Prologue: The Great Imperial Librarian
The noise in the imperial library was only clapping and moans that echoed audibly. Lying on a large bed that clashed sharply with the surroundings, Emperor Aenar sat before him on all fours, the great librarian who categorizes and guards the books and tomes that hold all the knowledge of the Empire and Valyria. Aenar's hand pulled her back hard, making her bend over as he pounded her hard. Aenar looked at her and had to agree that the fight between Bloodraven and Bittersteel had a good reason. Shiera Seastar was truly a beauty worthy of history. It was as if sensuality took the form of a woman. Of all his women, none surpassed her in sex. If he couldn't see her lineage, he would have doubted whether she wasn't a succubus from legend. After several minutes of thrusting into her and a few orgasms, he came inside her forcefully, like a dam. Even with so much quantity, nothing leaked from her as is common with the other women he slept with in his life. He is hers and sits down and sees her collapse on the bed. She turns over and he sees the protuberance of her belly as if she were only a few months pregnant.
The sound of ragged breaths and the gentle creaking of the bed gradually gave way to the heavy silence of the imperial library. Aenar stepped away, and with a snap of his fingers, all grime and sweat vanished from his body, his imperial robes appearing on him instantly as Shiera Seastar lay on the bed, the slight protuberance of her abdominal curve visible in the soft candlelight. He watched her for a moment—that ethereal beauty who had incited conflicts between Bloodraven and Aegor Rivers—and internally agreed that history had not exaggerated. She was the personification of sensuality.
As he turned, his eyes landed on the silent figure seated at the massive oak table in the corner of the library. Alys Rivers, his Mistress of Whisperers, waited with a serene expression, as if the scene she had just witnessed was the most natural thing in the world.
"It seems your apprentice has learned the ways of slyness well, Alys," said Aenar, sitting down at the table and picking up the book he had abandoned earlier.
Alys let out a low, hoarse laugh. "That has nothing to do with me, Your Grace. It's purely her natural talent. Perhaps it's the bastard blood running through her veins—always something to prove, always with a charm that cannot be taught."
Aenar smiled, remembering how it all began. Shiera had arrived at court at just five years old, alone and determined. She had asked her father, Aegon IV, to send her to court, and the lord, seeing an opportunity to strengthen ties with the emperor, agreed. The girl presented herself before Aenar with unusual courage for her age and directly asked him to teach her magic. He had laughed at the request and her bold personality, but seeing potential, he placed her in Alys's care, who accepted her without question.
The years passed, and Shiera served on the Small Council as a cupbearer, observing and learning. The little girl quickly transformed into a young woman who broke hearts, especially those of her half-brothers, Brynden and Aegor, who constantly fought for her attention. But Aenar had noticed something more in her—that same ambitious and seductive look the young Rhaenyra Targaryen had possessed in her day. When Shiera turned eighteen, she offered herself to him as a birthday gift. He could have denied the attraction he felt, but he would have been lying to himself; he had counted the days until she came of age. After that night, he appointed her Grand Librarian, as she already spent most of her days among the tomes anyway.
Returning to the present, Aenar addressed Alys. "And Summerhall? How do things proceed?"
Alys inclined her head. "Twinn Lannister is doing an admirable job as supervisor, assisting the interim lord Aerys with unusual efficiency. However, I perceive that Aerys is beginning to feel slighted by Twinn's competence. There are growing rumors that it is Twinn who truly rules in Uriel's name, and not Aerys."
Aenar frowned slightly. "Continue to monitor the situation. Inform me of any new developments."
"As you command," replied Alys. "Elsewhere in the empire, everything is proceeding without significant issues. The minor rebellions have been suppressed, and the economy remains stable."
Aenar nodded, his thoughts already turning to the next challenges. Meanwhile, on the bed, Shiera stirred softly, a satisfied smile on her lips—another piece in the great game of power, as naturally a part of it as the books that surrounded her.
Part 1: The Tournament of Summerhall and the Somber Prophecy
The sun shone high over the green meadows of Summerhall, transformed for the occasion into a field of honor and splendor. The stands, filled with the finest flowers of Westerosi nobility, buzzed with animated chatter. Colors, laughter, and the metallic clang of armor filled the air. In the imperial box, raised and adorned with the three-headed dragon banners, Aenar Targaryen observed the scene with the immutable placidity of a mountain. His ancient, knowing purple eyes scanned the crowd, catching nuances that escaped most.
