From even the greatest of horrors irony is seldom absent (Aegon II replaced by Maegor the Cruel) - JaimeLannister456 (2024)

Chapter 1: Fall

Alicent

Year 127 after the conquest​

Alicent was making her way to her firstborn son’s room, Prince Aegon, and her face was darkened by a rage that burned in her chest like embers. Her anger was largely directed towards her own son, whose actions had triggered a series of unfortunate events. But deep down in her soul, she knew that her anger was just the last straw in a life marked by humiliation and suffering.

Since the day she married Viserys Targaryen, her life had been a succession of affronts and sorrows. The friendship she had forged with Rhaenyra, the king’s eldest daughter, had faded into distance and distrust. Her relationship with her husband was a tasteless joke, a loveless and uncomprehending marriage, only with a looming shadow that lurked in every corner: the memory of Aemma Arryn. For even though the king had never hidden his devotion to his first wife, the deceased’s presence continued to loom over their marriage like a dark cloud that obscured the sun.

The name of the deceased queen was an echo that resounded in her mind and a specter that always accompanied her, even in the most intimate moments with the king. To make matters worse, the love Viserys felt for his first wife extended to Rhaenyra, their only daughter, a spoiled and indulged girl whom the king rushed to satisfy every desire. Meanwhile, her own children grew up in darkness, with a father who completely ignored them, and without an iota of attention from their progenitor. Aegon, Helaena, and the other two boys were like lost souls in the sea of indifference, with no port to sail to and no one to protect them from the storm that loomed over their heads.

How could Viserys have been so negligent as to leave her alone in the education of their children?A mother could never replace the presence of a father, and her children were a vivid example of that. Aegon, the firstborn, had become a foolish, capricious, spoiled brat who gave in to his wildest impulses without thinking of the consequences. And Helaena, the youngest, had developed a strange and withdrawn personality, her senseless babbling a constant concern for Alicent, who feared that her daughter might be losing her sanity.

Only the younger siblings seemed to be an exception. Aemond was a gentle and cultured boy versed in history and culture. Despite being eclipsed by his older brother’s arrogance and conceit, he seemed to have cultivated himself in the shadows, like a flower that grew in the deepest darkness. His intelligence and humility were his strengths, and his ability to recall ancient stories and tales of fallen heroes was so impeccable that even the Maesters of the Red Keep had been amazed.

For his part, Daeron had inherited the best of his Targaryen lineage. Since his birth, he had been an exceptional creature, a true wonder that had left even the most skeptical speechless. His silver hair gleamed in the sunlight, while his violet eyes radiated an energy that could not be explained. Luck seemed to be on his side, as intelligence and charisma were virtues that he possessed in abundance. Alicent could not help but think that if Daeron had been the firstborn, the situation at court would be completely different. However, the reality was that Aegon was the heir to the Iron Throne and his future seemed increasingly dark.

The disappointment she felt towards her eldest son was something that ate away at her day after day. She had trusted that he could demonstrate the bravery and wisdom of the Targaryens, but instead what she saw was a spoiled and depraved young man who reveled in excess and lust. His disrespect towards women and his own family was disgusting and only getting worse. Aegon seemed to not understand the responsibilities that came with being a prince, nor the loyalty and respect owed to House Targaryen.

Instead of seeking the good of his own blood, Aegon preferred to associate with bastards and traitors, mocking his brother Aemond and creating divisions within his own family.He did not realize that those bastards would be the first to stab him in the back when the time came. Alicent was willing to do anything to put an end to such madness. If she did not, those bastards would become their executioners, while the loyalty and unity of the royal family would be undermined by disloyalty.That is why she decided to take drastic measures to stop her son before it was too late.

When she finally arrived at the room, Alicent took a deep breath before entering. She knew she had to go in, had to talk to Aegon about his behavior and put him in his place. But she also knew it would not be easy. Aegon was an impulsive and stubborn young man who believed he could do whatever he wanted and get away with it. She gathered her courage and pushed the door decisively.

“Aegon!” she shouted as she opened the door.

Before Alicent could process everything that was happening in front of her eyes, he let out a loud scream, trying to cover his genitals with his hand and slipping in the attempt.

“Son!” Alicent cried out in horror, rushing to the window to try to grab Aegon’s arm.

She stumbled, falling to her knees on the floor, her body shaking and tears flowing uncontrollably. The sound of her crying filled the room, mixing with the sounds of the guards who came to see what had happened. In that moment, everything she had worked for her family, her whole life at court, vanished into nothing.How could she go on living after that? How could she face her husband, the king, and tell him what had happened?Alicent was on the brink of the abyss, and she did not know how to climb back up. The future was in ruins, and she found herself mourning the loss of her son with a broken heart and a confused mind.

Chapter 1: Fall

Maegor

Year 48 after the conquest​

The days since his nephew Jaehaerys’s betrayal had passed like an endless and ruthless siege, mercilessly punishing his body and soul. Although his victory against the Faith had been indisputable, the fight against Rogar Baratheon’s rebellion and the coronation of the usurper had left their marks. Blood and pain had been his daily bread, and his soul had suffered a mortal blow. Despite returning victorious to King’s Landing, the atmosphere of the palace felt strange and foreign to him. The memories of the defeated enemies’ skulls he carried with him couldn’t even bring a smile to his tired and pained face.He had crushed the lunatic fanatics of the Faith, fixed his pathetic brother’s mess, and how did his ungrateful subjects repay him? By rebelling against their rightful king!

Sword, axe, and arrow wounds covered his arms, chest, and legs, and his once soft and delicate skin looked like a rusted metal sheet. Even his royal cloak was tattered and torn, revealing the dried blood stains that had soaked it. His once splendid and feared silver steel armor was tarnished and scratched by constant fighting and wear. The dragon drawn on his breastplate was covered in the marks of his enemies’ spilled blood. The weight of his armor and sword had become a constant burden he dragged with his shattered spirit.

The war and betrayal had taken a toll on him, each battle leaving its mark on his body and mind. The longing for a legitimate heir had consumed him like a flame in constant agony that devours its own fuel. The news of his niece-wife Rhaena’s escape with her father’s sword had been the last straw. He felt disturbed and exhausted, as if his whole being was about to fade away into the air. His feet and calves throbbed unbearably, but there was no time to stop.

His once imposing and admirable appearance was now desolate. His clothes and armor were covered in sweat, blood, and dirt, and looked older than he did. Each scar on his skin told a story of pain and suffering, and his eyes, once filled with determination and firmness, now showed hesitation and doubt. His cheeks were sunken, his thin lips dry and parched, as if his soul had been drained, leaving only an empty and senseless shell. When he looked in the mirror, he saw only a gloomy and depressing reflection, a nearly identical image of his brother Aenys, whose weakness had led to the destruction of the kingdom.

“Squire!” he shouted, full of anger. “Is there any news of Ser Owen Bush? Has he managed to recruit rabble for my army?”

Milton Hayford advanced towards the Iron Throne, trembling like a leaf in the wind, his black hair tousled and his gaze downcast. He was just a boy, his youth barely touching adulthood, but his eyes burned with a cold fire, full of hatred and contempt towards the man sitting on the throne, him. Not long ago, Maegor had accepted the young man as his squire, a gesture of goodwill for his late uncle’s loyalty. However, that act of kindness now seemed like a distant memory, eclipsed by Lord Hayford’s own betrayal, who had tried to end Maegor’s reign.

Maegor had witnessed so many rebellions and confrontations that he no longer cared much about the presence of a defiant boy before him. His body was bruised and bloodied, and every movement was constant suffering. His wrinkled and scarred skin seemed to have been carved in stone by a manic sculptor. His eyes were dark and cold, with no trace of the light that had once shone in them.

When young Milton’s eyes met his, Maegor felt a wave of repulsion and disgust. But instead of rising up and tearing the boy apart with his own hands, as he would have done in another time of his life, he simply gestured tiredly towards a nearby pike. Lord Hayford’s head, cut off from his body and impaled on a pole, stood there with an eternal expression of horror on his face. For Maegor, that head was just a reminder of human weakness, of betrayal and deceit that never stopped haunting him.

“Ser Owen searched for men in the taverns, but he found tragedy. His body was found castrated and hanging in one of the streets,” Milton looked at him with a barely concealed smile. “Some stories say he was betrayed; there are those who go so far as to accuse your guards of murder, while the city’s whor*s say he tried to abuse a girl and was detained and punished by the crowd. Personally, I haven’t seen the body, others claim that the general was simply a coward and has escaped to join your nephew.”

Maegor found himself in a desperate situation, on the brink of the abyss. Defeat had hovered over him like a cold shadow that threatened to swallow him.The opportunity to recruit a new army had vanished before his eyes, along with any hope of retaining the throne. Darkness enveloped the room, and silence grew more intense by the moment, broken only by the moan of the wind. A shiver ran through his body, as if the breath of death was caressing his neck. Was it the Stranger, one of the gods of the Seven, coming to claim him?The irony of the situation could not be greater. His reign had begun as a fight against religious fanatics, and it seemed that it was going to end because of them.How had he come to that point? Where had he gone wrong?

Maegor reclined on his throne, lost in his thoughts. He vividly remembered the words of the mysterious old man he had met in his exile in Essos. A man who claimed to be a descendant of the ancient Andals, and who practiced a cult even more obscure and enigmatic than any known faith in the Seven Kingdoms. The Church of Starry Wisdom. The name echoed in his mind like a sinister echo. The old man had been a great storyteller, and his tales of forgotten wars and dark secrets had captivated him. But what had intrigued Maegor the most were the teachings of that cult, which the old man claimed was the true faith, from which the Faith of the Seven was nothing more than a degeneration.

Thanks to the old man, he had learned of the existence of ancient and mysterious gods who ruled the universe. Gods beyond the Seven, who observed and guided life on earth, but who could also be ruthless and vengeful. The cult worshiped these entities, offering them sacrifices and performing complex rituals in their honor.Would his reign have been different if he had embraced the faith of the old man?The question floated in his mind as he felt a shiver run down his spine.The idea that death was near assaulted him, and he wondered if the Stranger, one of the gods of the Seven, had come to claim him.

Maegor’s memory was full of gloomy images of those who worshipped the stars in the darkness, murmuring unintelligible prayers. The cult’s acolytes were fanatics who believed in the cold death and the merciless embrace of the afterlife. However, they also spoke of those fortunate enough to have won the favor of the Stranger, a divine power that could freeze time and grant a second chance to the chosen ones. But Maegor was not a man who believed in fairy tales, let alone those who spoke of gods. If the Seven were as powerful as they were said to be, why had they not intervened to protect the Warrior’s Sons who had been scorched by Balerion’s flames? Gods could not change the fate of men; they were only stories to scare children.

Maegor was not a believer. He could not afford the luxury of believing in these fantasy stories. He was a man of action and things were as they were, without expecting anyone else to intervene to change the course of things. But deep down in his heart, there was a small seed of doubt that he could not eradicate.What if, after all, there was some truth in those dark legends that circulated throughout the world? What if death was not the end of everything? What if the power of the gods was real and there was a way to obtain a second life?

“Milton,” a voice sounded from among the pillars of the throne room. “You may retire, Your Grace needs to rest.”

Then, the few remaining royal guards who were still loyal to him appeared, flanking his squire.

“Of course...” whispered the boy.

Soon, Milton Hayford slipped away into the darkness, disappearing from his sight.

“I... ah...” Maegor coughed with difficulty. “I am not tired!”

“Your Grace,” said one of the guards. “It would be better for you to rest, let me help you.”

The steps resonated with a dull echo as the royal guard climbed towards Maegor. He felt weaker than ever, his strength had decreased to a dangerously low level and his body ached in every muscle and bone. Despite his efforts to hide his weakness, a hoarse and painful cough escaped from his throat when the guard stopped in front of him. He tried to curse him, but could only emit a pitiful groan that sounded like a cry of agony in the empty room.

The royal guard began to climb the steps until he stood in front of him. Maegor cursed, or at least tried to. He was too weak and only a mix of coughing and groaning was all he could emit from his mouth. Maegor decided to stop grumbling and go to his chambers to meditate, but when he tried to get up, the royal guard did not try to help him. Instead, he placed his hand on his chest, preventing him from getting up.

