Prologue: The Price of Pride
[Tywin Lannister - Port of Lannisport, 281 AC]
The salty air of the Sunset Sea carried a rare feeling of euphoria. On the wide docks of Lannisport, a bustling crowd pressed together, their excited murmurs forming a constant buzz that rivaled the waves. The banners of the golden Lannister lion danced in the wind beside the three-headed dragon standards, a rare spectacle of unity between Casterly Rock and the Iron Throne. Tywin Lannister, standing on a decorated dais, observed the scene with his customary impassivity, but behind his calculating green eyes, a mind was racing.
The Imperial Family was present, a silent testament to the event's magnitude. Emperor Aenar, a pillar of quiet authority, stood slightly ahead, his mere presence imposing silent reverence. Gael, the Empress, was at his side, and his daughter Galadriel, heir to the empire, with her sharp elegance. Fortunately, Aerys was not among them. The Prince, with his growing madness and petty jealousies, had burned the bridge that once connected Casterly Rock to the crown. The end of their partnership had been a deep wound to Tywin's pride, a public humiliation he had swallowed with the coldness of a slow-acting poison.
He could reluctantly overlook Aerys's refusal to marry Rhaegar to Cersei. The request had come from the prince himself, obsessed with his prophetic dreams. But the other humiliations, the venomous jests about his beloved Joanna, the insinuation that his lineage was inferior... those were accounts that remained open, recorded in a ledger that would only be settled with blood or gold.
His gaze fell upon Cersei, beside him, her golden, perfect beauty a silent triumph over Aerys's slights. She watched the scene with an ambitious glint in her eyes, learning. Jaime, already in white, was with the Imperial Guard, his proud posture a comfort to his father. Tyrion, the monster, was conveniently kept out of sight.
In the distance, on the horizon, white spots grew into an imposing fleet. The sails, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon, gleamed under the sun. The people cheered, ecstatic. They were not just there for the royalty; they were there for him. Prince Gabriel. The Emperor's adventurous son had done the unthinkable: he had left King's Landing heading east, and now returned from the west. He had defeated the seas, the myths, and the very curvature of the world. He had sailed around the entire planet. It was a feat that would echo through the centuries, and Lannisport, the great port of the west, had the honor of welcoming him back.
The great ship, The Pathfinder, docked with majestic grace. The gangplank was lowered. The crowd held its breath, expecting to see the hero.
But the first to emerge was not a man.
It was the dragon.
Alaska, a beast of scales as black as jet, with a face and head of stark, bone-white, burst from the deck with a powerful beat of its wings that sent a salty gust over the dock. Its horns, a magnificent and unsettling rack reminiscent of a great stag, stood out against the sky. Its roar was not of fury, but of triumph, a bellow announcing its return to known lands after crossing unexplored oceans. The creature climbed into the sky, circling over the city before flying towards the cliffs, where it would likely land to rest. It was a spectacle of pure power, a reminder that behind the maritime feat lay the fire of Valyria.
And then, Gabriel Targaryen appeared. Tanned by the suns of a thousand lands, with his silver hair tied back and wearing practical sailor's clothes, he descended the gangplank, hand in hand with his wife, Cassandra Baratheon, whose face also showed the marks of an epic journey, but whose eyes shone with relief and happiness. He walked directly to his father, the Emperor, and knelt.
"Father," said Gabriel, his clear voice carrying the fatigue of the journey, but firm. "I have returned."
Aenar Targaryen took a single step forward. This small movement captured everyone's attention, a gesture possessing more weight than any speech. He placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"Rise, Gabriel," the Emperor's voice was calm, yet projected, reaching every ear. "You have sailed where no man has sailed. You have linked the east to the west and proven the world is one. The Empire is proud of you. I am proud of you."
It was an imperial blessing, a recognition that solidified Gabriel's feat in history. The relief on the prince's face was palpable. He rose and greeted his mother and sister, while Cassandra was received by Gael with a warm embrace.