On the field, two knights prepared for the final joust. On one side, Ser Barristan Selmy, the Monsterslayer, his white Kingsguard armor gleaming in the sun, a model of chivalrous posture and silent determination. On the other, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, a young man of melancholic beauty, his dragon-shaped helm hiding a face that already inspired songs and sighs. His armor was black as night, encrusted with rubies that shimmered like drops of congealed blood.
The lances met. The impact was spectacular. Shattered wood flew like deadly confetti. Ser Barristan, experienced and solid as a rock, held firm, but Rhaegar's precise tip found a weak point in the veteran's shield. With a dull thud that echoed through the stands, Barristan was ripped from his saddle, hitting the ground with a crash of metal. The crowd erupted. Men shouted the prince's name, and women of all ages and marital status sighed and threw flowers in his direction. Rhaegar dismounted with natural grace, not to celebrate, but to ensure the defeated knight was unharmed – a gesture that only increased the aura of tragic nobility surrounding him.
The coronation ceremony was the peak of the fervor. Rhaegar, mounted on his steed, galloped towards the imperial box. On his lance, a crown of intertwined blue and red roses – a symbol of union and beauty. His deep lilac eyes found those of Gael, the Empress, seated beside Aenar. With a perfect bow, he presented the crown.
"For the most beautiful and beloved lady of the Seven Kingdoms," he declared, his melodious voice cutting through the air.
The herald, a man with a thundering voice, immediately corrected, raising his voice over the applause: "Her Imperial Highness, Empress Gael! The Queen of Love and Beauty!"
Rhaegar smiled faintly, a gesture that didn't quite reach his eyes, and crowned Gael. The crowd roared its approval. She accepted the tribute with the serene dignity characteristic of her, a gentle smile on her lips, but her eyes, for a moment, rested on Aenar, sharing a spark of silent complicity. The joust was over, but the day was far from done.
The grand banquet that same day was an even more opulent event. The halls of Summerhall were filled with light, music, and the joyful cacophony of hundreds of conversations. Aenar, at the center of the high table, was the point of stillness in the midst of the storm. He watched Rhaegar, who, surrounded by friends and admirers, seemed the epitome of the perfect prince. But Aenar saw beyond the facade. In the moments between a smile and a nod, in the brief instants when he thought no one was looking, a deep melancholy surfaced in the young man's eyes. It was an ancestral sadness, a shadow that seemed to consume him from within. Aenar's gaze then fell on the sword hanging from Rhaegar's waist: Truefyre II. A thin, elegant blade, forged from the salvaged remains of the metal that once belonged to Daemon Truefyre, a lesser Targaryen who had the misfortune of encountering Balerion's flames. It was a reborn legendary sword, but to Aenar, it was a reminder of how history and fire consumed even the most ambitious.
The Champion's Dance with the Empress was executed with a grace that drew emotional applause from all. Rhaegar, with an ethereal lightness, led Gael through the hall, his movements a silent narrative of respect and devotion. At the end, he led her back to the high table, his ceremonial duty fulfilled.
It was then that he approached Aenar. The music and clamor seemed to recede, creating a bubble of intimacy around the Emperor and the Prince.
"My Emperor," Rhaegar began, his voice lower, almost confidential. "I... have been having dreams."
Aenar said nothing, merely inclined his head, granting him permission to continue. His face was an impenetrable mask.
"A great darkness," Rhaegar continued, his lilac eyes burning with a feverish intensity. "Colder than the longest winter. It is coming, I know it. And in the battle that approaches, the full power of fire and blood will be necessary. That is why I ask you... I beg you. Permit me to try to claim a dragon once more."
Aenar watched the young man for a long moment, his own thoughts turning. He remembered how, over the centuries, dragonriders had become an increasingly rare sight. Now, only he, his wife Gael, and his immediate children maintained the bond with the great beasts. Whispers, fueled by Alys Rivers, reached his ears – rumors that he, Aenar, intentionally prevented the emergence of new riders. The idea made him laugh internally. He did, in fact, possess the ability to influence the bonds between dragon and rider, a deep knowledge of Valyrian blood magic that no one else possessed. But he did not use it for that purpose. He believed the natural decline was due to the Andal blood with which his descendants insisted on mixing, diluting the potency of the Valyrian legacy. He had never understood that fascination; he had always found the women of the First Men, with their earthy magic and strong beauty, infinitely more interesting.