Maegor knew he needed rest, but when he tried to get up, the Kingsguard did not offer him any help. Instead, he placed his hand on the king’s chest, preventing him from getting up.What was the Kingsguard doing? Why wouldn’t he leave him alone?Maegor tried to push him, but his arms were too weak to do anything meaningful. The guard seemed stronger than he appeared, his fingers squeezing Maegor’s chest bones tightly. He began to feel a sharp pain in his chest, as if something inside him was about to break.

“What... what does this mean?” he asked.

Maegor waited expectantly, searching for some kind of answer in the Kingsguard’s eyes. But instead, the knight’s hand moved as quickly as it was deadly, exerting an unstoppable force against his chest. Maegor staggered backwards, pressed by the force of the blow until he was trapped between the swords of the Iron Throne. The cold steel of the blades tore his flesh, penetrating his body and tearing his skin. Maegor tried to scream, but the pain was so intense that all he could emit was a muffled groan. Blood began to flow from his body, bathing the floor in its dark shine. He struggled to stay conscious, but every beat of his heart made the blood spurt from his wounds.

“The realm can no longer tolerate your tyranny, Your Grace,” that Kingsguard replied, whispering in his ear.

“Olyv... Er Bra... Cken,” he coughed, spitting blood. “Damn traitor.”

Maegor writhed, trying to catch his breath, as the figure of the Kingsguard faded into the darkness. The darkness seemed to close in around him, and Maegor struggled to get up and face his killer. But his body did not obey him. Every muscle, every bone, seemed to have become an inert mass. His mind filled with impotent fury as his vision blurred.He could feel life leaving him.

Suddenly, the pain stopped, and he found himself standing in endless darkness. There was no pain or fear, only a strange feeling of floating. He looked down and was surprised to find his young, strong body, so different from the one that had just succumbed. He felt confused, not knowing if what he was experiencing was real or a dream.

In the distance, a bright figure stood out against the darkness. Maegor felt a strange fascination and began to walk towards it. As he approached, a mist descended on the darkness, and strange whispers began to fill the void. He could not understand the words, but he felt that they were ancient and dark. The mist slowly dissipated, finding himself in a strange and desolate landscape. There were lifeless bodies everywhere, some decapitated, others crushed by the weight of broken shields, others with broken swords plunged into their chests. The smell of blood and death was overwhelming, and the Star of Seven Points rose above all the chaos, stained with the blood of the fallen.

Was that the end? Had he actually died, only to be dragged into a hell of suffering and pain?He had fought in many battles and had seen much suffering and horror, but he had never felt fear. However, at that moment he was breathless, his heart beating a thousand times a minute.Was that what awaited him in the afterlife? An endless array of horrific visions of death and destruction?

That strange being remained unmoved by his fear, continuing its slow march towards him. The hallucinations that had plagued him until that moment disappeared, leaving behind a deep darkness that spread throughout the place like a veil of death and darkness that covered everything in its path. The stars dimly shone in the dark sky, but there was no light to illuminate his way. Only the monsters, black and terrifying, resembling deformed crows, kept him company, their dark wings beating the air with force, emitting a terrifying croak that made his soul tremble. They were aberrations from another world, created in darkness itself, flying among the murky clouds with an unknown and eerie purpose.

Suddenly, the dark entity came to a sudden stop, and seemed to look at him with its empty, lifeless eyes. It seemed to come from the deepest and darkest corners of the known universe, its presence like a wave of darkness and mystery that enveloped everything. There was nothing in that being that seemed familiar, everything about it was strange and dangerous. His fear increased, as if its mere presence could devour his soul. The silence that reigned at that moment was overwhelming, as if all life had been sucked from that place. And then, with a scream that chilled his blood, the shadow transformed into hundreds of crows, flying away in all directions and disappearing into the darkness.

The air was filled with the beating of the crows’ wings, hundreds of them, like a storm of black feathers rushing towards him. Maegor tried to move, to dodge them, but it was as if his feet were glued to the ground. Suddenly, the crows changed direction, veering around him to form a new silhouette at his side.

The thing that had emerged before him was a spectral figure, humanoid in appearance, but there was nothing human about it. Its skin was covered in dark rags, tattered and battered clothing ravaged by time. Its bare arms hung at its sides, desiccated and tanned, little more than bones covered in leather. One of its hands was mutilated, with all its fingers broken and bloody, indicating a past filled with pain and torture.

But what drew the most attention was its face, a face that seemed to have been carved from death itself. Instead of eyes, the thing had empty sockets that seemed to look into the void, on the edge of the abyss. The nose seemed like that of a skull, devoid of flesh and cartilage, and the dry, retracted lips left rotting and decaying teeth exposed to the air.

The thing approached Maegor with slow and reptilian movements, its presence as cold as ice and as dark as the night. He tried to escape, but was immobilized, as if his feet were nailed to the ground. The thing leaned towards his ear, whispering words in a language he could not understand. The sensation was like a cold needle piercing his brain, a psychological torture that penetrated deep into his soul.

“And so, with the power of my grace, you will descend from the Seven Suns,” it whispered, with a tone that emanated terrible agony.

At those words, as if everything had been a horrible nightmare, the darkness disappeared. And then, he opened his eyes.

“He’s awake!” someone shouted. “It’s a miracle! The prince has awakened!”

“Prince?”Maegor chuckled inwardly.He didn’t know what his destiny was, but he felt that something very interesting was about to happen.

Summary: Maegor is killed by his own Kingsguard, but by a kind of cruel irony, the Stranger decides to send him to the body of Aegon the elder, a drunken fool.Based on the TV show

Maegor will not be a brainless idiot who just wants blood. He was ruthless, but he only really became “cruel and psychopathic” after the brain damage he suffered in the trial of seven and his whole obsession with having children. Neither of those two things will be an issue here.

Chapter 2: Rebirth

Alicent

Year 127 after the conquest​

Alicent wanted that nightmare to end. Ever since the accident that had left Aegon unconscious and bedridden, she could not stop blaming herself for it. It had been two nights since she had slept and that was reflected in her body; large dark circles had appeared under her eyes, and her body got tired just walking a few steps, making her dizzy, giving her annoying headaches with nausea. However, that was preferable to the horrible nightmares she suffered on the rare occasions she fell asleep. Despite Ser Criston Cole and Viserys’ insistence that she rest and sleep, whenever she tried, Alicent dreamed of Aegon falling from the window. Images of her trying to hold her son by the arm, all to no avail, always gnawed at her mind; making her wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, sweat pouring down her body and almost breathless. The few times she did manage to fall asleep, it was always spasmodic, filled by horrendous nightmares in which Aegon died, over and over again, making her guilt and pain increase.

Her only source of motivation and illusion was that Aegon was not dead, or at least, as the Grand Maester said;he was not dead yet. Aegon did not react to stimuli, he kept his eyes closed and needed assistance all the time, some told her that it was not living and that it was more merciful to end the life of her son, her beloved and precious son... But, the slightest of hopes was enough to make a mother move to wind and tide so that they would not say that her firstborn was dead. The moment Larys Strong told her about those horrible whispers of the courtiers, she had burst into Viserys’ room. That day, her face flushed with anger, her red eyes watering, and her voice the firmest and most resolute of her life; she had asked the king to cut out the tongues of all who would suggest murdering her son.”I know you do not love me, Viserys, but he is your son, Aegon is your son, your firstborn!”. The next day, two ladies-in-waiting of Princess Rhaenyra, along with three castle servants, were hanged and displayed in the fortress courtyards. By royal decree, from that moment on, anyone who commented maliciously on Aegon’s health would be executed without trial.

For once, Viserys had finally acted like a decent father, and because of that, as long as Aegon’s heart continued to beat, no one would ever propose to end his life again. However, Alicent could not trust just any servant to look after Aegon... She did not know if any of her ladies-in-waiting or castle maids served or obeyed other masters. After all, Prince Daemon still retained allies in the city and Princess Rhaenyra had many friends within the court. It was for all these reasons that she decided to take personal charge of her son’s care and grooming; spending day and night at Aegon’s side, letting no one else touch him or come near him. Her father had sent her letters full of fury upon learning of this, for he said it would cause her political power to wane, leaving the window open for Rhaenyra to increase her influence among the council and nobles. Of course, she refused to answer any of those letters, her father did not understand the feelings a mother had for her first child.

“Aemond, pass me those wet cloths,” she ordered, “it’s time to clean your brother. You clean his legs; I’ll wash his hair.”

The boy nodded, letting out a big yawn in the process, Alicent smiled as she watched him; despite everything, Aemond and Aegon were brothers. She remembered perfectly well how it was that the little boy began to help her to look after his brother. On a rainy and stormy night, she had woken up in the middle of a nightmare, but she was not alone, Aemond was standing in the doorway, watching her; he had heard her muttering nonsense while she was in the middle of her nightmares and had rushed to her aid. Seeing him, Alicent hugged him, holding back her tears, and he replied,”I will help you, mother. You will never again be alone in your sorrows.”From then on, Aemond accompanied her almost every day.

“Mother!” cried Aemond in shock, “He moved, his leg moved!”

Alicent felt her heart begin to race. Immediately, she carefully examined her son’s legs.

“Pass me one of those needles,” she ordered the boy. “In these cases, the Grand Maester said to prick him lightly to see his reaction.”

The mind played very cruel tricks on people and sometimes created illusions of events that were not real. That is why the Grand Maester told them that in case they saw any strange movement in Aegon’s body, the quickest way to check if it was something real or if it was a mere hallucination, was to gently prick her son’s body with a needle, in case he reacted, they should call him immediately.

“Here it is, mother,” he said, handing her a small needle, pointing with his hand to the place where he had seen the movement.

Alicent’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of her chest. Was it possible? Was Aegon going to wake up? A tumult of thoughts raged through her mind, but she quickly pushed them away; she needed to concentrate.

“Here we go...” Alicent poked one of Aegon’s legs. “He’s done it! He’s moved!”

Fear, guilt, joy, agony, and laughter. All these feelings and expressions were mixed together. Without realizing it, Alicent began to cry, unable to say or express anything concrete, for her mind was a stormy chaos. As if a huge weight had been lifted from her back, she rubbed her eyes, wiping away the tears, then staggered and, with her back against a wall, fell into a squat.

“Call the Grand Maester!” she ordered, letting out a faint smile.

Chapter 2: Rebirth

Maegor

Year 127 after the conquest​

“He’s awake!” someone shouted. “It’s a miracle! The prince has woken up!”

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a bunch of blurry faces he didn’t know, however, one of those faces, that of a woman, seemed strangely familiar to him. That female silhouette remained standing by the head of the bed, her hands covering her open mouth in an expression akin to surprise and joy. Her appearance was comforting and she exuded a great sense of confidence... when his sight became clearer, he immediately understood. The first thing that came to his mind when he saw that woman clearly was Ceryse Hightower, his first wife. She was just as pale and haggard as he remembered her before she died, yet she looked younger and less haggard. Had he traveled back in time? Was this his wedding night? That would have been a horrible punishment, for he would be forced to go through again all that helplessness he felt due to his inability to have children. Was it a cruel joke of the gods? Was it his punishment for having murdered so many peasants?

But when he began to analyze her in more detail, he noticed key differences with Ceryse Hightower; the woman glaring at him seemed taller, with shorter hair and less milky skin than his wife. In addition, something he could not identify, screamed inwardly at him that she was not his first wife, but then, who was she?

“Aegon!” she cried, pouncing on him. “My precious son, you’ve finally woken up!”

Maegor had no time to react, as the woman reached out and pulled him into a breathtaking embrace. However, for some reason, his body did not react negatively to her touch, in fact, that reminded him of something... That warmth seemed similar to the one he felt when his mother, Visenya, had embraced him the moment he awoke from his long coma, a coma that had been provoked by the trial of the seven.

“I’m so sorry!” She cried, “I’m really sorry, my son!”