The banquet in the Great Hall of Lannisport was an epic celebration. The light of a thousand candles reflected off the Lannister gold and Targaryen colors. Gabriel, at the center of attention, was a vivid contrast to Rhaegar's melancholy or Uriel's coldness. His personality was expansive, contagious. He spoke with his hands, laughed with his whole body, and with captivating eloquence, began to describe his adventures.
He spoke of lands where trees touched the sky and creatures no bestiary in Westeros described. Of peoples with skin of different colors, who worshipped strange gods and spoke languages that sounded like music or the crash of stones. He described seas of endless grass, deserts that burned under a double sun, and hidden islands where women ruled and men fished. The court was hypnotized. Every word was a window to a world beyond comprehension, an expansion of the known limits.
Tywin watched it all, seated in a place of honor, but his mind was far from the feast. He looked beyond the wonderful stories. He saw opportunities. New trade routes. Unexplored markets. Unimaginable resources. Spices, silks, metals, unique artifacts – the potential was incalculable. While everyone listened, fascinated by exotic creatures, Tywin calculated the flow of gold.
When he saw that Gabriel was momentarily free from the siege of other lords, Tywin stood. His movements were deliberate, full of an authority that made others instinctively make way. He approached the prince.
"Prince Gabriel," said Tywin, inclining his head slightly. "A truly monumental feat. Your journey will be sung for ten thousand years."
Gabriel turned to him, a smile still on his lips, but his eyes – the Emperor's eyes – assessed Tywin with a perceptiveness that surprised the Lion. "Lord Tywin. Thank you. It was a long journey. But seeing Casterly Rock on the horizon... was one of the most welcome sights."
"I imagine the sights you witnessed along the way are even more impressive," Tywin continued, his tone smooth but direct. "Beyond the wonders, you must have observed wind patterns, sea currents, natural harbors... The riches of these new lands, be it in knowledge or in goods, will need efficient routes to flow to the heart of the Empire."
Gabriel raised an eyebrow, interested. "I observed, Lord Tywin. I noted everything. The winds beyond the Sunset Sea are different, more constant. The currents could shorten a voyage by months, if we know how to use them."
The two dove into an intense discussion. Tywin, the master of logic and economy, and Gabriel, the practical explorer who had lived the theory. They debated the feasibility of direct trade routes, the dangers of unknown seas, the type of ship required, the port infrastructure needed in King's Landing and, most importantly, in Lannisport. It was an intellectual dance, and Tywin felt a spark of something he hadn't experienced in a long time: the potential for a profitable partnership with a member of the royal family.
It was then that one of the imperial guards approached and whispered something in Gabriel's ear. The prince nodded and looked at Tywin.
"My father summons me to his chambers. It seems our discussions on trade will have to wait, Lord Tywin."
"Of course, Your Highness," replied Tywin, stepping back with a calculated nod. "The Emperor takes priority."
He watched Gabriel walk away, his mind working feverishly. The bridge to Uriel, once so promising through Lorena, had been burned by Aerys's paranoia. He was on the outside, watching the game of power from a distance, and for a Lannister, that was a sentence of slow death. But now... now there was a new avenue. Gabriel was popular, successful, and clearly possessed the open and pragmatic mind of a merchant, a rare trait in the Targaryen family. He represented the future, not stagnant traditions or prophetic madness.
Tywin Lannister would not be content as a mere spectator. The humiliation imposed by Aerys demanded a response. And that response would not come through direct confrontation – that would be suicide – but through astute realignment. Gabriel, the navigator of the world, might well be the key for Tywin to navigate his way back to the center of power. The game continued, and the Lion of Lannister had just found a new and promising path to explore.
Part 1: The Weight of Eternity and the Echo of Destiny
[Aenar Targaryen - Godswood of the Red Keep, 281 AC]
The silence in the godswood was so profound it seemed to absorb the very sound of breathing. Aenar Targaryen stood motionless before the heart tree, his back to the pale, weeping face carved into the weirwood. The twilight light wove through the bony branches, casting long shadows that stretched to the feet of the two men accompanying him. They were not mere bodyguards; they were living reminders of the power Aenar held over mortality itself.