He turned his attention back to Rhaegar. "The spark that ignites the bond between dragon and rider is not a flame that can be rekindled by mere force of will or dark dreams, Rhaegar," he said, his voice calm but final. "If you failed before, it is unlikely you will succeed now. However," he added, seeing the determination on the prince's face, "I will not be the one to stop you from trying. I grant you authorization."
Visible relief washed over Rhaegar. "This is of utmost importance for the nights to come, My Emperor. You will not regret it."
Aenar could not contain a low, cynical laugh. The sound, coming from him, seemed like a profanation in the festive atmosphere. "Not regret it? Young prince, you speak as if I were a merchant to be convinced of a new investment."
Rhaegar flushed, a mixture of frustration and irritation crossing his face. "The Great Enemy is approaching! We must prepare!"
The coldness in Aenar's eyes could freeze fire. "Do not try to teach a baker how to make bread, Rhaegar," he said, his voice now laden with an authority that made the air around him feel heavier. "Long before your grandmother was born, long before Summerhall was a single stone, I was already facing the shadows of which you whisper with such fervor. Do not forget who you are speaking to."
The rebuke was like a physical blow. Rhaegar lowered his head, a wave of fear and shame reddening his neck. "Forgive me, Your Imperial Highness. I was insolent."
Aenar nodded, accepting the apology. "You may withdraw."
As Rhaegar turned to leave, defeated and humiliated, Aenar spoke again, his voice softer, but no less cutting.
"It is not you."
Rhaegar stopped, frozen. He turned slowly, his expression a picture of confusion and hurt. "It's not... what, Your Grace?"
Aenar had already turned his attention to Galadriel, seated beside him, as if the conversation were over. He didn't even look back as he delivered the final sentence, his words echoing in the young prince's mind like a divine verdict.
"The Prince That Was Promised," Aenar whispered, almost to himself, but the phrase reached Rhaegar with crystalline clarity. "It is not you."
Rhaegar stood paralyzed for a long second, the world around him blurring. The music, the laughter, the smell of food – everything lost its meaning. The prophecy he had embraced, the identity he believed was his, had been denied by the only source of authority that could not be questioned. He finally moved away, his steps heavy, and rejoined his group of friends, his face a pale mask trying, unsuccessfully, to hide the inner agony.
The banquet continued for hours, but for Aenar, the interest had faded. When the last cup was emptied and the last guests had bid their farewells, he, accompanied by Galadriel, followed Lorena through the silent corridors of Summerhall towards the Great Laboratory. He watched the two women ahead of him, a study in contrasts. He observed them dispassionately, as a ruler assesses his assets. Lorena, even after more than a century, was pure sensuality and libido in motion. Her hips swayed with an inviting cadence, her laugh was a promise, and every gesture radiated a carnal confidence. She was his son Uriel's wife, a fact that held his attention only insofar as it defined her position and influence within the family structure. Galadriel, his daughter and heir, was the absolute opposite: the living image of grace and elegance. Her movements were fluid and precise, her posture erect and dignified, her beauty a thing of pure lines and contained power. Even their bodies reflected this duality: Lorena's generous, welcoming curves against Galadriel's slender, athletic figure. It was a sight that pleased Aenar, the perfect representation of the two poles that governed his world, viewed with a strategist's eye, not a man's desire.
Upon reaching the laboratory, a vast hall filled with tables, cold forges, scrolls, and strange artifacts, they found Uriel. Aenar's eldest son was hunched over a workbench, immersed in a complex diagram, his fingers stained with ink and soot. He hadn't heard them enter.
Aenar stopped a few paces away and crossed his arms. When he spoke, he used a tone rarely heard outside the family – the tone of a deeply disappointed father.
"When the Emperor arrives at the fortress of one of his Lords," Aenar said, his voice echoing in the silent room, "he expects to find that lord awaiting him. Not buried in his books like a novice."
Uriel looked up quickly, surprised. He stood, wiping his hands instinctively on his apron. "Father. Forgive me. I was... focused. The research was at a critical point."
