barristan Selmy. Step forward."
A path opened in the crowd. Barristan, wearing his finest tunic but no armor, walked to the space before the throne and knelt, his head bowed.
"Ser Barristan," Aenar continued, his voice now laden with solemn weight. "By your deeds on the Stepstones, in facing and slaying Maelys the Monstrous, you spared the realm a prolonged war and countless deaths. A singular act of courage that will not be forgotten for as long as men sing songs of valor. By law and tradition, you are entitled to a boon. Ask, then. What does Ser Barristan Selmy desire?"
Barristan raised his head, his clear eyes meeting the Emperor's without hesitation. In them, there was no ambition for lands or gold, only a deep and unshakable conviction.
"Your Grace," his voice was clear and firm, echoing in the silent hall. "I desire no lands, no titles, no riches. The only wish of my heart is to dedicate every day that remains to me, from this one until my last, to the protection of Your Grace and the royal family. I ask for the highest honor a knight can aspire to: to wear the white cloak and swear the sacred vows of the Kingsguard."
Aenar smiled, a slight gesture that illuminated his austere face. It was the answer he had expected. He turned and made an almost imperceptible gesture.
"Lord Commander Gerold," he called.
From among the lords, Ser Gerold of Driftmark, a man of House Targaryen and the current Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward. His bearing was erect, his face marked by experience, and in his hands he carried the symbols of the most solemn oath: a heavy, immaculate cloak of white wool, and a set of polished, white-enameled plate armor, inlaid with silver, carried by a squire behind him.
"Let the oath be made," Aenar commanded, his voice resonating with authority.
Lord Commander Gerold positioned himself before the kneeling Barristan. He drew his longsword and held it horizontally, presenting the grip and the blade.
"Place your hand upon the steel, Ser Barristan," instructed the Lord Commander, "and repeat after me."
Barristan extended his right hand, resting it on the cold steel. The silence in the hall was so profound one could hear the torches crackle. Then, Ser Gerold's voice rang out, reciting the ancient, immutable words, the vows that defined a life of service and renunciation:
"I, Barristan of House Selmy, do hereby swear...
To defend the King and the royal family with my own life, from this day until my last.
To hold no lands, father no children, and wear no crown.
To live and die at my post, the shield of the realm.
To render my judgments justly and protect the innocent.
To be the steel in the shadows, the guard that never sleeps.
I pledge my life and honor to the Kingsguard, for this night and all the nights to come."
Barristan's voice repeated each phrase with a clarity and conviction that silenced any doubt about his sincerity. He did not just say the words; he absorbed them, making them his new truth.
When the echo of the final "come" faded, Lord Commander Gerold lowered the sword. He then took the white cloak and, with a solemn movement, placed it over Barristan's shoulders, fastening it with a silver clasp. He then took the white armor from his squire and presented it to Barristan.
"Wear this cloak and this armor with honor, Ser Barristan of the Kingsguard," Gerold said. "Let their purity reflect your service."
Aenar contemplated the scene: the young knight on his knees, now cloaked and armored in the white of his new order, the veteran Lord Commander at his side. He saw the approval in the eyes of the lords, the respect in the eyes of the other knights. It was more than a new member for the Kingsguard; it was the personification of his reign—merit recognized, loyalty rewarded, and the kingdom, unified and safe, protected by the best of his generation.
"Rise, Ser Barristan of the Kingsguard," said Aenar, his voice full of a genuine emotion. "And take your place among the shields of the empire."
And as Barristan rose, his face a mask of solemn determination under the white cloak and armor, Aenar knew that this night, like the tournament and the unification of the faiths, was another perfect chapter in the history he was forging for the Targaryens. The peace, he felt, would be vigorously defended.
Interlude: The Leon and the Lioness
The banquet in the Great Hall was a spectacle of unity, but Tywin Lannister had eyes only for the true pillars of power. While the lords toasted and laughed, his analytical mind was at work, separating pomp from substance. He had just had a frustrating conversation with Prince Aerys about the finances of Summerhall. The prince, with his feverish brilliance and grand ideas, saw things only in terms of glory and legacy. Tywin saw the numbers.