To his right, Ser Aemon Targaryen, the Dragonknight. His body held the proud posture of a prince and warrior, his eyes—which had once witnessed the madness of his brother Aegon the Unworthy—now held the cold serenity of one who had seen centuries pass. To his left, Ser Duncan the Tall, a mountain of a man whose loyalty and strength had become as legendary as the eternal youth granted to him. Both wore the immaculate white of the Imperial Guard, their faces preserved in their prime by the will of the man they served.
Aenar looked at them for a long moment, these two testaments to his own longevity, before his gaze returned to the dark forest. A familiar, deep irritation began to simmer within him. It was an ancient feeling, the frustration of a god forced to watch a play written by stubborn, invisible authors.
He had always known. Since his power solidified, becoming as natural as the beat of his dragon's wings, he had perceived the threads. The threads of fate, of that damned "Song of Ice and Fire" that the gods, or chance, or simply the universe's stupidity, insisted on chanting.
It was the answer to the question that occasionally roared in his mind: why, with all his power, with all the change he had imposed upon the world, did certain echoes of history stubbornly resonate? The Fire at Summerhall was the most poignant example. He had prevented the pyromaniac madness of an Aerys who had never gone mad in that way, but he could not stop the blind ambition of an Aegon. His distant relative, the fifth of his name, obsessed with reviving the bond with dragons, performed a foolish, desperate ritual. The fire escaped control, consuming him, his son Duncan, and sweet Jenny. The tragedy was different, the motives were other, but the result was a ghostly echo of what should have been. The Song demanded fire and blood at Summerhall, and somehow, it got it.
He had given up fighting these cosmic course corrections. Not from inability. If he focused his immense will entirely, he could perhaps shatter the melody for good. But the effort would be monumental, and the truth was, he no longer had the patience or the interest. It was easier to observe, with a mix of boredom and morbid curiosity, how the gods tried to put their puzzle back on track.
His thoughts wandered to his own youth, so many centuries ago. To the man he had been, full of intense human passions and sharp frustrations. He remembered the piercing pain of losing people, the fury he had felt in the face of injustice. That man, his former self, would not have allowed the Truefyre Rebellion to fester merely for his entertainment. That man would have incinerated the rebels in a fit of righteous fury, not in the calculated boredom of a jaded observer.
That was the most insidious price of eternity. He had been born with a divine spark, but his soul was initially human. The power, as it expanded and consumed the centuries, slowly eroded that humanity. Compassion gave way to clinical analysis. Love, to possession. Anger, to a distant weariness. He had to make an effort to remember that the people around him were not pieces on a board, but beings of short lives and intense emotions. It was a tiresome exercise, like breathing for a drowned man.
He turned, the movement so fluid and silent that not even his robes whispered. His purple eyes, chalices of centuries of memories, settled on Ser Aemon.
"Aemon," his voice was a clean cut through the silence. "After all these years by my side... do you think I have changed?"
The Dragonknight kept his gaze forward, but his rigid posture softened a degree. He considered the question with the weight it deserved.
"Time, Your Grace, is a relentless master for ordinary men," Aemon began, his voice a well-modulated bass. "It is the measure of their lives, the shadow that pursues them. For us... for you, for me, for Duncan... time has become a wide, slow river under our feet. And to watch this river carry away generation after generation, with their ephemeral loves and hatreds... is a constant challenge. A challenge not to become mere impassive specters, not to forget what it feels like to feel the heat of passion or the pain of a true loss. To fight to remain alive, when everything around us tells us we are beyond life."
Aenar made a low sound, a near-laugh devoid of humor. "The problems of an over-extended existence. The loneliness of being a rock in the middle of a river."
He looked at his own hands, which could command dragons and shape kingdoms, but which sometimes felt the emptiness of all they could no longer touch without transforming. Perhaps... perhaps the answer was not to fight the Song, but to find an antidote to his own existential boredom. Something to reconnect him with the brutal, passing beauty of the life he protected, but from which he felt increasingly distant.