"Research is important, Uriel," Aenar conceded, but his voice did not lose its chill. "But you are the Lord of Summerhall. You cannot neglect your duties for your projects. Tell me, when was the last time you truly governed your lands? The last time you heard the petitions of your vassals, inspected your forges, made a decision that did not involve runes or enchantments?"
Uriel did not answer. He looked down, knowing full well the answer was "a long time ago." The truth was that Twinn Lannister and Prince Aerys did an efficient job, with Twinn being the true engine behind the daily administration. Their effectiveness had created a bubble of complacency around him.
"Even Gabriel," Aenar continued, "who spends his life sailing to unknown lands, governs his domains with more attention than you. He sends reports, appoints competent administrators, maintains order. What you do, son, is delegate until you forget you are the one who delegates."
The reprimand stung because it was true. Uriel remained silent, absorbing the words.
After letting the weight of that truth hang in the air, Aenar changed his tone. "Very well. Did you at least finish what you were doing? This 'thing' for which you missed the tournament in honor of your family?"
A glint of genuine enthusiasm returned to Uriel's eyes. "Yes, father. It is ready." He gestured for them to follow him to an adjacent room, larger and seemingly empty, but whose dimensions were deceptively expanded by magic.
There, in the center of the room, rested an object that anyone from a more technological world would instantly recognize. It was a cannon. However, this one was not forged of crude iron, but of a dark, gleaming metal alloy, studded with fine lines of Valyrian steel that formed complex patterns along its body. The barrel was long and elegant, resting on a robust carriage.
"No gunpowder," Uriel explained, touching the cold surface of the metal with a certain reverence. "That is the crucial point. Gunpowder can be copied, stolen, understood even by mediocre minds. Our language, cannot." He pointed to the runes. "The enchantments are carved into both the barrel and the projectiles. They create a wave of pure kinetic force, a controlled release of magical energy that propels the projectile."
At that moment, the door opened and Aerys and Tywin Lannister entered, having been summoned to help catalog the test. Twinn, in particular, watched everything with his calculating green eyes, missing no detail.
Aenar picked up one of the cannonballs from a nearby pile. It was heavy, made of the same dark alloy, but with a visible core of dragonglass. Its surface was also covered in tiny, precise runes.
"Time for the test," Aenar announced.
Instead of loading the cannon, he simply took the cannonball. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, as if examining a fruit. Then, with a casual motion, a simple swing of his arm that suggested no effort whatsoever, he threw it towards a solid wooden target at the far end of the magically expanded room.
What followed defied physics. The cannonball didn't simply fly; it disappeared from his hand and reappeared at the target in an instant, with an impact noise that wasn't a crack, but a deafening BOOM that made the floor shake. The target, a structure that could withstand a cavalry charge, simply disintegrated. Not into splinters, but into a fine powder of wood. And then, a secondary micro-explosion occurred at the point of impact, hurling sharp fragments of dragonglass and metal in all directions, embedding themselves deeply into the magically protected stone walls of the room.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint clinking of metal fragments falling to the floor.
Aenar nodded, his approval manifested in a single gesture. "Adequate."
Everyone else was dumbfounded, even his own children, who knew their father's power well. They were strong enough to reduce a castle wall to rubble with their fists, but Aenar's casual demonstration of strength and speed was on a completely different level. It was inhuman.
Tywin Lannister, whose face rarely betrayed emotion, was pale. The descriptions he had read about the Emperor's physical power – accounts of his arrival at Sunspear being compared to a falling star – suddenly no longer seemed like poetic exaggerations. They were underestimations.
Recovering, they proceeded to test the cannon itself. The loading process was complex, involving the sequential activation of the runes by a trained mage – in this case, Uriel himself. The shot was a spectacle of light and sound. A bluish flash shone from the muzzle, and the projectile shot out like lightning, hitting a second target with devastating force. The destruction was massive, reducing the target to smoldering fragments, but it was a candle snuffing out compared to the sun that was Aenar's throw. Still, it was impressive. The force was consistent and controllable.
"Approved," Aenar declared. "Begin production."
Aerys, who had watched everything with a mixture of fascination and a tinge of jealousy, asked: "Where should the first batches be sent, Your Grace? To the garrisons in King's Landing? To the Stone Gates?"
Aenar looked at him, his eyes seeming to see through the walls, towards the distant north. "No. To the Second Wall."