Aegon? did he mean his father? son? Maegor was confused, a faint whimper being the only thing he could get from his lips. As if that was a sign, the rest of the men surrounding his bed stepped forward towards her, grabbing her and pulling her away from him. Aegon looked at the men and immediately felt a great sense of disdain. He remembered perfectly well how a Maester dressed, after all, he had personally executed several of them. No doubt, by the chains hanging from their necks, those men were Maester, and one, the oldest, was clearly the Grand Maester. Why was he surrounded by those vipers? Who was that woman? Why was she calling him Aegon?

“My queen!” shouted the Grand Maester. “We do not know the physical and mental condition of the prince; no one should touch him.”

After a brief moment, the woman, whom Maegor could identify as ‘queen’, regained her composure. The queen wiped the tears from her face and nodded her head.

“Well,” the Grand Maester pulled up a chair beside the bed, sitting down and looking him in the eyes, “Can you lift your torso, My Prince?”

Maegor took a deep breath, if he wanted his questions answered, he had better keep his cool. At least people seemed to address him as ‘prince’, that was already a good thing.

“Of course,” he said dryly, lifting his torso.

“Well, he seems to be following directions properly.” The old man looked at him, examining every part of his body. “There seems to be no muscle damage in the upper body.”

“What the hell are you saying?” he growled, not liking the way that old man was looking at him.

“I apologize, My Prince,” the old man did not flinch, “but we must make sure that the fall did not cause permanent damage. Are you able to move all your limbs?

Maegor grumbled again, he had no idea what they were talking about, nor did he know anything about this ‘fall’, but in the end, he agreed to the Grand Maester’s requests. Then, Maegor got out of bed in one swift movement, leaving everyone gaping.

“Is this enough for you, old man?”

“Aegon!” the ‘queen’ scolded him.

“Don’t worry, My Queen.” The Grand Maester smiled, “I do not like to give free rein to rumors and superstitions, but... it is certainly a miracle that no physical or mental damage is observed in the prince. Anyone else would have died with that fall.”

“Oh, Aegon,” the woman wanted to hug him again, however, now he pulled away from her.

At this reaction, Grand Maester gave him a questioning look.

“My prince, do you recognize this woman?” he asked, pointing to the ‘queen’.

“I don’t recognize her or you,” he replied angrily. “I think it’s about time someone explained to me who you are and what the hell is going on here.”

A stony silence fell over the entire room. The men in the room exchanged worried glances with each other and with the queen. For a moment, Maegor felt he had screwed up, though he didn’t know exactly why.

“Amnesia is common in cases of blows to the head,” the Grand Maester touched his chin with his fingers. “Let’s start again. Tell me, boy, do you remember anything? What do you remember before you woke up?”

Author’s notes​

Chapter 3: Reeducation

Maegor

Year 127 after the conquest​

The Grand Maester winced and partially straightened in his chair, looking at him sternly, his eyes fixed on him. Maegor cursed inwardly, ever since he had awakened and made the mistake of reacting as he had, the incompetent old man had been with him day and night, studying him carefully, for he had said,”We must continue to keep an eye on you, my Prince. If you have amnesia, it is possible that you may have another type of sequelae.”Maegor had accepted this, but he felt nothing but contempt for the maester, not only did he detest him for watching him, but he also hated him because of all the bad experiences he had had in the past with all of his ilk. His mother had once said it well:”They are treacherous rats who cannot be trusted with anything, for they are like vultures; always watching, waiting for a moment of weakness to betray and stab in the back.”

Maegor sighed, at least things had not gone so badly, in fact, it could have been worse. “After all, I am not doomed to repeat my horrible end,”he concluded after pondering the situation. Three days earlier, he had begun to accept that this was not his body and this was not his life either, he had not traveled to the past, but to the future. Maegor had been about to fall from surprise when he learned from the maester’s mouth, that this was not the year he had died or taken the throne, no... It was almost eighty years later! One hundred and twenty-seven years after his father, Aegon the Conqueror, had taken the continent with fire and blood.

“Well, it seems that nothing strange has happened,” said the old man, getting up from his chair. “Another day of observation and we can finally conclude that you have not suffered any physical damage…What worries me is your mind”

Hearing that it was only one more day before the old fool stopped following him around had made him smile a little. It was true that having the old man around gave him opportunities for finding out more about that time, but Maegor had decided that he had better look elsewhere for information himself. For when the Grand Maester spoke, even though he made an effort to listen to him and even to say something and start a chat from time to time, it was all too tiring and tiring; the old man spoke too slowly and that drove him out of his mind... every time the old rat opened his mouth, a deep sense of sleepiness flooded his body, Maegor felt as if he were immersed in a current, floating adrift.He had never liked the Maesters!

“I have no damage to my mind and it’s about time you stopped talking to me as if I were a child,” Maegor growled, glaring at the maester with angry eyes. “It was just a fall, and just because it gave me some amnesia, doesn’t mean I’m incapable of fending for myself.”

“Eh... you are right, My Prince. I apologize if I led you to believe that I think that,” he gave a nervous chuckle.

Maegor felt something inside him when he saw the nervousness in the old man, in a way, he felt alive again; he had great energy, the same vigor he possessed just before all the betrayals of his own family left him disturbed and bitter. He no longer had to worry about his rebellious and ungrateful nephew, nor about the failed attempts to have a child with all his wives. A second chance... that was a second life, and he would take it at any cost.

“Now that that is clear, is there another room where I can go to sit and reflect?” he asked. He wanted to look for some books and better analyze his situation. “Is there a private library that is not heavily used?”

Maegor felt like a fool to ask that question, for he had built much of the Red Keep. However, after slipping away from the old man for moments, he had taken the opportunity to take a few glances around the rooms of the fortress. It didn’t take too much looking to realize that there were many places he didn’t know. It had been almost eighty years since his cruel and unjust murder, it was obvious that some things would be different.

“There is a library.” The old man replied, touching his chin. “It was built by your great-grandfather, the old king, Jaehaerys. It was created as a personal study and not as the main library, so it is not very crowded.”

Maegor swallowed saliva at the revulsion he felt at having heard the traitor’s name, but that was not the time to vent.

“Where is this library located?”

“It’s by the courtiers’ quarters, this way, to the right, at the end of the corridor.” The maester made a small drawing on a piece of paper, very simple, just to serve as a guide. “There should be no one there.”

“Thank you. If my mother asks for me, will you be so kind as to tell her that I’ve gone to get some sleep?”

“I’ll tell her,” He promised with a smile. “There’s no harm in that.”

After that, Maegor finally got rid of the old man and after a few minutes, he had managed to reach the old library. To call the place “a small study” was too silly, for that library was the size of two private chambers. Entering the room, Maegor stopped in his tracks to admire it. There were numerous wooden shelves attached to the walls, those shelves must have contained at least three or four hundred books, more than he had ever seen or gathered. There were of all qualities, some lined in plain cloth or carved leather, others, those of the highest quality, had covers of gilt thread, and some, very few, of wood.

Maegor had never been known to be much of a reader, that he had to admit. However, he was no ignorant illiterate, his glorious mother had always told him that it was fine to prefer the sword to the book, but it was better and wiser to have knowledge of both. Besides, a good warrior always studied the tactics and strategies of those who preceded him, all that was recorded in books and he had read many of them. It would have been a huge hassle to have to open each book, one by one, to find out if they contained what Maegor needed, but, fortunately, a small red oak wood sign, hung above each shelf; dividing them into simple categories. War, Diplomacy, Faith, Andals, First Men...And to think all of that was built by his damn nephew.Maegor searched each sign, hoping for one that most closely matched what he wanted, until he finally found it, history.

Maegor held his breath. Even on that one shelf, there were too many books. He was already beginning to feel overwhelmed by being among so many of them. Maegor sighed and began to read them one by one;Rise and Fall of Old Valyria, Westeros Before the Conquest, History of Dragons...for a moment, as he read them, he thought of his weak and foolish brother, Aenys. His brother ‘compensated’ for his pathetic physical weakness by reading for hours, lost in vast halls filled with useless knowledge. When Maegor confronted him about his tardiness in reacting to the civil war in The Vale, Aenys was gathered with dozens of Maesters from all over the realm, awaiting his advice. Maegor had gone into a rage at the sight, for while the kingdom was falling into ruin, his pathetic brother was awaiting the deliberations of a council of idiots. Aenys was too incompetent to understand, and his only reply was,”Brother, what counsel is better than that of great minds? Who are wiser than the firm, relentless, precise hand that gathers knowledge? Who can know these lands better, than those who have recorded their history on parchment?”Of course, it was not the parchments that had crushed the rebellions and struck fear in the eyes of Jonos Arryn; it had been he, with the power of might, fire, and blood.

Fortunately, Maegor had brought along a good bottle of red wine; he had taken it from the kitchen and that had been a great decision. He paused, pouring himself some, hoping it would make all the effort he was putting in more bearable.”Let’s move on,”he thought:The Lost Kingdom of Sarnor, The Origins of the Maesters... Jaehaerys I Targaryen; peace after tyranny! “But what a stupid title for a book!”Maegor scoffed, his nephew must have been a very proud man to have a book about himself in his own library. As ridiculous as the title was, it certainly should be able to provide him with more context about the state the seven kingdoms were in. Maegor didn’t even want to imagine the mess the continent was in after his nephew usurped his throne.

So, with some curiosity, he began to read:Many things can be said about Maegor, The Usurper, The Kinslayer,The CRUEL, however, none of them is good.

“But what the hell?”Maegor growled as he read all that nonsense.

Nothing good could be said of his reign?He had fixed the chaos caused by Aenys’ incompetence, crushed dozens of rebellions, and subdued all those religious fanatics. Maegor swallowed saliva to moisten his mouth, which had suddenly gone dry with disgust. Was he supposed to stand there, reading all those slanders? Could they make things even worse? Maegor was about to destroy that book, however, he decided to calm down and take a breath before doing so. Of course, that was a book dedicated to his traitor nephew,THE TRUE USURPER. It was logical that it was full of lies or half-truths. Maegor made an effort and began to read again. Leaving aside the obvious lies talked about him, there were certainly some very interesting details that would serve him well.

So, time flew by until it finally reached the final part:With his heirs dead, refusing to decide himself as his tyrant uncle would have done, Jaehaerys The Glorious, called a great council in the year 101 after the conquest. The council was held at Harrenhal and there attended by lords from all corners of the realm... blah blah blah... In the end, the noble lords assembled at the congress chose Prince Viserys Targaryen as the new heir to the Iron Throne and, although he was not present at the final deliberations, King Jaehaerys I named him Prince of Dragonstone. Establishing the precedent that men were given preference in inheritance over women.

“Propaganda and pure lies,” Maegor thought with contempt, throwing the book to the floor. “That usurper and that bitch of a wife of his spread their legs before the faith and the maesters, humiliating themselves just so they could write all this nonsense.”

Maegor wrung his hands. For a moment he would have liked Jaehaerys to still be alive, even as an old man, a walking corpse, so he would have killed him that night. Murdering old men was not honorable, but that was not about honor; honor had nothing to do with it. His revenge was a personal matter. Maegor was angry, for he would have to live with the idea that he could never confront his nephew. The ghosts of betrayal would not leave him alone even in his best dreams.

He shook his head, pushing those thoughts away. He needed to concentrate on what he had gone after in the first place. Maegor had yet to meet his ‘father’ in person, but the queen had already mentioned him by the name of Viserys, so it was very likely that the Viserys spoken of in the book, was his father. That along with the fact that no one stopped calling him ‘prince’, undoubtedly meant that he was the heir to the throne. At that confirmation, Maegor smiled, not even all the betrayals of his family had managed to keep him away from the Iron Throne, after all, he was the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. The gods, fate, or the demons that had given him another chance, all knew that truth.

Maegor sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was extremely exhausted from so much reading. At least he wasn’t wandering around blindly anymore. Maegor sat down in one of the armchairs in the room, beginning to close his eyes. “Next is to meet with you, Father.”That was the last thing Maegor thought before he fell asleep.