"Perhaps," he murmured, more to himself, "it is time for grandchildren. Something new. Someone to remind a dragon why life, in all its noisy fragility, is still worth it."
And, in an act of will as natural to him as flight, he extended his consciousness. Through the blood bond that was the essence of his dominion, he touched the threads of life of his children – Uriel, Gabriel, and Galadriel. A subtle adjustment, a gentle unlocking of potential, an infinitesimal but crucial increase in fertility. A silent gift, a seed of future planted against the aridity of his own eternity.
He then turned away from the heart tree, his back definitively turned to the weeping gods and their stubbornness. New events were approaching on the horizon. The Tourney at Harrenhal loomed, a perfect stage for the petty ambitions of men and, undoubtedly, for the manipulations of the gods.
A thin, predatory smile touched his lips. He would prepare. He would watch. And he would see, with the renewed interest of a scientist observing an ant colony, what in the hells the insolent gods would try to engineer this time. The Song could play, but Aenar Targaryen, the Dragon Emperor, would not be a mere spectator. He would be the conductor who, by whim, sometimes allowed the orchestra to play out of tune, just to see what new melody—or disaster—would arise from the chaos.
Interlude: The Prophet's Conviction
[Rhaegar Targaryen - Tourney Grounds of Harrenhal, 281 AC]
The air at Harrenhal was thick with anticipation. Inside his tent, Rhaegar Targaryen fastened the last clasp of his black armor, his hands steady, his movements precise. A pale, serious reflection stared back at him from the polished shield serving as an improvised mirror. Today was not just another day of tourney. Today was the beginning. His dreams, those visions that had haunted and guided him since childhood, were unanimous: here, in the cyclopean shadows of Harrenhal, true history would begin.
He stepped out into the daylight, and the sight nearly took his breath away. The camp stretched as far as the eye could see, a colorful sea of pavilions and banners from every noble house in Westeros. It was the greatest tourney since the legendary fifty-year celebration of Aenar's reign, before the Empire was even founded. It was a stage worthy of destiny. His gaze swept over the multitude, cataloging potential allies and pawns. And then, he saw it: a crude banner of hide and bones, depicting a mammoth. The Clan of the Giants, from the lands between the Walls. Even they had come. A sign that the entire world was gathering to witness the dawn of a new age.
Just before, he had observed a group of Green Men, in their verdant robes with instruments carved from roots, being led towards the Isle of Faces. A chill ran down his spine. That sacred place, where the First Men and the Children of the Forest had once made the Pact. The gods were moving. The cosmic symphony was tuning up.
As he made his way towards the cursed castle, his thoughts plunged into the murky waters of his prophecies. He remembered the innocence of his childhood, when he had believed, with the absolute faith of a child, that he was the Prince That Was Promised. He dreamed of a sword of light, of defeating a great darkness, of a kingdom of peace born from his triumph. It was a glorious burden, a weight he had accepted with solemn pride.
Until the day the Emperor himself shattered that certainty. The memory still ached, not like an open wound, but like a badly set bone that throbbed with the changing weather. Aenar, with that gaze that seemed to see through his very soul, mocking him, his voice cutting deeper than any blade: "It is not you." The humiliation was as overwhelming as the denial. For years, he had wandered like a ghost, his purpose stolen.
But then, the dreams changed. They became more complex, more specific. And he understood. His youthful arrogance had blinded him. He was not the hero. He was the father of the hero. The prophet who would forge the weapon to destroy the darkness. His son. Aegon. That would be the name. He could already visualize the scene with painful clarity: his little Aegon, no longer a babe, but a youth of imposing stature, wielding the family sword, Truefyre, its blade bathed in a celestial light, piercing the chest of the Great Champion of Darkness. And after... after, he, Rhaegar, with trembling but determined hands, would take the heavy imperial crown from the corpse of Aenar. The crown that symbolized centuries of oppression. He would become the Emperor, not out of ambition, but out of duty, to guide the world into the golden age that would follow.