The answer surprised everyone, but none more than Tywin Lannister. His face remained impassive, but his mind worked furiously. The Second Wall? he thought. That cyclopean construction that guards... nothing? The Lands of Eternal Winter are a dead, white vastness. Why create a weapon of such power and complexity, to defend it? The question burned in his mind, more urgent than any other. What, by the gods, is in those frozen lands that merits such preparation, such secrecy, such fear? He decided, at that moment, that he would need to find out. Perhaps Prince Uriel, in his academic isolation, would be more susceptible to indiscreet conversation than the Emperor. He filed the question away for future investigation. The game, after all, continued.
Part 2: The Wedding and the New Dragonknights
The year 280 After the Conquest saw the imperial court gathered in King's Landing for an event of great pomp: the wedding of Imperial Prince Rhaegar Targaryen to Princess Elia Martell of Dorne. The Red Keep was resplendent, adorned in the red and gold of the Targaryens and the yellow and orange sun of Martell. As vows were exchanged in the Great Sept of Baelor, Aenar Targaryen, seated in his observation throne, let his mind wander, analyzing the intricate chessboard that was his empire.
He perceived, with a mixture of weariness and curiosity, how some threads of destiny stubbornly followed a familiar pattern, while others diverged radically. The separation between Tywin Lannister and Aerys had occurred as foreseen, fueled by the Prince's jealousy, paranoia, and feeling of being slighted by his former supervisor's cold efficiency. What was different, however, was the groom. Rhaegar had not been a passive piece in this arrangement. A quick and discreet dive into the surface of the young prince's mind had revealed the truth to Aenar: Rhaegar had specifically asked to marry Elia. And the reason? A dream. Aenar felt a slight tremor of recognition. The flavor of the magic was familiar, an ethereal and ancient touch. The Three-Eyed Raven, he thought, without any surprise. The old seer has finally decided to move his pawns with more vigor. He knew Bloodraven harbored a deep resentment for his relationship with Shiera Seastar, a resentment that spanned decades. It was a pathetic attempt to influence the future, to plot in the shadows against the overwhelming light of Aenar's power. A fly trying to divert a dragon.
The wedding feast overflowed with life, light, and the sound of hundreds of conversations. Aenar, at the center of the high table, was a pillar of quietude, his purple eyes scanning the hall like a falcon soaring over a field. All the great lords were present, a living tapestry of the alliances and ambitions of Westeros.
He saw Tywin Lannister, his wife Joanna by his side, and their three children: Cersei, a young woman of dazzling golden beauty with eyes full of ambition; Jaime, wearing the white cloak of the Imperial Guard with a proud posture, already talking animatedly with Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy, as if he were already part of that elite brotherhood; and Tyrion, a child who, even at his tender age, carried a strangely perceptive gaze.
His gaze passed over the Tullys, with their characteristic auburn hair. Lord Hoster, his daughter Catelyn, a true beauty with her fiery red hair and blue eyes. A rose of Winterfell, thought Aenar, and for a moment, an image of Sansa Stark, not as she was, but as she could be, flashed in his mind. If fate is kind, she will be even more stunning than the mother. He then saw Lord Rickard Stark and his heir, Brandon. And it was then that he saw it. A subtle haze, a shadow hanging over them. The mark of death. He had already considered countless ways to intervene, to divert the executioner's blade before it was even raised. But some webs were woven with threads too strong, even for him. He could have freed himself from the blind bonds of prophecy, but he could not free everyone else from their own webs. It was a pity, but they would still die. It was a cornerstone in an arch that could not be removed without collapsing the entire structure.
He observed Aerys. The Prince was visibly more restrained, less prone to public outbursts. The signs of madness were there, in the wide eyes and the fingers drumming nervously on the table, but the absolute madness, the one that would consume everything, had not yet fully taken hold of him. Interesting, Aenar noted, that he had no contact with the pyromancers of the Alchemists' Guild. Wildfire was not yet an obsession.
He saw Rickard Stark, Jon Arryn, and the young Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark together, a brotherhood forged in the Vale. In the distance, the Queen of Thorns, Olenna Tyrell, watched everything with her sharp eyes, beside her son Mace and his wife, Alerie Targaryen. Alerie, a descendant of the Oldtown branch, did not have the silver hair, but her eyes were an unmistakable lilac. A barely perceptible smile touched Aenar's lips as he remembered his vengeance against the Hightowers. Oldtown was now an Imperial City, governed by a loyal branch of his own house, broken and rebuilt in his image.