And what numbers they were. The great factories of Summerhall weren't just workshops; they were the industrial heart of the realm, forging not only steel but the very economic and military foundation of the empire. Whoever controlled the production of Valyrian steel on a large scale, whoever commanded the mechanical looms that clothed armies, whoever held the forges that fueled Uriel's great works... that man held power that rivaled the Iron Throne itself. It was a silent, constant power, infinitely more tangible than any divine right.
His cold, calculating gaze settled on the man who ruled this nerve center: Uriel Targaryen, the Emperor's eldest son and Lord of Summerhall. He wasn't seeking the spotlight, preferring the company of his wife and a few scholars. But Tywin saw the aura of influence surrounding him. Gaining entry to that man's inner circle was the key to securing the Lannister future for centuries. The wealth of Casterly Rock was legendary, but gold could be mined to exhaustion. The power of Summerhall was renewable, growing with each innovation.
The obvious answer was Lorena Lannister.
His ancestor. A Lannister by blood, even if she now bore the Targaryen name and was over a century old. The immortality granted by her husband had preserved her youth and beauty, but it hadn't erased the essence of the lioness in her eyes. She possessed a charming grace that disarmed even the most cynical, with an easy smile and a demeanor that captivated all around her. She wore splendid dresses, engaged in courtly conversation, and seemed the most frivolous of ladies. But Tywin was no ordinary man. He was a Lannister, and he could see the sharp intelligence behind the cheerful facade. That smile was a weapon. That frivolity, armor. She wasn't just Uriel's wife; she was his confidante, his partner, the weaver of the alliances that kept Summerhall stable and influential.
She was the door. And he had the key: their shared blood and, more importantly, a mind he felt she might appreciate.
With the determination of a general marching onto a battlefield, Tywin extricated himself from the conversation with Aerys and began to cross the hall toward her.
Lorena, seated beside Uriel at a more reserved table, saw him approach. Her jade-green eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly before lighting up with a glint of recognition. Her lips curved into a wide, welcoming smile, but one that carried the cunning of a predator seeing interesting prey approach voluntarily.
"Lord Tywin," she said, her voice flowing like pleasant honey. "What an honor to receive a visit from the future Lord of Casterly Rock. Is the banquet not to your liking? You seem a man on a mission."
Tywin inclined his head slightly, a calculated gesture of respect. "Lady Lorena. The banquet is adequate. But some accessories are more interesting than the main spectacle. I was admiring your brooch. A masterpiece from Goldsmith's Row, no doubt."
She touched the delicate rose of gold and diamonds pinned to her dress. "Ah, you have a discerning eye. A gift from Uriel. He insists that some things should shine merely to be appreciated." Her gaze seemed to hold a private joke.
"A noble philosophy," replied Tywin, his tone neutral. "But not everything that shines is merely decorative. Sometimes, the most valuable gold is that which finances empires, not jewels."
Lorena's smile didn't falter, but it deepened, grew more interested. "True. And Casterly Rock is the epitome of that principle. What brings the Lion of Lannister to this little corner of the hall? Surely not to discuss jewelry."
Tywin wasted no time on further subtleties. She was intelligent; insulting her with circumlocution would be a mistake.
"I was reflecting on the future," he began, his eyes fixed on her. "The future of Westeros, of course, but also that of the great houses that sustain it. Power is shifting, Lady Lorena. It is no longer solely on the battlefields or in the throne rooms. It is in the forges and the looms. It is in Summerhall."
Lorena picked up her goblet of golden wine, swirling the contents slowly. "Summerhall is my husband's project. A place of learning and progress."
"A beacon that casts a very long shadow," Tywin countered. "And shadows can be used to protect or to conceal. Uriel is a visionary. But visionaries often look to the stars and forget the steps leading up to them."
"And you see yourself as a builder of foundations, Lord Tywin?" she asked, her voice soft as silk.