His dreams did not lie. He knew, with a conviction that burned in his gut, what the true darkness of the world was. It was not a legendary creature from the North, nor a foreign god. It was the Emperor himself. Aenar Targaryen. His immortal existence, his absolute dominion, his power that stifled humanity's future... it was the final curse. He was the tyrant the prophecy demanded be cast down. The "Song of Ice and Fire" was, in truth, the chant of liberation from the Dragon's own yoke.
"Rhaegar?"
The voice of Ser Arthur Dayne pulled him from his reverie. The Sword of the Morning was at his side, his perfect face marked by genuine concern.
"Are you well? You seem... distant."
Rhaegar turned to him, a serene, knowing smile on his lips. Arthur was his most loyal friend, his most trusted sword. But even he had his limits.
"Do not worry, Arthur. I am more present than ever. Here," he said, gesturing towards the castle and the camp, "is where the fall of the darkness will begin."
Arthur frowned, his concern deepening. "Fall of the darkness? What enemy do you speak of, Rhaegar? What do you see that we do not?"
Rhaegar shook his head, a gesture of pity. Poor Arthur, so noble, so pure. He was not ready for the truth.
"You will know soon, my friend. When the time comes, all will become clear. Trust me."
He saw the conflict in Arthur's eyes. The knight's oath to the Imperial Guard, to the Emperor, was a strong chain. Arthur would never turn his blade against Aenar for mere dreams and suspicions. Not yet. He would need to be led to the truth, like all the others.
It was then that a sound echoed, sharp and familiar. The harsh caw of a raven. The same sound that permeated his dreams. His eyes shot up, scanning the branches of a nearby ancient oak. And there it was. A common raven, but... different. It perched, staring directly at him. And Rhaegar could swear, in the depths of his soul, that the bird had three eyes. His blood ran cold, not with fear, but with ecstasy.
There it was. The messenger. The representative of the old gods, the Three-Eyed Raven of legend. Its presence was the final confirmation. The gods were not just watching; they were on his side.
"Did you hear that, Arthur?" Rhaegar whispered, his voice laden with contained emotion. "Did you see? Do not fear. The gods are with us. Our victory is decreed by the very fabric of destiny."
The raven, as if hearing, beat its wings once and took flight, disappearing among the trees. An absolute peace descended upon Rhaegar. Every residual doubt evaporated.
His mind began to work with a feverish clarity. He needed allies. Powerful lords who would see reason, who would understand the Empire was rotten at its core. The Lannisters, with their pride wounded by Aerys. The Starks, honorable and direct. The Baratheons, with their contained fury. He would approach them, subtly, plant the seed of discord. They would not rise for him, Rhaegar, but they would rise for his son. For the future. For the Prince That Was Promised.
The sound of a herald echoed in the distance, announcing a new arrival. "The delegation of House Stark of Winterfell!"
Rhaegar saw Lord Whent hurrying to greet the newcomers. His heart quickened. The Starks. Honor incarnate. They would be crucial. He observed Lord Rickard, the heir Brandon, the young Eddard... and Lyanna. The She-Wolf. A young woman of wild beauty and an indomitable spirit. Something echoed in his dreams, a whisper about her... but the thought was interrupted.
Suddenly, the day was gone.
Not gradually, like dusk, but in an instant. A colossal shadow swallowed the sun, plunging the camp into an artificial, oppressive twilight. The air grew cold. A deathly silence fell, broken only by a beat of wings that was like the rumble of a moving mountain. Every eye turned to the sky.
Balerion, the Black Dread, hovered over them, his wings so vast they seemed to cover the world. And in his saddle, as impassive as a statue, sat Aenar Targaryen. The Emperor. His purple eyes, as always, seemed to scan the crowd, but for a brief, terrifying moment, Rhaegar felt they were fixed on him. A mortal cold seized his spine.
He knows.
Paranoia whispered in his ear. Somehow, the tyrant had discovered his plan. He had come here to intimidate him, to crush his rebellion before it even began.
But then, the conviction returned, stronger than ever, warming him from within. Destiny could not be altered. Aenar's appearance was a test, a final obstacle placed by destiny itself to prove his resolve. It was the dragon roaring against the inevitability of its own fall.