Near them, he saw Alicent Hightower. The woman, still trapped in her delusions of piety and tradition, maintained a serene and impressive beauty. In fact, Aenar pondered, she seemed even more beautiful, as if blind conviction had preserved her. He did not understand how such intelligent women, like Olenna Tyrell herself – who, he recalled with a certain pleasure, had given him her virginity one night of political calculation and mutual attraction – could fall for Alicent's simplistic nonsense. The Queen of Thorns had never truly believed in it, but had seen the political sense in the action, which only showed how manipulative Alicent could be, even being, in essence, a fool.
The bride's relatives, the Martells, were animated and radiant, as was their custom. And scattered throughout the hall, he saw his other descendants, the fruits of his vast legacy. The Targaryens of Lys, ruling the city of pleasures with an iron fist and charm; the branch governing the Stepstones in Gabriel's name; and the lords of Sothoryos, maintaining a precarious dominion over the deadly jungles in his name. All carried the Targaryen name, an honor granted personally by him, a symbol of his blood and loyalty.
His gaze rested on Daemon Targaryen, the current Lord of Lys. A young man of pure blood, with marked Valyrian features. And then, Aenar felt it. A resonance. A latent compatibility with Caraxes, the long-necked dragon of fierce disposition. At last, he thought. One who has not diluted his blood so insistently.
Taking advantage that almost all the purest-blooded Targaryens were under the same roof, Aenar extended his senses, a subtle mental net seeking the dormant spark, the echo of Old Valyria's power. Most were silence, the blood too weak. But then, he found them. Two others. One, a young woman from Sothoryos, Bashera Targaryen, her bronzed skin and hard eyes witnessing a difficult life on the savage continent. It was a crucial discovery; the hot and dangerous lands of Sothoryos had been too long without a dragonknight to defend them. The other was a youth, Daeron, the youngest son of the Interim Lord of the Stepstones, a boy of perhaps fifteen, with wide eyes and contained energy.
Without ceremony, Aenar made an almost imperceptible gesture to the White Bull, one of his personal bodyguards, standing behind him. He whispered an order. A few minutes later, the three youths – Daemon, Bashera, and Daeron – were before the high table, kneeling, their faces a mixture of nervousness, confusion, and reverential fear.
The music stopped. All conversations ceased. Silence fell over the hall like a mantle.
"Rise," ordered Aenar, his voice filling the empty space. He looked at each of them, his eyes seeming to see through their souls. "In you, I see what many in our lineage have lost. I see the fire. The fire that ignites the spark between dragonblood and the beast." He paused, letting his words echo. "The power of Old Valyria is not dead. It merely sleeps, waiting for those worthy of awakening it. You three have been chosen. Today, you will claim your companions and become Dragonknights."
A visible shock ran through the hall, followed by a murmur of absolute disbelief. Dragonknights! The first since the days of the Truefyre Rebellion, an eternity ago in the memory of living men.
Aenar ignored the reaction. "Daemon of Lys, step forward." The young lord obeyed, his steps trembling. Aenar raised his hand and touched his forehead. A sudden heat, intense but not painful, flowed from his fingers. "Your bond with Caraxes is sealed. Blood recognizes blood."
He repeated the gesture with Bashera, uniting her with Sheepstealer, the cunning and resilient beast. And then with young Daeron, whose destiny was now irrevocably linked to Sunfyre, the golden dragon of proud disposition.
"Tomorrow, at sunrise, in the Dragonpit, the bonding ceremony will be held before the eyes of gods and men," Aenar declared. "Until then, be prepared." He then ordered the three new chosen to sit at the high table, a place of immense honor, instantly elevating them to the highest status within the family.
As they sat, visibly stunned and euphoric, Aenar did not miss the glances cast in his direction. From Aerys, a mixture of furious envy and a deep sense of injustice. From Rhaegar, an even deeper melancholy, a wound for having been passed over not once, but twice, by fate and now by his own Emperor. Aenar knew, with the cold clarity of one who has seen empires rise and fall, that this jealousy would be the fuel for desperate acts in the future.