Chapter 4: Meeting I

Maegor

Year 127 after the conquest​

It had been more than a week since he had awakened in this new reality, and after the Grand Maester finally left him alone, the days at King’s Landing were all similar: exercises, books, history practice, lessons with the sword and of course, continuing to pretend to have amnesia so that no one would ask him uncomfortable questions. Fortunately for him, no one had doubted that his initial confusion was due to a sequel caused by ‘the accident’. Enjoying almost complete freedom now, in all those days, Maegor kept discovering interesting things that he found surprising and ironic, one of them being that his new ‘mother’, Queen Alicent, was a Hightower.That explained the resemblance she bore to Ceryse!Of course, that had caused him great displeasure at first, remembering his first wife always left a bittersweet taste in his mouth... However, his new body seemed to react instinctively to the queen, feeling freer, and in a way, more ‘protected’ by being close to her.No doubt those were the remnants of the boy they called Aegon.

“Focus, My Prince” shouted Ser Criston Cole. “Your mother told me that you have no physical damage. Amnesia is no excuse for neglecting your lessons!”

At that comment, Maegor smiled arrogantly. They had been training for more than three hours on the parade ground, and his body was already starting to get tired, in fact, his forehead was already soaked and glistening with sweat. Despite the fatigue, the reality was that all that training made him feel really alive, it was clear that it did not compare to a real battle, but that was a thousand times better than being locked in a room with an old maester. In fact, what he had enjoyed most about those days were the hours he spent practicing and getting his new body in shape. Fortunately, it had turned out that his ‘personal trainer’ was quite good with the sword. Even if that was just training, Maegor could spot a good warrior when he saw one, and without a doubt, Ser Criston Cole was one of them.

The first days he had trained with the knight had been difficult, because even though Maegor had fought in a thousand battles, he was not used to that body.What a weak and useless boy!He thought every time he saw his reflection; his body was lanky, but he had hardly any muscle mass and in practice, it was as if he were made of paper. That’s why, in the beginning, he tired easily, running out of breath a few minutes after starting the training. Throughout this period of adaptation, Maegor limited himself to observing and following the instructions of the knight, until he lay on the floor from fatigue. But as the days went by, each time he lasted a little longer before collapsing exhausted on the ground, managing to keep up the pace for a few hours. Maegor had also regained his old confidence, training with his own style and without imitating Ser Criston. Although it was clear that his new body was a long way from being anything comparable to his old one.

“I wonder if this body will develop any of my old physical characteristics,” he thought. “I hope so.”

Maegor tried to put aside his exhaustion, fixed his gaze on the knight, and after taking a deep breath, threw himself on Ser Criston. To his bad luck, his body, besides being weak, was also extremely slow and a few hours of training would not magically change that. Ser Criston Cole rammed him before he could reach him, then grabbed him hard and twisted his arms behind his back, immobilizing him.

“My prince!” exclaimed in alarm one of the servants his mother had assigned to assist him. Aegon nodded to him, indicating that he was well.

“Ha ha ha, they all do it,” laughed the knight. “Sweet Summer Child, too predictable in your movements.”

Inwardly, Maegor laughed as well. He knew perfectly well that he would never take him down with the pathetic state his body was in.”Fool, just waits a few more months, maybe a year and it will be enough to outdo you in every duel.”

“My Prince, I know perfectly well that you want to stand out and end any battle with a triumphant lunge,” continued the knight, releasing his arms and letting him free. “But in a real battle that doesn’t happen, your enemy is not going to stand by and do nothing while you recklessly throw yourself at him.”

“Well, you let me get too close before you slowed me down,” Maegor scoffed. “Maybe someone else is the reckless one.”

Before the knight could answer him, their small talk was interrupted by a voice behind them.

“You could not have beaten him, even if he stood still waiting for the onslaught,” said the man, pointing to Ser Criston. “He is a White Cloak, and you are still a novice with the sword, and believe me: that makes all the difference, My Prince.”

From a corner, a rough, imposing man appeared, with a gaze as cold as ice. It was Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Despite the man’s advanced age, he emitted an imposing and commanding aura. Maegor had barely interacted with Ser Harrold and had only recently learned who he was.

“Lord Commander,” said Ser Criston Cole, standing at attention, “I hadn’t seen you here.”

“That’s because I’ve just arrived,” he replied dryly.

“Ser Harrold, it’s always a pleasant surprise to see you, but... Why have you come?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

Maegor watched the old man closely. What little he knew of Ser Harrold came from what he had seen in the fortress in those few days or from what Ser Criston told him in his moments of rest. Maegor had no idea if the old man’s presence was a good thing or a cause for concern. Noticing the questioning look Maegor gave him, the commander made a sort of grimace, curving his lips like a smile.

“I have come by order of your father, King Viserys,” he replied. “He has heard that the Grand Maester has ruled out that you have suffered serious harm. His Majesty wishes to see for himself.”

“Something extraordinary,” Ser Criston whispered lightly. “He has finally learned that he has a son.”

“Oh, so my father wishes to see me?”

“His Majesty awaits you in his chambers,” the old man turned his back on him and began to walk away. “Please don’t be too long.”

“A nice man, no doubt.” Ser Criston scoffed as the old man disappeared from sight. “Well, the king has finally called you.”

Maegor sighed. It was obvious that his relationship with his father must not be very good or at least not close. Even for Maegor, the fact that the king did not visit his son who had been in a coma for days, or that it had taken him more than a week to see him after he woke up, meant that he was not a devoted father.Why ignore his firstborn and heir in such a foolish way?Realizing that, Maegor could not help but draw comparisons to what he had experienced with his real father, Aegon The Conqueror. Aegon had always kept himself aloof, remaining in the Red Keep alongside Aenys, while he was raised solely by his mother, Visenya, in Dragonstone.”I suppose some things never change.”

Ser Criston Cole was still there, standing beside him. Maegor had gone too long without speaking to anyone in a calm and peaceful environment, for before his death he had always been on the lookout for any slightest sign of treachery (¡Although it had been in vain!). That was not a concern,at least at the time. That is why, deep down, Maegor was glad that a self-made warrior like Ser Criston was there to answer his questions. Even if he didn’t entirely like the answers.

“It’s only been over a week, huh?”

“Exactly,” he nodded. “I suppose if your mother’s name were Aemma Arryn, the king would have been at your side from the moment of your fall.”

Maegor was going to ask him more about the relationship Viserys had had with that woman, but the knight changed the subject.

“You’ve improved quite a bit in the last few days, and you look quite tired. You should wash your face and not keep the king waiting any longer.”

After saying that, he left, leaving Maegor in a sea of unresolved questions.Why had the king ignored his heir like that? Who was Aemma Arryn? What was the relationship between his new mother and the king?Too many questions... at least he would finally meet his new father.

Chapter 4: Meeting I

Viserys

Year 127 after the conquest​

Viserys was doing what he enjoyed most, sitting in front of his huge-scale model of the capital, arranging the new buildings that the architects had prepared for him.If only he could sit there all day and forget about the affairs of government forever...In recent weeks, the king had had little opportunity to enjoy his little hobby, for, since the Aegon incident, Alicent had spent day and night caring for the boy, causing him to be more active in the council meetings. That had left him very fatigued and burdened, after all, Alicent had become his own Alysanne Targaryen, taking an active role in the government and relieving him of a huge burden,even though she could never replace Aemma, that was something he would always be grateful for.

Aegon. The boy had met with a freak accident only a few days before, Viserys had not witnessed it and had only learned of it when Aegon was already bedridden, attended by the Maester. Of course, Viserys knew of his son’s hedonistic behavior and as expected, numerous rumors about the incident began to circulate around the Red Keep. Whatever it was, the only truth was that Aegon had fallen naked from the window of his chambers to a balcony on the lower floors, knocked unconscious by the blow. The maester had informed him that there was little hope that he would ever wake up, leaving him in a huge dilemma. On the one hand, the Maester and his own hand, Lyonel Strong, believed it would be more merciful to order a dignified death for Aegon, whereas, his wife refused to listen to those suggestions.

Things had become even tenser when the courtiers and servants of the fortress learned of the situation, for numerous whispers about his son’s health began to spread. Viserys did not like the whispers, after all,Aegon was also his son, a royal prince who was owed respect. So, when he learned who were the most vocal voices on the matter, he did not hesitate to pass a sentence; on pain of death, no one would ever again question the prince’s health. Nearly half a dozen people had been executed for treason, and thanks to that, the murmurs had completely disappeared from the Red Keep.

During all those days, he really wanted to visit him. Aegon was his first son and of course, he loved him, it was just...What could he say, what could he do with that decaying body?Even he had to admit that he had neglected much of his son’s upbringing. Suffocated by the burden of his illness, Viserys barely had enough energy to deal with the council, let alone raise four other children. Besides, Rhaenyra was his heir, so Aegon and the other boys needed no special education that he should give them. That was why he had fully entrusted Alicent with the upbringing of his children... now, with the near-death of one of them,Viserys began to wonder if that had been a good idea, had he been a good father? Had he made the right decisions?

“Your Grace!” shouted the voice he recognized as Harrold Westerling. “Prince Aegon is here!”

“Here we go,” he thought.

“Let him pass.”

Chapter 5: Meeting II

Maegor

Year 127 after the conquest​

Lord Commander Westerling beckoned him into the room, the king had granted permission for him to enter. Maegor entered, closing the door behind him. The first thing he saw inside was a large desk in one of the corners, covered with files and letters. Also, in the center of the chambers, stood a huge set of tables from which rose a massive scale model of King’s Landing; Despite the changes that had befallen the city, Maegor immediately recognized something that filled him with pride and admiration; his greatest architectural achievement during his reign,Dragonpit, a large stone stable for dragons. In front of the huge model sat a half-bald, well-dressed man, but who wore a decayed and haggard appearance. He was almost nailed down, except for a few long, brittle strands of hair falling from the back of his head to cover part of his ears, his face was somewhat round, pale, and spotted with spots resembling moles. That was not the image of a king.That was the king of the Seven Kingdoms? That was what the Targaryen dynasty had been reduced to? That was his father?

“Aegon!” the old man exclaimed as he noticed his presence, rising awkwardly from his chair. “It seems that what the Grand Maester says is true. Look at you, you don’t seem to have any wounds.”

Maegor looked at the man and upon seeing him standing, immediately noticed that one of his limbs was missing, for, where there should have been a right arm, only a long empty sleeve hung. Din doubt, that, combined with the decrepit appearance he displayed, could only mean that the king must be gravely ill.What disease was besetting him? Greyscale? No.Maegor had known sick people contaminated with that plague during his exile in Essos and if it had been that, he would have lost his mind by now. Besides, his body would be covered with thick grayish scales.”If it’s not Greyscale, it’s certainly some kind of leprosy,” he thought.

“Your Grace,” Maegor bowed slightly to his ‘father’. “The Grand Maester has informed you wisely. My body is well, no harm has come to it.”

“I’m glad to hear that!” The king smiled and then began to limp toward him. “There is no doubt that the blood of Aegon the Conqueror runs through your veins, strong as Valyrian Steel.”

After limping along leaning on a cane, the king finally made it to where Maegor was standing. As they stood face to face, the man hugged him as tightly as he could in what seemed like an embrace that would last forever. For a few brief moments, he didn’t know how to react to the situation.He had studied it for days!Secretly preparing himself, creating numerous mental scenarios in which he finally met his new father. However, in all those mental simulations, his ‘father’ appeared as an imposing man, strong and tall, with a hard face and an inquisitive look; just like his real progenitor, Aegon The Conqueror... But the man who was embracing him was nothing like that. Putting aside his musings and trying not to look suspicious, he reciprocated his embrace but pulled away from Viserys as quickly as he could. Unlike what had happened with the queen, his body had not reacted with the same warmth to the man’s touch.

“I wish I could say the same about my mind, Father,” Maegor made a slight groan. “I suppose the Grand Maester has informed you of my amnesia.”

Maegor lowered his head slightly, wanting to look somewhat annoyed and confused. Hopefully, doing so would make Viserys avoid asking him too many uncomfortable questions that might leave him in a compromising position. While the king had not lived up to his expectations, Maegor should not forget that he was before the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and should not underestimate the man’s ability. He suspected that the act was not entirely convincing, though fortunately, the king expressed nothing to corroborate that suspicion.