Rhaegar lifted his chin, facing the shadow in the sky. A calm, almost pitying smile touched his lips.
Fly high, tyrant, he thought, his heart beating a triumphant rhythm. Roar while you can. Your flames cannot burn fate. Your shadow cannot cover the light to come. Victory will be mine. The future belongs to my son.
He watched Balerion land in Harrenhal's upper yards, an act of dominance that made the very castle tremble. But to Rhaegar, it was merely the last gasp of a dying age. The stage was set. The prophecy was in motion. And nothing, not even the Black Dread himself, could stop it.
Part 2: The Dance of Gods and the Dragon's Indifference
[Aenar Targaryen - Great Hall of Harrenhal, 281 AC]
The Great Hall of Harrenhal, despite its monstrous scale, was packed. The tourney's opening feast buzzed with the noise of hundreds of lords, knights, and ladies, all intoxicated by wine and the promise of glory. Aenar occupied the center of the high table, an improvised throne of wood and iron that nonetheless couldn't rival the inherent authority of his mere presence. To his right, his immediate family: Gael, serene as a mountain lake; Galadriel, watching everything with analytical eyes; Uriel, absorbed in his own thoughts; and Gabriel, still tanned from his travels, smiling and telling stories. Across from him, Lord Whent, the host, visibly proud and yet overwhelmed by the honor of hosting the Emperor and all the fine flower of Westeros.
Aenar's gaze swept the hall, a general reviewing his army of vassals. All the great lords were there. He saw Mace Tyrell, already portly, talking with his mother, the Queen of Thorns, whose sharp eyes missed little. He saw Jon Arryn in serious debate with Lord Stark. He saw Robert Baratheon, a young bull with an easy laugh and overflowing energy, surrounded by friends from the Vale. And he saw Tywin Lannister, sitting with rigid posture, his green eyes calculating every move, every smile, every potential alliance. The Lion was hunting, that was obvious. Aerys's absence was an invitation to ambition.
It was then that a small, non-human figure silently approached the table. Leaf, the leader of the Children of the Forest, moved with an ethereal grace between the legs of benches and chairs, unnoticed by most nobles, who saw her as little more than an exotic curiosity. She stopped before Aenar and inclined her head. When she spoke, it was in the ancient tongue of the Children, a series of whispers, clicks, and fluid sounds that, to any unprepared listener, would sound like wind through leaves or the crackling of a fire.
But Aenar understood every syllable. The words were sharp in his mind: "The ice that never melts stirs, Aenar-Dragon. And the raven... the raven weaves threads outside its nest. We must speak."
He kept his expression impassive, merely nodding his head once, an almost imperceptible gesture. "Later," he replied in the same tongue, his words a whisper so low it was lost in the hall's hubbub.
His attention was then caught by Rhaegar. The prince was seated with the Dornish, Elia Martell beside him, pale and fragile as porcelain. Around him, a group of lords from the Crownlands, men whose lands and titles depended directly on royal favor, hung on his every word. Rhaegar spoke with a low intensity, his lilac eyes burning with a conviction Aenar found pathetic and dangerous. He was building his faction, right there, under everyone's nose.
His gaze then wandered to the young Starks. Ned, the second son, was talking with Ashara Dayne of Dorne. The boy was visibly awkward, blushing under the woman's stunning violet gaze. Brandon, the heir, laughed loudly and boisterously with some Northern lords, his arm wrapped around Catelyn Tully, whose auburn hair was a fire under the torches. Aenar observed the scene, a pragmatic thought crossing his mind. If the gods, or the stupidity of men, take the father and the brother, I will at least allow Ned to have the Dayne woman as a second wife. He deserves a well-served life, away from the ice and obligation. He saw the look in Catelyn's eyes, already dedicated to Brandon, and knew the future he foresaw for her, should her betrothed die, would be one of grief and duty. But that was a minor detail in the grand scheme.