"I see myself as a pragmatist. Lannisters pay their debts, but they also invest in the future. An investment in Summerhall is an investment in the stability of the entire realm."
Lorena took a sip of wine, her eyes never leaving his. "Access is a valuable commodity. And it is rarely given. It is negotiated."
"Everything has a price," he agreed. "And Lannisters know the value of things."
For the first time, Lorena's perfectly controlled smile softened, transforming into something more thoughtful. She looked at him not as a princess to a lord, but as one Lannister to another.
"Blood is important," she whispered. "It is the thread that binds us to the past. I sit beside an extraordinary man, Tywin. I have helped build a legacy. But the lion's roar... is a sound I have never forgotten."
She placed the goblet on the table and leaned forward slightly.
"You are different," she admitted. "They see Uriel's crown or mine, and they see only power. You see the machinery. That is worthy of a true Lannister."
"It is by results that Lannisters are known," Tywin replied immediately.
"Yes," she smiled, a new, more intimate smile. "Very well, Lord Tywin. My... distant, yet promising, kin. I will help you. Not out of obligation, but because it is invigorating to find someone from our family who understands the true game."
She reached out to adjust Tywin's collar, a seemingly casual gesture that carried the weight of a pact.
"Do not disappoint me," she said, her voice sweet but firm. "For if you do, you will find that this lioness still has claws. But if you prosper... well, who knows to what heights a Lannister with a foot in Summerhall's door might rise?"
Tywin kept his face impassive, but in his green eyes there was a glint of triumph. He had made his move, and the lioness had responded. The path to power was open.
Part 2: The Dragon's Patience
Several years had passed, and the familiar stench of war once again hung over Westeros. This time, the odor of arrogance and betrayal emanated from the walls of Duskendale. The royal army sprawled across the surrounding green hills, a living organism of steel and silk, with tents and colorful banners under a grey, heavy sky.
Inside the richly appointed royal tent, decorated with maps and three-headed dragon banners, Aenar Targaryen remained impassive. While his captains and advisors murmured in worried voices, a dry, cynical laugh echoed in the silence of his own mind. The web of fate stubbornly repairs itself, he thought, observing the Dun Fort in the distance. Even with me on the throne, even with the power I possess, some threads of the tapestry insist on aligning in a familiar way. Fools still rise up, princes are still kidnapped, and castles still need to be besieged. It's almost... tedious.
He was surrounded by his Kingsguard, a semicircle of white armor and serious faces. To his right, his son Uriel was visibly irritated, his fingers stained with ink from an interrupted study session. Many in the camp interpreted his fury as concern for the kidnapping of his kinsman, Prince Aerys. But Aenar knew the truth. Uriel's anger was that of an architect whose perfect model had been ruined by a clumsy child; he was more furious about being dragged away from his runes and projects at Summerhall than about the fate of the fickle prince. Nearby, with a somber and worried expression, was the young Rhaegar Targaryen. Aenar watched the boy, his piercing gaze seeing beyond the years. In another world, under another sky, it would be your melancholy and your ambitions that would ignite the spark for the end of our dynasty. How curious.
The peace was broken by a commotion from outside. They exited the tent, the damp air of the Riverlands hitting their faces. There, atop the wall of Duskendale, stood Lord Darklyn, puffed up with a courage that only complete stupidity can grant. Beside him, a woman with exotic features and rich robes – a noblewoman from Essos, a descendant of those who ruled Myr, until the day Aenar reduced the city to smoldering rubble and melted glass. The hatred in her eyes was palpable, a flame inherited through generations.
Lord Darklyn began to shout his demands, his voice a shriek of folly against the wind. He spoke of tributes, pardons, titles, believing the life of a Targaryen prince was a bargaining chip. Aenar didn't even need to raise his voice. A feeling of weariness and irritation flowed from him, an emanation of pure power.
As if responding to his will, a colossal shadow loomed over the camp. The Winged Nightmare, whose very scale made the world's foundations tremble, let out a roar. It wasn't a simple bellow; it was the sound of darkness itself being torn apart, a sonic explosion that made the stones of Duskendale vibrate and silenced Lord Darklyn's voice instantly. The silence that followed was more terrifying than any scream.