“Nonsense!” The king smiled warmly at him. Despite the little effort he had made, he could already see a few beads of sweat trickling down his face. “I’ve been told that anyone else would have died with that fall... Maybe your mother is right and it’s a miracle of the gods!”

Maegor laughed internally, “Gods or demons?”

“Father, it is not necessary for you to stand up.” Maegor leaned the king’s shoulder on his to help him sit down. “Please, take a seat.”

“Oh, my good son...” the king sighed as he sat down again. “Even with amnesia you care for this old fool, just like your mother!”

After leaving the king sitting in the chair, and feeling a bit uncomfortable from all the talk, Maegor began to wander around the model of the capital, hoping to start a more interesting conversation, and of course, give him more information.

“Oh... I see that my little creation has caught your attention.” His father smiled at him from the chair. “From what the Grand Maester has told me, it seems you still remember some key things, general facts about the world. Surely you can identify that this is King’s Landing.”

“I could recognize the Red Keep and Dragonpit even if I were half-blind and these figures were made of clay,” Maegor replied, running his fingers gently over the surface of the model. “That is certainly not the case. These figures are elaborately detailed and made of the finest of materials.”

“Wow, I never took my son for a model building hobbyist.”

Maegor looked at his ‘father’ and smiled. It was a somewhat sincere smile, for seeing that miniature city brought back pleasant memories of his past. Certainly, he was not known as a person who locked himself in his rooms admiring and creating scale models, but during the long and expensive constructions of Dragonpit, or the enlargements of the Red Keep, Maegor had ordered some of those models to be made to appreciate the constructions from inside the castle. After all, and specifically, after the great sacrifice the builders made, many people held a foolish grudge against him and it was not wise for him to personally supervise the constructions. Perhaps the king was planning to start new constructions in the city?

“This building, I can’t identify it,” Maegor pointed to a large dome-shaped structure near Dragonpit.

“It seems that amnesia affects more things than I thought!” Viserys let out a soft chuckle. “That’s the Great Sept built by your great-grandfather, Jaehaerys The Conciliator.”

Great Sept!Maegor wanted to scream with rage, but he made an enormous effort to repress that desire. His nephew had been more foolish and weaker than he thought. Jaehaerys should have been nicknamed”The Fool”, what kind of king honors rebels? What kind of ruler submits to their wishes?Maegor did not want to think of all the other mistakes his nephew might have made.

“I remember, uh, one of the Grand Maester’s lessons,” Maegor glared at the sept, “King Maegor destroyed the Sept of Remembrance because of the bloodthirsty uprising and treachery of the High Septon, I wonder if it was a good idea to create a new one, especially one so large. Seen this way, it seems to have been a reward.”

“Oh, yes, Maegor the Cruel brutally destroyed the Sept, murdering hundreds of innocents.” The king sighed. “My grandfather had to deal with the remnants of Maegor’s tyranny, making some concessions.”

Such ‘tyranny’ served to strengthen the dynasty and remind the rebels of the cost of treason.

“I imagine they still remember the cost of the rebellion,” he replied, trying not to reflect his anger.

“Of course, in fact, on every anniversary of that tragic event, the faithful gather outside the sepulcher, mourning the fallen and singing, vigil for the martyrs,” the king replied. “It is a tradition for the king and his heir to attend, to give a minute’s silence in honor of the fallen. My health is not good enough to walk the streets of the city, so your sister takes care of all that.”

What the king had said puzzled him in a way he did not think possible. Not because of the mention of his sister, for he had had more than enough time to learn the basics about his family, but because she was in charge of everything.Why was his sister in charge if only the heir and the king were in attendance?

“My sister?” he asked with confusion.

“Yes, Rhaenyra attended every year, though I don’t know if she will this year due to the birth of her new son.” Viserys smiled, “I always tell her to attend, it’s a good way to gain legitimacy as heiress, you know so that the people begin to accept her as a future queen.”

Maegor held back a maniacal laugh, scrutinizing his father closely, to see if the man was serious or if he was playing some sort of joke on him because of his amnesia. At that, Maegor cracked a smile, in the belief that the king was mocking him, but then, as the seconds passed, Maegor realized that there was not the slightest trace of humor in Viserys’ countenance. He was deadly serious. Despite being the eldest son of the king, he was not the heir to the throne. He liked that even less and it was beginning to sit badly with him. Maegor couldn’t imagine any scenario where that kind of senseless succession would result in anything good for the kingdom. It seemed that the man sitting in front of him, in addition to being physically weak, also had some sort of mental deficiency.The plague, the putrid taint of Jaehaerys seemed to have spread to his foolish descendants. “The throne was mine by right and the throne will be mine again.”He thought full of anger. Maegor was not going to let them take him away from what was his, he was not going to make the same mistake he had made with Aenys; letting his weak brother rule while he willingly accepted exile, they had certainly been his worst mistakes.That was not going to happen again.

“By the way, she often asks me about your health,” Viserys kept smiling, “Maybe it would be a good idea for you to visit her these days. Seeing some familiar faces might help your mind to remember, and you might also meet your new nephew.”

Maegor had not personally seen Rhaenyra, however, in some brief talks with her ‘mother’, Maegor had immediately sensed the disdain Alicent Hightower had for her stepdaughter, now he could get an idea of why that was. Reflecting on it all, Ser Criston Cole’s last comment came to his mind,”I suppose, if your mother’s name was Aemma Arryn, the king would have been at your side from the moment of your fall.”It now seemed clear to Maegor that Aemma Arryn had been the king’s first wife and most likely the mother of his half-sister.It seemed that the house of the dragon was divided again.

“Maybe, father,” he replied, “But now I’d like to spend some time with you… tell me what is that building over there?”

“Ah, how could I forget, that one....”

Maegor listened with little attention to his ‘father’, for he was enraged inside, the revelations had not pleased him at all. However, he did not want to appear angry, least of all in front of the king. Luckily, despite being known as a brutal warrior, the truth was that thanks to the upbringing of his real mother, Visenya Targaryen, he could appear very eloquent and convincing when he wanted to. Thus, regaining his composure, for several hours and using the huge model, Maegor chatted with Viserys, who suspected nothing.It was well said that the best lies were usually the simplest. Maegor had obtained a lot of useful information from that trivial conversation, it only remained to organize it to focus it on the implications it would have in the future.

Chapter 6: Bastards

Maegor

Year 127 after the Conquest​

The time elapsed since the meeting with Viserys weighed on Maegor like a slab of granite. He had spoken with his “father,” the current king of the Seven Kingdoms, but it had not been a pleasant conversation. He could not hide the sense of humiliation and shame that engulfed him upon learning of the decadent state in which his own dynasty found itself.A weak and dying king occupied the Iron Throne, a lamentable situation that exposed the fragility of the Targaryens.

But the humiliation did not end there. To make matters worse, the king had decided to name his own daughter as his successor, in a decision that broke with all the traditions and customs of the house.How could Maegor allow that affront to continue?He knew he was the best option to rule, the true heir to the throne.He had been brought back to lead and would not allow anything to stand in his way to power. He would not allow the Targaryen dynasty to sink into decadence and oblivion, as so many other noble houses had done in the past.

On the other hand, the order from his “mother” to intensify the lessons with the Maesters turned out to be a torment for him, who had reluctantly accepted to not displease her. The sessions were conducted by young faces brought from the Citadel, but that did not make the task any more bearable for Maegor.He still despised those rats who had only made his life impossible during his rightful reign. Nevertheless, he decided to take advantage of their knowledge and raise the issue of succession in House Targaryen, hoping to obtain more information about the circ*mstances that had led the king to make such an irrational decision. But the Maesters kept a sepulchral silence in response to that question, as if they feared the reprisals of the old monarch or even something worse.“Viserys must have forbidden to speak on the issue.”

In the Red Keep, the question of succession was as dangerous as a bottomless pit in the middle of the night. The mere mention of that topic resulted in whispers, cautious glances, and a dense silence that thickened as if it were a dark mist. The Maesters, with their metal chains and astute looks, watched Maegor with some surprise when he dared to ask something related to the subject. But despite everything, the young prince managed to obtain some important pieces of information from those lessons, which allowed him to connect some dots and discover some hidden truths.

One of the most surprising things he discovered was that his “father,” King Viserys, had been the last dragon rider of Balerion, the most imposing and powerful beast that had flown the skies of Westeros in past times. For Maegor, that news was shocking for several reasons: first, because Viserys had been able to tame a dragon of such magnitude, which was an impressive feat. Second, because that meant that Balerion, his old friend, had died.That couldn’t have been natural!

Balerion was the king of dragons, a legendary creature that had been feared and respected for centuries. His disappearance was a fact that deserved to be investigated, and Maegor was determined to find out more about that mysterious death.Had it been an act of betrayal? A powerful enemy who had managed to defeat the beast? Or perhaps an inexorable destiny, a natural end for a creature that had lived beyond its time?He didn’t know for sure, but he was determined to find out.

His suspicions were confirmed when he learned that his niece, Aerea Targaryen, had ridden the dragon before Viserys himself. Aerea was the daughter of the traitorous sons of Aenys, who had endangered the stability of the Targaryen dynasty. It was not surprising that Aerea had lost control of the dragon, as the seed of Aenys had surely contaminated the young Targaryen and made her a danger to her own family. That was just another example of how the seed of Aenys and his descendants had weakened and dishonored House Targaryen.“Aenys and his descendants causing the fall of the dynasty, nothing new.”But the real surprise was discovering that Balerion had been injured in Valyria, the cursed city that was believed to have been destroyed by the Gods.How had the dragon managed to get there? What had really happened there?

Maegor continued his rigorous training at the Red Keep, dedicating himself to improving his body and combat skills. Although his days passed in the tedium of lessons with the maesters, the intensity of his training with Ser Criston Cole and his younger brother, Aemond, provided a welcome relief. Under the watchful eye of Ser Criston Cole, one of the most respected warriors in the keep, he learned to handle different weapons, from the sword to the mace, passing through the greatsword and the war axe. Every move he made was precise and deadly, as if he had been born for combat. But he not only improved his combat technique, but also his body. His muscles grew over time, his bones strengthened, and his senses sharpened. He could run faster, jump higher, and deliver a stronger blow. He had acquired the agility of a cat and the strength of a bear.

But not all of his progress was due to his mentor’s instruction. It was also due to his relationship with his “younger brother,” Aemond. Although the boy was somewhat withdrawn and physically fragile (after all, he was the son of the useless Viserys), Maegor discovered that he had a gift for combat. In his eyes, there shone a spark of determination and courage that reminded him of the great warriors of House Targaryen. He saw no hint of Aenys’ degeneration and weakness in his eyes.The boy had potential.

His “brother” was an enigma he was determined to decipher. His shy and evasive behavior seemed to hide something more. However, martial training required all his attention and time, so he had no opportunity to find out more about him. But as the long hours in the courtyard of arms passed, he had the opportunity to get to know Aemond a little better. With each session, Maegor noticed how he was striving to improve, despite his weak and sickly body.It was evident that there was a strong and determined spirit inside him, one that Maegor began to admire and respect.

Finally, as their trust in each other grew, the truth about Aegon’s downfall was revealed to Maegor by Aemond. The previous possessor of his body had been an arrogant brat who had mocked Aemond for not being able to tame a dragon.Maegor could not believe the stupidity and cruelty of his predecessor, and felt grateful for not inheriting such personality traits. In fact, recalling his own experience with Balerion, he thought that perhaps Aemond was just waiting for the right dragon to ride.

He had also found an unparalleled mentor in Ser Criston Cole, a man of unmatched courage and skill on the battlefield. The hours he spent training with him in the yard were the closest thing to happiness he could experience.He always appreciated the company of true warriors. The way they challenged each other, using every weapon at their disposal, demonstrated the true spirit of the warrior.

In these practices, Maegor found the opportunity to prove his worth, to show that he was capable of facing any adversity and coming out victorious. The friendly rivalry that existed between them was a constant source of motivation, a flame that kept his passion for combat alive. Although Maegor had not reached the same level of skill as Cole, he felt more secure and confident than ever, knowing that he was improving every day.