After the feast, when most had retired to their quarters or continued drinking around smaller fires in the camp, Aenar went to a side room, cold and of smooth stone. Leaf was already waiting, her small figure seeming even smaller in the room's vast emptiness.
"Are the new nests full?" Aenar asked, dispensing with greetings. "Is your species recovering?"
Leaf inclined her head, her large amber eyes glowing in the gloom. "The numbers are stable now, Sun-Dragon. We have grown. The forest sings with more voices. For this, our gratitude."
"Good," he said, his tone neutral. "Now, tell me. What have the idiots trapped in the trees done to send you to me?"
He saw a shiver of nervousness run through the small creature. She hesitated, a rare thing for such an ancient being. "The gods... they told me to bring you a message. They ask... that you do not intervene in the events to come. They say these events are a necessary evil, a... catalyst. They are important for the balance."
Aenar laughed. The sound echoed in the stone room, dry and humorless. "Important? Giving dreams of grandeur and paranoia to a fool, making him believe I am the great enemy of humanity... that sounds strangely specific for a 'catalyst.'"
Leaf shook her head, her mossy hair swaying. "It is not about the dreams of the blood prince, not solely. It is about the other thing. The last Greenseer... he has broken his vows. He acts on his own, against the will of the realm. He is... interfering. More than he should."
"It's obvious," Aenar replied with a sigh of weariness. "I can smell the stench of a jealous, vengeful fool from a league away, even trapped in a tree. But if he is acting against your collective will, then perhaps your gods no longer need him. The next Three-Eyed Raven is not so far off, is it?"
Leaf fell silent, her expression confirming what he already knew. The succession was unfolding, another piece on the gods' board.
The next morning, the tourney began in earnest. The lists were vibrant, the sun shining on polished armor and colorful banners. It was then that Aerys arrived. His entrance was a spectacle of decay. His hair, once well-kept, was tangled and dirty. His clothes, rich, were stained. His eyes spun in their sockets, and his fingers, thin and bony, wouldn't stop twitching. He looked, finally, like the caricature of the Mad King the original history demanded.
Aenar, seated in his pavilion, did not move. But his mind extended, lightly touching the surface of Aerys's consciousness. What he found was a swamp of fear, suspicion, and rage, all amplified by a poisonous haze. He followed the threads of this haze to their sources: the whispers of Varys, the Master of Whisperers, and the carefully measured words of Grand Maester Pycelle. And then he saw it. They were poisoning the Prince. Not with physical toxins, but with ideas, with fear, with paranoia. An insinuation here, a lie there, feeding the fire of Aerys's latent madness.
And then he perceived the final layer. A subtle web of magic, a veil of shadows and illusions woven by the old gods themselves, trying to hide this conspiracy from his sight. They had dared to try to deceive him.
A slow, dangerous smile formed on Aenar's lips. He analyzed Varys. The eunuch was, as many suspected, a descendant of the female Truefyre line, his royal blood diluted but present. That was expected. What surprised him was Pycelle. The old maester was an agent of an anti-magic faction within the Citadel. The existence of such a faction was no surprise – the maesters had always considered themselves the arbiters of knowledge and distrusted any power they couldn't control or categorize. The true surprise was that Vaegon, the Archmaester, his own brother whom he had granted immortality and placed in the Citadel to watch them, had not perceived the betrayal under his very nose. The arrogance of scholars was a universal flaw, apparently.
He felt the eyes of the gods upon him, watching, waiting to see his reaction. His patience, already thin, snapped.
Suddenly, the world around him seemed to stop. The sound of the lists disappeared, the colors faded. Around him, in the empty space of the air, four forms coalesced, manifestations of the forces that had dared challenge him.
A being that shifted form, alternating between seven different appearances – the God of Many Faces.
A figure made of twigs,moss, and eyes that opened all over its body – the Representative of the Old Gods.
A silhouette shrouded in robes that seemed made of liquid fire and shadow– the Voice of R'hllor.
And a man whose face changed with every blink,dressed in the simple grays of a Faceless Man – the Many-Faced God.