The next morning found the elite of Westeros gathered in the stands of the Dragonpit, a place that had not seen such a ceremony for generations. The air was cold and charged with expectation. Then, on the horizon, they saw them. Three points that grew rapidly, taking shape against the brightening sky.
Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, his serpentine neck and slender body cutting the winds with a sharp whistle. Sheepstealer, brown-grey in color, a less glorious but immensely powerful figure. And Sunfyre, whose golden scales reflected the first rays of sun like a living treasure.
Daemon Targaryen was the first to step forward. He walked with a newly found determination towards Caraxes. The dragon inclined its elongated head, one red, intelligent eye fixed on the youth. Daemon slowly extended his hand and touched the scaly snout. A shiver ran through the crowd. Caraxes emitted a low purr, almost a growl of acceptance.
Bashera, with the practical courage of one who had survived Sothoryos, did the same with Sheepstealer, who sniffed her before allowing the contact. Daeron, the youngest, with his heart beating like a drum, approached Sunfyre. The golden dragon lowered its head, as if recognizing the nobility in the boy's blood.
Then, one by one, they mounted. First Daemon, then Bashera, and finally Daeron. And, as if guided by a single will, their voices rose, uniting in a chorus unheard for centuries, echoing off the stones of the pit and the souls of all present:
"Soves!"
The command, in High Valyrian, was like a whip. The three dragons beat their powerful wings, raising clouds of dust.
"Evos!"
The second command, and they rose from the ground, their impressive masses defying gravity with ancestral power.
"Dragoes!"
The final cry was swallowed by the roar of the winds and the beat of wings that now carried them into the sky. The new generation of Dragonknights of House Targaryen ascended, their silhouettes cutting the sky of King's Landing, a thunderous and undeniable reminder that the power of the dragon, and of the one who commanded it, was far from being a relic of the past. It was a living, breathing force, and now, renewed.
Epilogue: The Duty
[Alicent Hightower - Her Suite in the Red Keep, 280 AC]
The nocturnal silence enveloped the room Alicent shared with Aemma. The other young woman was already asleep, her deep, regular breathing a soft contrast to Alicent's seething thoughts. She lay down, staring at the canopy, her body tired, but her mind, tireless, focused on the grandeur of her mission.
A feeling of sacred pride warmed her chest. She was a vital instrument in the Emperor's great work, tasked with spreading the superior truth about the duty of the empire's women. Her function was clear, beautiful in its divine simplicity: to strengthen the lineage, to serve the family, to embrace her role in the greater design. She felt a pang of pity for women like Lady Joanna Lannister, who had initially been so... resistant. A foolish woman. She couldn't see the honor being offered to her. But Alicent had not given up. She had planted the seed, and now she nurtured the young Cersei, molding her, preparing her to understand her own importance in the empire's future.
Her gaze turned to Aemma, asleep beside her. Even in the gloom, her beauty was evident – a beauty that, Alicent noted with a chill down her spine, had intensified, acquiring an almost ethereal quality. She knew the reason. Aemma's dragon blood, the sacred seed of the Emperor himself that she carried, had fully awakened. She was a Dragonrider now, bonded to Meleys. A glorious destiny. A destiny that, Alicent knew with a certainty that festered into envy, she herself would never have. Her own lineage was proud and ancient, yes, but of the heavy blood of the First Men, lacking that same connection to Valyrian fire. She silently cursed the absence of the divine spark in her blood, feeling coarse and earthly next to that awakened grace.
In a sudden impulse, mixing a desire for comfort and a need to get closer to that unattainable purity, Alicent pulled Aemma into a firmer embrace, nestling against the young woman's warm body, trying to absorb some of her blessed essence before sleep finally took her.
The morning arrived not with the soft light of the sun, but with a harsh, strident sound. A seagull's squawk, insistent, right in her ear. Alicent tossed, irritated, before confusion took hold. There were no seagulls inside the Red Keep. She opened her eyes.
It wasn't a bird. It was Rhaenyra. Crouched beside the bed, her face close to Alicent's, imitating the sound with disturbing perfection. Her dark eyes sparkled with mischievous amusement.
"Rise and shine, darling. The Emperor has summoned us. In the imperial suite," whispered Rhaenyra, her voice a silken thread of provocation. "But if you're too tired, you can stay. He will understand."