The presence of Ser Criston Cole had become a comfort in his training journey, but his loyalty to the queen was a delicate issue. Despite that, the knight was a man of his word and always fulfilled his duty, which made Maegor respect him even more. Occasionally, his excessive concern for his physical integrity was evident, which Maegor found somewhat irritating. But deep down, he knew that his attitude was a sign of care and loyalty.

Ser Criston was not only an excellent mentor in the discipline of combat, but also a good storyteller. He always had an interesting anecdote or legend to share with the boys, something that Maegor greatly appreciated. In addition, his sense of humor was unusual but funny, often mocking the customs and culture of Dorne, which unleashed his laughter.After all, everyone knew that the Dornish were nothing more than dogs who had refused to be civilized by their superiors.

Another curiosity was that Ser Criston Cole’s face always tensed up when mentioning Rhaenyra’s name. His gaze would turn cold and calculating, and his pursed lips reflected the contempt he felt towards her and her lineage. It was not difficult for Maegor to perceive that there was a history between them, one that had undoubtedly not ended well. Perhaps she had rejected his advances or committed some betrayal that he could not forgive.What was clear was that Cole had no respect for the queen’s children, whom he derogatorily referred to as the “Strong Boys.” Maegor sometimes wondered if that was due to his imposing physique, which seemed to rival his own, or if there was some inside joke or mockery that everyone knew except him.

“Well, My Prince. Not bad for your first training with a war mace,” the knight said with a smile. “Now it’s time for both of us to rest a bit. We’ll have visitors very soon.”

Maegor shook his head with a tired grunt, feeling the burning in his arm muscles and the pain in his hand bones. The war mace was an imposing combat tool, but its weight and shape challenged the familiarity Maegor had developed with swords.How was he supposed to handle that thing with precision and skill?His thoughts drifted to his old weapons, the Dark Sister and Blackfyre, which had been extensions of his arm. Without them, he felt like a child learning to walk again, disoriented and vulnerable.

“Did you expect something different, My Prince?” Ser Criston said with a slightly malicious smile. “A mace is not a sword. It will take time for you to get used to it, but I’m sure you’ll soon master it.”

Maegor clenched his teeth in anger, his hands still sweaty from the effort. Then, with a grunt of rage, he threw the mace to the ground, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.How could such a crude and heavy weapon be of any use in real combat?His strangeness was due to the fact that he was a warrior who had become accustomed to wielding the two most deadly swords forged in Valyrian steel that the world had ever seen. The Dark Sister and Blackfyre. Maces and other common weapons did not give him the same sense of power as his own swords, which felt like a natural extension of his body, a way to extend his reach and fighting ability. With their perfectly calibrated weight and balance, his swords made him feel invincible, capable of defeating any opponent that came his way.

Maegor leaned against a wall in the training yard, feeling the dampness of the wall on his back. Frustration overtook him completely. “I feel like a clumsy novice.” “I need my Valyrian steel sword,”he muttered to himself as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath to try to calm himself.

“Of course, you can’t expect to master something like that in just one day. But I’m sure you’ll adapt soon. You’re a talented warrior,” Ser Criston said.

Maegor took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to fail in his preparation. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms depended on him.

“I know, Ser Criston,” he finally said. “I’ll work on it. But for now, I need to rest.”

“Rest?” Well, I guess I’ll have to tell the ‘respectable’ Princess Rhaenyra,” Ser Criston looked at him with a mischievous smile, “that you won’t be able to practice with her children, that you’re too weak.”

Maegor glared at Ser Criston, feeling anger take over his body.Weak? He was not weak!Although he may not have been in his best physical shape, Prince Targaryen would not allow anyone to doubt his strength or ability.

“My strength is sufficient to continue training, I don’t need to rest,” Maegor replied through clenched teeth. “And what do you mean?

Why would his sister’s children be training in the courtyard?It’s something I’ve never seen before. Since I woke up and started training, the only person who occasionally approached the courtyard was Ser Laenor Velaryon, my sister’s husband and father of her children. Maegor wondered if perhaps Rhaenyra was worried about him and had decided to come see how he was progressing. But it didn’t make sense, as she hadn’t cared about him before.

Ser Criston looked at him with a mocking smile.

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know that Princess Rhaenyra’s children also train in the courtyard. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed, but I guess your mind is too busy with your own concerns after the amnesia.”

“That’s strange, shouldn’t they come to train more often with their father, Ser Laenor?”

Maegor didn’t know how to interpret Ser Criston’s smile, but he found it deeply disturbing. There was something in his expression, a mix of malice and cynicism, that made him feel uncomfortable. The knight’s eyes seemed to shine with a strange intensity, as if he knew something Maegor didn’t. And the laughter that burst from his throat was so loud and discordant that Maegor couldn’t help but be on guard.

Even his brother, who used to be so calm and reserved, joined in Ser Criston’s mocking laughter. Aemond covered his mouth with his hand but couldn’t contain his laughter. The laughter filled the courtyard, as if they were mocking something that only they knew. Maegor felt out of place, as if he had missed some inside joke that everyone else was sharing.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, trying to hide his growing discomfort.

“Haven’t you seen it, Aegon?” Aemond responded with a malicious smile. “It seems there’s something you’ve missed.”

Maegor frowned. He didn’t like being treated like that.

“See what?” he asked, now with a hint of anger in his voice. “I’ve spent almost all my time with maesters, lying in bed, or training with you. I’ve barely even met my father... It’s not like I’ve been able to see many other things!”

Ser Criston, who had been laughing along with his brother, stopped and bowed respectfully to Maegor.

“I’m sorry, My Prince,” he said with genuine reverence. “Sometimes we forget that you have amnesia.”

Maegor momentarily felt overwhelmed by the knight’s compassion, but soon shook off that feeling.

“To hell with that,” he replied firmly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Ser Criston exchanged a look with his brother before speaking.

“Ser Laenor has certain physical characteristics that match those of you and your sister. It’s a simple observation, My Prince, nothing more.”

Maegor nodded slowly, still feeling a bit lost.

“I understand. I suppose I’ll have to meet those boys to understand it better.”

“Exactly,” Ser Criston said. “I’m sure everything will become clear once you meet them.”

Maegor frowned, trying to process the information they had given him. The lack of clarity in Ser Criston’s words only left him more confused and uneasy.Why was he mentioning his half-sister’s appearance? What did that have to do with Ser Laenor? Why were they hiding information from him?Paranoia seized him, making him feel as if they were plotting something behind his back.

But before he could ask more questions, a disturbance at the door interrupted them. Two men emerged from the shadows of the Red Keep. The first was a simple-looking man, with a semi-bald head and a chubby body. However, there was something in the way he advanced cautiously, as if scrutinizing the environment for something, that made Maegor feel uneasy. But it was the second man who truly caught his attention. He was a giant, young and muscular, with a presence that eclipsed everything else in the courtyard. He wore the uniform of the Golden Cloaks and a badge on his breast that made it clear he was the Commander of the city guard.

Maegor was stunned by the scene unfolding before his eyes. The two boys, one of them close to his age, the other still too young, flanked the Commander with a defiant and haughty attitude. They were the spitting image of their father, tall and muscular, but dressed in clothes that did not fit their position in life, as they wore fine black silk tunics adorned with huge red dragons in the center, the colors of their house.

What did that mean? Had the Targaryen house fallen so low that even the servants were allowed to dress in the nobility of the royal family?The boys kept approaching, with a challenging attitude, as if Maegor was nothing more than a stranger who had invaded their territory. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger at the confidence they exuded, as if the world was at their feet.What kind of game was that? A trick to make him look foolish?

“Good morning, My Prince,” greeted the fat man, startling him and pulling him out of his trance. “Your sister, Princess Rhaenyra, has ordered that the princes, Lucerys and Jacaerys, train with you. Both have asked many questions about your health.”

“Did you say my sister ordered what?” he asked, trying to keep calm in his voice.

“Princess Rhaenyra has ordered that the princes, Lucerys and Jacaerys, train with you, My Prince,” repeated the fat man.

The shadows of the courtyard seemed to mock him. He rubbed his eyes, believing that by doing so, everything he was seeing would disappear in the blink of an eye. However, when he opened them again, the boys were still there.How could those bastards be the heirs to the Iron Throne? Had destiny gone mad and played him a macabre joke?He looked around, trying to find an answer, but the faces of those present were impassive, as if they had already accepted the situation.“Has everyone gone insane?”he thought. Pain and confusion engulfed him as he tried to find a reason for what was happening. But then, he remembered Ser Criston’s comments, and the pieces began to fit together. Those two boys were Rhaenyra’s sons.Peasants without a drop of Valyrian appearance! Bastards!

Maegor, tormented by anger and resentment towards his sister and her nephews, struggled to maintain composure upon hearing the news that Rhaenyra’s bastards were the heirs to the Iron Throne. The idea that someone could mock him in such a way made his blood boil. The mere existence of these children was an unforgivable betrayal to his house, a stain on his legacy, and an insult to his own Valyrian blood. The image of Viserys, the king, fell in his mind like a house of cards. The fact that he had allowed that situation to happen made him appear weak and pathetic, nothing compared to the great rulers of his lineage.The Targaryen family could not allow their pride to be reduced to nothing more than the raising of bastards.

Although his mind was troubled by anger and indignation, Maegor knew that patience was essential. He knew he had to wait for the right moment to act and claim the throne that was rightfully his. The corruption and treachery that had invaded the kingdom had to be eradicated, and he would be the only one capable of doing so. “Patience,”Maegor repeated to himself.Soon, Jaehaerys’ corruption would be cleansed and wiped from the kingdom.

Maegor greeted the young men with a cold and calculated smile, hiding his contempt behind a veil of courtesy. He observed the boys carefully, evaluating their skills and weaknesses, looking for any advantage he could gain in case of a future confrontation.

“Well,” he said, his voice harsh and cutting. “Can we train then?”

The young princes looked at each other, uncertain. Finally, Jacaerys spoke up.

“Of course.”

Ser Criston, Aemond, and the entourage of men who escorted the princes moved to the edge of the training area, giving the young men space and privacy. The princes took their time to prepare properly, exchanging silent looks of complicity and understanding. They stripped off their luxurious clothes and slowly began to don their training attire: simple leather pants and loose woolen shirts. Finally, armed with wooden swords and makeshift shields, they approached him again.

Maegor watched with interest as they moved, evaluating their movements and looking for any weakness in their posture.

“I suppose you’ll have some skills, though they won’t compare to mine,” Maegor continued, his arrogance bordering on insolence. “But that doesn’t matter. I’ll make sure you know what it is to be a true warrior.”

Jacaerys seemed to grow angry at the insult, being the first to lunge at him with unbridled fury, but his attack was careless and predictable. Maegor laughed scornfully as he struck the prince in the back of the head, leaving him staggering.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he asked with a mocking smile. “I thought you were a true andstrongdragon. But it seems you’re nothing but a headless chicken.”

Aemond and Criston couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the insult. Meanwhile, across the courtyard, the Commander, who had accompanied the princes, watched the scene with a somber expression. He knew that the man was the father of Rhaenyra's bastards, another example of the moral decay that plagued the circles of power in the Seven Kingdoms.

Lucerys’s piercing screams seemed designed to cut through the air. The boy, blinded by the heroic impulse that had led him to run towards Maegor, seemed unaware of the distance that separated him from a true warrior. But Maegor did not need to move. He didn’t even ruffle his hair as he placed his enormous hand on the boy’s head, with the same indifference as swatting away a pesky fly.

Lucerys’s face was a mask of fear and surprise. He seemed trapped by an impossible-to-beat force. Even when he tried to escape, he appeared to be struggling against a titan that had reduced him to its whim. The fact that Maegor was almost an adult man, while the bastard was just a child, only accentuated the humiliation. It was a brutal demonstration of the power of a man who mercilessly mocked a defenseless child.

Maegor looked down disdainfully at the boy before him, whose origins were so low and vulgar that even uttering his name was offensive to the most refined ears.He was Rhaenyra’s bastard, an abomination engendered in lust and sin, whose existence was a constant reminder of the weakness and corruption of the Targaryen House of Viserys.