They spoke no words, but their presence was a question, a silent challenge.
Aenar felt an intense, almost childish urge to crush their plan, to burn the conspiracy to ashes, just for having tried to hide it from him. The dragon's anger awoke, an ancient and terrible heat.
Then, he spoke. His voice did not come from his physical mouth, but echoed through the very fabric of reality, a wave of pure power that made the divine manifestations themselves tremble. No mortal around heard, for the words were not for their ears.
"FOR SUCH INSOLENCE, TO ATTEMPT TO DECEIVE ME IN MY OWN REALM," the sound was like the roar of a continent splitting. "THIS WILL BE THE LAST TIME. FROM NOW ON, I WILL COMMAND THE DANCE OF THIS WORLD. YOUR INTERFERENCES ARE OVER."
He paused, feeling the dread his declaration caused in the entities. "BUT... I AM IN A GOOD MOOD TODAY. I WILL LET THIS LITTLE DRAMA OF YOURS PLAY OUT. PLAY WITH YOUR PUPPETS. LET US SEE IF YOUR 'CATALYST' WILL PRODUCE THE FRUIT YOU HOPE FOR."
The gods, understanding they could do nothing against him, that his strength was absolute, withdrew. Their forms dissolved into the air, and the sound and color of the world returned. Aenar remained seated, unmoving, as if nothing had happened.
The tourney proceeded. He saw the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and a quick analysis confirmed it was Lyanna Stark, disguised, her fury and skill evident in every tilt. He saw, unsurprised, Rhaegar offer to "rescue" her when her identity was revealed, a calculated gesture to impress and conquer. The final joust occurred, and the bard prince defeated Barristan Selmy, crowning Lyanna as the Queen of Love and Beauty. Robert Baratheon's fury was a volcano about to erupt. Brandon Stark's anger was palpable. The disgust and humiliation of the Dornish was a silent poison.
Aenar watched it all with clinical indifference. Foolish passion. Foolish madness. He saw Lyanna's face, lit by a naive admiration and passion for her silver "liberator." And he saw the triumphant madness in Rhaegar's eyes, who believed he was fulfilling a cosmic destiny. A genuine pity, rare and fleeting, sprouted in him for poor Elia Martell, caught in the middle of that hurricane of ambition and delusion.
Then, Rhaegar looked at him. Across the crowd, his eyes met Aenar's. And in the depths of those mad eyes, Aenar saw not fear, but triumph. The fool believed he was winning, that he was deceiving the great dragon.
Aenar couldn't contain a low, genuine laugh. The sound made Rhaegar flinch, his triumphant expression turning to anger and confusion.
Aenar leaned back in his chair, the smile still on his lips. Their folly was monumental. He wondered how many lords, blinded by promises of glory or freedom, would follow the prophet prince on his suicidal crusade. And he thought, with an almost affectionate anticipation, of how he would have to remind them all, with fire and blood, that he was Aenar, the Dragon. The true power. The only law. And that a god's patience, once spent, was a terrible thing to witness.
Hey guys, what did you think of the chapter? I won't lie to you. I spent these days thinking about how to continue with the story. See, I started writing this story just to put my ideas in written form, and since I had already written the texts, I decided to put them here for anyone who wants to see them too. But I think many go through this, which causes many fanfics to go on hiatus without having the complete story. I had this until the end of The Dance of the Dragons. That's why I think the story dropped in quality after that, especially in the events between the stories of the two series, House of the Dragon and Game of Thrones. Another thing, the story is already in its final stretch. I think I should finish it in a 6th chapter. Since the next one will be about the rebellion, or what should be, and the repercussions of it, and there are only 5 more for the long night, practically, since for obvious reasons, the War of the Five Kings will not happen. One thing that is a small spoiler: the events with Ricard and Brandon will still happen, and the rebellion. We can say that the people were not in control of their actions due to the gods and the Blood Raven. So we see Jon Arryn entering into open rebellion against the crown of the empire even though only Aerys did something against it and not Aenar. Even if it seems and is foolish to anyone, for them it will be an action that makes sense.