Alicent practically leaped from the bed. The fatigue evaporated, replaced by a buzz of devout anticipation. The covers fell away, exposing her body, but she didn't care. This was a summons. A call to duty. She moved with frenetic efficiency, washing quickly and putting on simple attire, before positioning herself beside Rhaenyra, ready.
As they followed Rhaenyra through the corridors, a doubt hovered over her. "And Aemma?"
Rhaenyra smiled, a lip gesture that didn't reach her calculating eyes. "She went ahead. To... begin attending to the Emperor."
Upon reaching the heavy door of the imperial suite, they found the young Jaime Lannister on guard. He tried to maintain a rigid, impersonal posture, but his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes, fixed on the opposite wall, avoided any contact. Alicent felt a surge of disdain. So much weakness. He didn't understand the nature of the service rendered inside. A low, dry laugh escaped her lips before she could contain it.
Then, they entered.
The air in the suite was heavy, warm, laden with a familiar scent of sweat, sex, and power. And the sound. Oh, the sound. A brutal, wet rhythm of flesh against flesh, interspersed with muffled cries and moans that were less of pleasure and more of total surrender.
Aenar was at the center of the room, before the great bed. And with him, Aemma. He held her in a position that seemed more an exercise in domination than an act of love, her arms and legs entangled in a way that left her completely immobile and exposed. He called it the 'Full Nelson', a strange name that, to Alicent, only reinforced the enlightened and unquestionable nature of the Emperor – he possessed knowledge beyond the comprehension of mere mortals.
The impact of his hips against Aemma's body was sonorous, a dull, regular thud. Aemma's cries, muffled by an arm or a pillow, echoed off the stone walls. It was a spectacle of pure strength, of absolute possession.
Without hesitation, Rhaenyra began to undress, her clothes forming a neat pile on the floor. Alicent imitated her, her movements precise, ritualistic. They stood naked, waiting their turn, watching. Alicent felt a shiver run down her spine, not of shame, but of reverence.
After a few minutes, Aenar's rhythm intensified into a final crescendo. He held Aemma tighter, a guttural growl escaping his throat, before collapsing onto her, spent. For a moment, only their labored breathing was heard. Then, he got up, leaving Aemma immobile and trembling on the bed, and his eyes settled on Rhaenyra.
He crossed the room in long strides, took a handful of Rhaenyra's long silver hair, and pulled her towards the bed without a word. She fell forward onto the mattresses with a soft thud. Aenar grabbed her legs, throwing them over his shoulders, tilting her body so her buttocks were raised in the air. And then, without ceremony, without a kiss or a preparatory touch, he entered her, deep and in a fast, relentless rhythm from the very first instant.
Alicent closed her eyes. Rhaenyra's moans – a mixture of pain, surprise, and forced pleasure – filled her ears. It was an ugly, visceral sound. And it was the music of duty being fulfilled. She brought her hand between her own legs, touching herself in sync with the sound of that submission, her own body responding to that display of authority. Her mind did not see it as violation, but as a necessary baptism, a confirmation of her place in the world.
She didn't even notice when Aenar finished with Rhaenyra. The first thing she felt was a sharp pain in her scalp as he pulled her by the hair, tearing her from her trance. He threw her face down onto the bed, pinning her with his weight, and entered her from behind, each thrust an act of affirmation, his hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back.
He turned her onto her back, and his hand, large and strong, wrapped around her neck. The pressure began, firm, cutting off the air. Alicent's vision began to darken at the edges, spots dancing before her. The pleasure in her body collided with the instinctive panic of asphyxiation, creating a sensory confusion that nullified all thought. Her mind went blank, a void of ecstasy and submission. He continued, his rhythm unchanged, until a final convulsion ran through his body and he emptied himself inside her, the hand on her neck slowly relaxing.
Gasping, her vision gradually returning, Alicent felt Aenar move away. He went to the sweet Aemma, who was already recovering, and began to stroke her hair, whispering something Alicent couldn't hear.
She lay there, her body throbbing, the mark of his fingers burning on her neck, and a smile of full satisfaction spread across her face. She was so lucky. Chosen. One of the few entrusted with performing this great and sacred duty for the family, for the Empire, for the Emperor himself. The sound of Aemma's new moans, soft this time, began to fill the room again, and to Alicent, they sounded like a hymn. Everything was right. Everything as it should be.