Aenar then spoke, his voice low, but cutting across the distance like the sharpest blade, reaching every man on the wall with supernatural clarity.
"After Daemon Truefyre," he began, his tone almost conversational, "I genuinely didn't think other fools of the same ilk would arise in my lands. But it seems stupidity is a species more resilient than dragons." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Here is what you will do, Lord Darklyn. You release Aerys, safe and sound, and I will let you choose the pike upon which your head will be impaled, as a warning to the next idiots. Continue with this folly, and when I am finished, this 'impenetrable' fortress of yours will be nothing but a pile of melted stones, and everyone inside will be part of the foundation. You have five hours."
He turned, his back to the fortress, a final act of contempt. The message was delivered.
During the long hours of waiting, as the sun began to decline, Ser Barristan the Bold approached. His white cloak was immaculate, his face a picture of serene determination.
"Your Grace,"he said, bowing. "With your permission, I can infiltrate the fortress. I can bring Prince Aerys back."
Aenar looked at the young knight, a slight sign of approval in his violet eyes. Fate, once again, was following a known path. "Do it," he ordered. "Bring me my kinsman."
Barristan departed like a shadow, and true to his word, before the five hours expired, he emerged from a secret gate with a haggard and pale, but alive, Aerys. The prince was trembling, not just from captivity, but from the shock of having been rescued by a single man.
Aenar approached Aerys. Without ceremony, he placed a hand on the cousin's sweaty forehead. A warm, golden light emanated from his palm, a flow of pure vital energy that coursed through Aerys's body. In moments, the pallor disappeared, the cuts and bruises closed, and Aerys's eyes regained their characteristic gleam – perhaps a bit madder, but physically perfect. The healing magic was so quick and effortless it was more frightening than comforting.
Then, Aenar looked to the skies. Without a spoken word, a mental command was issued. The Winged Nightmare, which had hovered like a living mountain in the sky, reacted. Its wings, so vast they could darken a village, beat once, propelling the creature higher. There, high above Duskendale, the great black dragon with green eyes opened its maw. It wasn't flames gathering in its throat, but something worse: a crackling, violet energy, a vortex of pure destructive power that sucked the light from around it. The air trembled, and for a second, everything fell silent.
Then, it fired.
It wasn't a jet of fire, but a ray of absolute annihilation. A pillar of violent energy that struck the center of Duskendale with a deafening silence, followed by an explosion that was not of sound, but of force. The fortress, its walls, its towers, its dungeons – everything simply disintegrated. There was no roar, just a great whoomp of displaced air, and then, where a castle once stood, there was now a smoking, deep crater, its edges glowing with vitrified rock. Lord Darklyn, his Myrish advisor, his soldiers, his ambitions – all were wiped from the face of the earth in a single instant of pure, divine power.
Without looking back at the destruction he had caused, Aenar turned to his commanders. "The matter is settled. We return to King's Landing."
He then did something that made even the most hardened veterans gasp. Without a running start, without apparent effort, he simply jumped. His feet left the ground and he shot dozens of meters into the air, as if gravity were a mere suggestion to him. The Winged Nightmare, completing its arc, dove and intercepted its rider mid-air, its great claw enveloping Aenar with perfect familiarity before rising again, heading south.
As they ascended, Aenar, even from a distance with his keen eyesight, could see the faces on the ground. He saw the gratitude on Aerys's face quickly consumed by a seething, black envy, a hatred for the power he himself would never possess. And he saw in Rhaegar, the young prince, not admiration, but a deep and somber desire, a yearning for the same absolute power he had just witnessed.
This was not new to Aenar. It was human. And he was, at that moment, profoundly tired of humanity. He guided the Winged Nightmare home, to King's Landing, to the Red Keep. To Gael. The only place where the weight of the crown and the burden of power seemed to dissolve. Conquest could wait. Rest could not.