Disgust flooded him like a black tide. Maegor could not stand the presence of that bastard child and his insolence. Lucerys made him feel dirty and contaminated, as if a shadow had attached itself to his soul. His right hand held him trapped, but it was not enough to satisfy his rage. In an uncontrollable fit of fury, his left hand rose in the air and slammed forcefully into the boy’s stomach, like a hammer striking over and over. The pain made Lucerys emit a piercing scream, like a wounded animal. The force of the blow knocked him to the ground, writhing in agony. His upset stomach betrayed him, a torrent of vomit spewing from his mouth, creating a nauseating puddle beneath him. Pain and fear twisted his face into a grotesque grimace, his eyes pleading and full of tears.

Maegor knew he had gone too far, even by his standards.However, there was no way to undo what he had done, he could only hope that his nephew would not suffer any serious injury. With a sigh, he walked away from the training field, leaving behind the chaos and fear he had created.

The sound of Maegor’s boots fading away mixed with the gasps of the boy and the worried voices of Jacaerys and the Commander. The training field plunged into an ominous silence, only broken by the sobs of the child. The bastard lay on the ground, arms and legs splayed, his clothes soaked with sweat and vomit. His face was as pale as the crescent moon in the night sky, and his eyes widened in terror and pain.

Chapter 6: Bastards

Maegor

Year 127 after the Conquest​

Maegor knew it since he was a child, his temperament had always been a disturbing enigma for him and those around him. It was as if he carried a burning fire inside him that consumed him day after day. His mother, Visenya, had tried in vain to tame him, but his violent nature never gave in. The slightest provocation was enough to ignite his fury and most of the time, there was no way to stop him. He remembered his first outburst, that fateful day, when his mother was the target of a Dragonstone lad’s mockery, a mistake he would soon regret.

The words that had provoked his outburst still echoed in his mind. “There was only one queen, one that the true king loved, Rhaenys Targaryen.” That phrase had deeply offended Visenya, he could not allow a commoner to mock his mother. It had been an impulsive and savage attack, with the knife he always carried with him, he mercilessly stabbed the boy, who fell to the ground bleeding. Even though he was dying at his feet, he continued to beat his lifeless body, consumed by rage. His eyes reflected a wild passion, his jaw clenched tightly as he focused on his macabre task. When he finally stopped, the lad was already dead and his blood covered the ground.

Maegor knew his actions had been brutal, but his fierce pride justified them.After all, he had defended the honor of his mother, the powerful Visenya, who deserved nothing less than the unconditional loyalty of her subjects. The situation with Lucerys was similar, it had been a preemptive strike, an act of self-defense.Wasn’t it known that the nature of bastards was treacherous and ambitious?Their existence was an insult to his lineage and a threat to the purity of the Targaryen line. That was why he had decided to take drastic measures, and although he may have gone a little too far, justice had been served.It was a matter of honor, morality, and, of course, blood.

He knew that some foolish cowards considered him cruel, a tyrant without mercy or compassion. But he knew that was not the case. He was simply a warrior defending what was his, fighting for his family, his legacy, and his throne. And although the gods may condemn him, he was willing to move forward, to face any enemy that dared to threaten what he considered sacred.After all, wasn’t that how the Targaryens had survived all these years, through strength, cunning, and sometimes cruelty? He had seen firsthand how the enemies of the Targaryens seized any opportunity to destroy them, he would not allow that to happen again.

Finally, he arrived at the gates of Dragonpit, the huge iron and stone structures rising above him like a dark and sinister fortress. Once inside, the air was cold and damp, as if he were breathing in the depths of the abyss. But Maegor was not deterred, he strode determinedly down the main hallway, the echo of his footsteps resounding on the walls. As he walked, his eyes took in the details of the construction. Dragon and human statues stood in the corners, looking down with cold, watchful eyes. Maegor stopped in front of a statue of Balerion, carved with such detail that it seemed about to come to life and devour him whole.“At least the descendants of Aenys had the intelligence to complete my masterpiece.”

He continued walking until he reached a large circular room at the heart of the construction, where the ceiling rose so high it seemed to touch the sky. That was where dragons were raised and trained. The room was filled with a dense, stale air, permeated by the smell of sulfur and charred animal flesh. In the center of the room, a staircase led down to the pit, a complex labyrinth of tunnels and caves where dragons lived, slept, and defecated. There, in the darkness, he could feel the presence of the winged beasts.

Maegor strode purposefully forward, intent on testing whether the ancient bond his body had shared with a dragon still lingered in his new form. The darkness of the underground caves intensified as he descended the staircase leading to the pit, and the air grew dense and oppressive, as if he were breathing inside a blazing furnace, making it difficult to breathe. Fortunately, he didn’t have to go too far, because in the first large cave he came across, as if it had known he was coming, a dragon was waiting for him, motionless and silent, like a statue. It had golden scales and wing membranes of a pale pink and beautiful color. But when the torchlight reached it, its eyes opened wide, and a deafening roar filled the cavern.

The dragon slowly rose, and its wings extended to fill all available space. The scales shone with a golden light, and its fiery breath filled the cave with a mist that made Maegor feel even more suffocated. The dragon’s eyes settled on him; the animal seemed to recognize him. Maegor was paralyzed for a moment, but then remembered why he was there. With a quick gesture, he lifted the torch and held it towards the dragon, waiting for a reaction. The animal seemed to inspect him closely, and with a graceful movement, the dragon approached and sniffed him curiously. Then it moved its head slightly, as if nodding.He recognized him.

Maegor let out a sigh of relief. He had managed to establish a connection with the dragon, the only creature that could offer him the power and strength necessary to face his enemies.He would no longer have to live in fear of not possessing any dragons. He felt more alive than ever, with a new and enigmatic energy coursing through his veins. With confident steps, he approached the imposing animal, whose golden scales reflected the light of the torch. As his hand gently caressed the scales, the dragon seemed to relax under his touch, as if it knew it had found its new rider.

Suddenly, he felt a wave of warmth that engulfed him, spreading through his body like a flame. It was a strange yet wonderful sensation, as if he were being embraced by a superior force. A faint glow emerged from his palm, expanding over the dragon’s scales, forming a circle of soft, flickering light. The animal seemed to feel it too, emitting a pleasurable purr that resonated in the walls of the cave. Maegor blinked a couple of times, bewildered by what was happening. The light slowly faded, and he withdrew his hand from the dragon’s scales. There, where his palm had been, a small black mark had been imprinted on the golden scales, like a dark and mysterious symbol.

Chapter 7: Troubled waters

Alicent

Year 127 after the conquest​

The royal ship was cleaving the waves of the sea like the relentless blade of an axe, moving the sail with an implacable force, with the masts groaning under the force of the wild wind. Alicent Hightower, the queen, stood musing outside the cabin. There, just off the bow, the uneven moonlight painted the Narrow Sea a mottled blue and silver. There was not a single light visible outside the ship in that infinity of ocean. Alicent looked worriedly out into the endless darkness of the sea, for the shore was still not in sight after a day’s voyage. She sighed deeply,why did everything seem wrong to her? Why did she have such a sense of foreboding?Alicent tried to calm her worries, exhaling quietly, leaning against the wooden railing of the ship and letting the night breeze cool her down. Everyone was asleep and there was a surprising silence in the atmosphere, of course, except for the whispering sound of the wind hissing through the waves or the fluttering of nocturnal insects, which even there, on the high seas, annoyed the life out of everyone.

It had been hours since he had tired of scanning the horizon to the east, hoping to catch sight of land. Alicent knew they would arrive, and it wouldn’t be long now. She had never liked to travel by boat, let alone in the treacherous waters of Blackwater Bay, yet there she was. A few days ago, the king had received a letter of vital importance: Laena Vlearyion, niece of the king, had died in tragic circ*mstances and the woman’s funeral would be held at her family’s ancestral seat. Therefore, a few days after receiving the tragic news, they had set out from the northeast coast of King’s Landing, heading for the ancient settlement of the Velaryons on the island of Driftmark.

Alicent had awakened in the middle of the night, sweating and her body trembling from the hallucinations that disturbed her sleep. There, in those terrible nightmares, Alicent had seen another, very different sea, a sea much more choleric and wilder than the one in front of her, blood red, with a sky full of clouds of fire. She sighed deeply again, exhaling the air she had been holding in. What had given her that startle? She had never been a firm believer in omens and auguries, but what if that was one of them?She reached for her chest with concern, she wanted to talk to someone and express her worries, but it would have to wait until morning.How could she go back to bed?Sleep had left her and did not seem ready to return.

Although she tried to calm down, the restlessness had not disappeared but rather formed a knot in Alicent’s stomach. Things were happening and changing too quickly, it worried and stressed her to no end. One day she was the faithful friend of the crown princess, the next, the rival queen, one day her son was foolish, dominated by his impulses, the next, he was falling from the window, changing his personality almost completely. Now, Laena Velaryon, the one who in the past could have taken her place as queen, was dead. Time did not stand still and it was not long before her greatest fears would come true... Her worries were interrupted when, at her back, she heard the metallic sound of armor and the clanking of steel; she perceived both as the moaning of a cruel wind in the void. Alicent did not turn around, for she already had an idea of who it was.

“My queen,” said a warm and kind voice, “shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

The knight approached Alicent. Framed in an affable, handsome face, his brown eyes sought her gaze desperately. Beside her had leaned against the wooden railing a young and handsome-looking man, who seemed to have the same warmth to his touch. As if he were a ray of sunshine and hope amidst an endless storm, Ser Criston Cole appeared, her sworn shield, her friend...Perhaps more if only she had the courage.

“Nightmares have disturbed my dreams,” she whispered in a choked voice.

“Dreams are just that, dreams.” Ser Criston tried to calm her down. “Nothing can harm you as long as I am around, Your Majesty.”

That made her face change, showing a slight smile to the knight; Ser Criston always had the ability to make her laugh and take her worries away. For some reason, that thought made her feel embarrassed, making her blush and causing her to turn her face away. Something inside her had ignited at the sight of the knight, something she had not stopped feeling since the first time she saw him at that tournament.If only she wasn’t the queen, if only she wasn’t... if only she wasn’t married.

“Things change too quickly, Ser Criston,” she whispered.

The man nodded and smiled with something akin to complicity; but, in fact, it was much more than complicity. It was a smile, unlike any other Alicent, had ever seen. A sincere smile, one that didn’t seem to have ulterior motives or to be looking for favors. It made her feel confused, for that man seemed to understand her much more than she wanted to be understood, it made her feel helpless. Her father had always taught her that knowledge was a very powerful weapon and without a doubt, Ser Criston Cole knew more about her than anyone else in the court.Perhaps even more than her father. Then, she realized.”This man knows everything about me because I told him.”That was also true the other way around, she also knew everything about him.His deepest secrets, his dirtiest secrets.How had it gotten to that point? How was it possible that a mere royal guard was her most sincere ally and friend?

“You know, my father has written some letters from Oldtown,” she said with a smirk. “He told me you know too much about our family, about our plans, about my children.”

Alicent felt she was betraying her father in a way, and she could almost hear his voice scolding her:”Relationships are a weakness, my daughter. You, as queen, must not be tainted by such things. Even if your emotions are genuine, he will suspect it is a ploy. You have seen how your friendship with Rhaenyra has ended, it is better for you, and him, that you cut whatever ties there may be.”Of course, her father did not understand her, and neither did he understand the unbreakable bonds of loyalty she had created that bound her to Ser Criston.He was the only person keeping her sane in that rat’s nest, her only companion through years of loneliness.

“But I have always believed,” Alicent continued, looking him in the face, “that sometimes one must be guided by one’s instinct. And for me, your loyalty and companionship are one of the few things I cannot do without.”

“That honors me and I have always told you so,” Ser Criston brought his face close to hers. “I would never, not even in the worst of situations, dare to betray your trust, Majesty.”

“I have never doubted it....”

“What’s got you so distressed?” he asked, brushing his hand against hers.

“Laena Velaryon...” Alicent turned away from him. “Larys had heard rumors from some merchants in Pentos, her relationship with Daemon was not good.”

“What are you suggesting, Your Majesty?” he asked with confusion.

“Larys has hinted to me that she wanted to return and Daemon wouldn’t let her. Laena Vlearyion died by Dragonfire... Ser Criston, what if he killed her?”

“Daemon is not a threat as long as the king is alive.”

Alicent bit one of her fingernails at the mention of Viserys. The king continued to get worse with each passing day and now he could barely get out of bed.How many more years would he last alive? In his current state, would he even be able to protect anyone? To protect his children?Alicent trusted less and less the fragile shield of Viserys that protected her entire family. Every day a new crack opened in that shield, every year a piece crumbled completely. Soon Viserys would be nothing more than a walking corpse. Even in some semblance of health, the king had overlooked Rhaenyra’s bastards, refusing to acknowledge something everyone knew.

“Soon the gods will take my husband,” Alicent turned to him again. “Then you alone, Ser Criston, will be the most faithful of my defenders at court.”

“Don’t say that, Your Grace,” Ser Criston smiled at her. “Lord Lannister and the other council members support you.”

Ser Criston always looked at her with that face, that kind expression. There was a certain innocence about it, a concise way of showing himself that belonged only to the youngest or those who did not have to bear the burden of being born among the nobility, those fortunate enough not to be surrounded or consumed by ambition. Of course, Alicent never struck him as a naive man. Ser Criston was always cautious, amused, and at times, sad, surely because of what he had experienced with Rhaenyra. But always without malice (except when he spoke of the princess), as if he experienced his passions and the passions of others with astonishing immediacy.He was a simple man and she liked that about him.

And then there were his eyes, which shone softly in the moonlight. They were brown like the wood of a noble oak, and they awakened in her a strange nobility that she longed for. Those eyes followed every word she spoke, as if his life depended on those words, with such fine attention that sometimes it made her ashamed of such attention. And yet, at the same time, there hung about them an air of strange reserve. But not the reserve of men who dared not speak aloud what they thought, like Lyonel Strong, nor the petty reserve of those who conceal their true intentions, as was the look of her father. No, the reserve that was reflected in the knight’s eyes, was a reserve of a man who is certain that it is not for him to draw conclusions about it, the reserve of a faithful and loyal knight.

“They are moved by hidden interests, only YOU are loyal to me,” she shook her head sadly and smiled. Then Alicent took his hands in hers. “Only in you, I can trust.”

The knight nodded but pulled his hands away from her. Alicent could feel his face begin to redden. She had made him uncomfortable.

“I understand...”

“Thank you, Ser Criston.” Alicent changed the subject. “My son, Aegon, doesn’t he look like someone else since his accident?”

With Aegon’s fall had begun many of the abrupt changes she was not comfortable. She had spent days, whole nights awake, caring for him and praying to the seven that they would bring him back, and so it had happened... As if by a miracle, Aegon had defied the prognoses of all the maesters, awakening from his coma and managing to survive. However, the Aegon who awoke from that horrible coma was not the same son who had fallen from the window. Alicent had noticed it almost immediately. In addition to the amnesia, the personality of her beloved firstborn had become different, she could not say that he was more ‘prudent’ for she still saw an innate ferocity in his eyes, dancing like the incessant fire in a fireplace. But if before that ferocity was more petty and public, now Aegon could control it, making that energy he once wasted on maids and alcohol, now spend on the library and the sword.

“The prince has improved incredibly,” Ser Criston regained his composure. “It is no secret that he is now much more dedicated to his lessons.”

“It seems the gods have blessed us”.

Aegon was different, but that was normal after that horrible fall.A fall she had caused. All that mattered was that she still felt that warm touch as she hugged him and he responded in kind. Even amnesia couldn’t keep a son and mother apart, that was an unbreakable bond. Amnesia was a small price to pay for her son to stay alive and if that had made him a better man, bless the seven! Itdidn’t matter, she would devote all her effort and soul to make Aegon remember or at least know everything again.She would make him a great king, a king they all deserved.

“And just now the dawn is breaking,” said Ser Criston, looking up at the sky.

And as if it were a sign from the gods, a small, faint ray of light began to break through the grayish clouds.Sometimes the light of dawn was slow in coming,but it always came.

Chapter 8: Arrival

Maegor

Year 127 after the conquest​

Since the morning, just at the moment they managed to glimpse solid ground, the sky had greeted them with a thick fog, the gray clouds seemed worthy of a world without colors, static... inert. Perfect weather for a funeral. It didn’t take long for some to look for a supernatural explanation for it, in fact, Maegor had heard the murmurs of some of the servants traveling with them on the ship, putting the weather down to omens and foolish omens. Of course, it was well known that the Narrow Sea sometimes punished its islands with strange weather. Maegor recalled that at some point a maester had told him, though he could not remember exactly which one it was, that the world reflected the sky like a mirror of scratched, dented, and pitted tin that seemed to mock him. Something he wanted to convey, no doubt, with that remark, fortunately for everyone, those were his last words before his head rolled to the ground. In a way, it was curious that meaningless and stupid phrases lasted so long in people’s memory, including his, while all the truths ended up being forgotten, abandoned, or deformed by time and betrayal.That had happened with the history of his righteous reign.

Fortunately, the sky had already cleared a little and Maegor could see some of the landscape that could be glimpsed beyond the port. He remembered the island of Driftmark well, for he had spent much of his life visiting the domain of House Velaryon, yet the moment they landed in the harbor of that castle, Maegor could not recognize those pale stone walls. In fact, the castle exuded an obscene opulence that contrasted sharply with the old castle of Driftmark; that castle was cramped, dank, and with a strong scent of sea salt. The castle in front of Maegor, on the other hand, was immense, boasting three massive pale stone fortifications that dominated three distinct elevations of the landscape, each possessing its own peculiar architectural style vaguely reminiscent of some of the free cities of Essos.

The keep on the left was undoubtedly Westerosi in style, squat, stout, and unimaginative, built of pale stone and faced with golden limestone, almost looking like beaten gold in the sunlight. The fortification in the center, where the castle’s smiths seemed to be located, was shrouded in the haze from the smoke rising from the workshops, its appearance seeming more oriental, more extravagant, with a huge spherical jade dome on the roof. The walls of that structure were painted with a coat of vivid red that Maegor had never seen. Finally, the main fortification was to the right, raised right at the edge of the cliff, the sea churning below among fallen rocks and boulders. To Maegor, that whole ‘palace’, was an eyesore, an architectural abomination that had little to do with the grandeur of Valyria.All that glitters is not gold.

But Maegor knew that it was to be expected that the old ways would be lost during the aberrant and regrettably long reign of his usurper and traitorous nephew. Besides, it was a truism that the Velaryons were going to lose pride as time went on, after all, those traitors had turned their backs on him at the end of his reign. The beginning of end of his reign had begun as a betrayal instigated by the machinations and rottenness of Alyssa Velaryon...Damn treacherous bitch!The very thought of her made his stomach churn with rage. That was a betrayal that Maegor would never forget, and along with the Brackens, sooner or later, the justice of the rightful king would bring divine punishment to those traitors!Even at that moment, it seemed that the Velaryons had definitely decided to follow the path of dishonor, for Ser Criston had already told him the whole truth about Ser Laenor Velaryon.

“We have finally arrived,” said his ‘mother’ as she stepped off the ship, assisted by Ser Criston Cole’s hand.

“Ahh, it’s been a while since I’ve visited the shores of Driftmark and High Tide Castle,” Viserys spoke with difficulty as he stepped off the ship with the help of Ser Harold Westerling. “Though it must be said that last time I was greeted with more warmth.”

Maegor had noticed it the instant they disembarked, the welcoming ‘retinue’ waiting for them at the port of High Tide was far from welcoming. Only one man, whom, by his physical characteristics and the emblem on his clothing, he could identify as Velaryon, was waiting for them along with two guards. All without emblems, banners, or decorations on the walls, bards, and trumpets were also absent; any merchant or peasant who looked at that would hardly identify that the king was in the city. Maegor had never liked extravagance, but it was almost insulting, even for a funeral.

“An insult,” Alicent growled angrily. “Even now, that old snake is still bent on humiliating you for not accepting his daughter as your wife.”

Maegor listened carefully to Alicent’s complaints, he didn’t know all that history and for a few moments, he cursed himself internally, wishing he had found out more about his new family.”I should ask Ser Criston more things like that.” Anyway, from his mother’s reaction, the less-than-warm reception to the king, and the fact that, during his entire time in the capital, Maegor had not identified any other Vlearyion besides Ser Laenor (who had no power of any kind in the council) at court, it seemed that the ancestral(AND parasitic!)relationship the Vlearyion had with the Targaryen was going through hard times. Perhaps itdidn’t even exist anymore.

“Not now, Alicent,” Viserys said wearily. “Surely my cousin and her husband are too busy dealing with the grief of losing a child to worry about trivialities, are they not, Ser Vaemond?”

“Your Grace,” Ser Vaemond and his guards bowed. “No doubt, losing a daughter is devastating, but... we all know my brother well, he has never been known for being a person who forgets or forgives quickly.”

Maegor had to restrain himself from a mocking laugh. Maegor could identify a sycophant just by looking at him, and even if his words were true, it was blatantly obvious that Ser Vaemond Velaryon only wanted to curry favor with the king or queen with those remarks.Of course, that was something to keep in mind in the future, after all, sometimes, sycophants had great uses.

“I have not come to open old wounds, I hope Lord Corlys understands that.”

“Let us hope my brother’s judgment is not clouded by the past,” Ser Vaemond pointed in the direction of a large carriage, along with some horses. “For you, Your Grace. There are also some extra horses for your White Swords.”

“A very generous gesture, Ser Vaemond,” said Alicent with a smile. “If only you were the lord of this castle...”

“Alicent.” Viserys coughed, though there was some authority in his voice. “Thank you, Ser Vaemond.”

With that, they all nodded and began to enter the carriage. First, the king, followed by Alicent and his ‘brothers’; Aemond trailed behind her, then, at a slow and somewhat distant pace, his sister, Helaena, reluctantly entered. Surprisingly, despite being almost a month since he had awakened, that girl was still unknown to him. Maegor had gotten to know Aemond a little from their lessons and training together, but he had not shared any time with Helaena. He had tried to engage her in conversation before departing in the direction of Driftmark, however, she always seemed to avoid his path, adding an aura of mystery around her. That blank stare, that reluctance to touch... there was certainly something strange about her. Maegor sighed, then headed for the carriage, hoping that the trip would help him find out more about his entire family.

So, after a short journey, they finally arrived at the castle, being escorted into the glamorous fortress by Ser Vaemond Velaryon. The interior of the palace was immense, Maegor could swear that its pillars were as large as those of the Red Keep and almost three times as vast as the old castle of Driftmark that he remembered. The floor was carpeted with different materials, some limestone, some white marble, or materials that he did not know. No doubt all of it had been worked by the most skilled hands on the continent. But, despite all those luxurious materials, they soon discovered that a warm welcome did not await them there either. Few candles were lit, and large black banners hung on the walls, with a sepulchral silence that flooded all the corridors of the castle.

“Again, I apologize,” Ser Vaemond bowed again. “Princess Rhaenys granted seven days off to the servants. Seven days for seven gods, all to pray for my niece’s soul.”

“One day for each god...” A smirk appeared on Alicent’s face. “One would think that Princess Rhaenys would know that they are not ‘seven gods’, but seven aspects of the same god. Besides, even so, there should only be six...”

“Six?” asked Maegor offhandedly.

“He is not called; he is not prayed to...” Alicent changed the expression on his face to a much more somber tone. “The Stranger is only respected from a cautious distance.”

“Seven suns, seven faces...” someone whispered, although no one seemed to have heard.

That made Maegor’s skin crawl. Seven suns. That was what the creature he had seen in those hallucinations had told him before he woke up in that new body. Maegor desperately searched for the source of those whispers and it didn’t take him long to find the culprit; it was Helaena, who was leaning on one of the pillars of the room, holding something in her hands.Was it just the babbling of a madwoman? No... it was not that.

“Well, among the peasants it is a common belief that there are in fact seven gods,” Viserys wanted to close the matter. “My daughter, Rhaenyra, is already in the castle?”

Ramblings about Helaena disappeared from his mind the moment the king had named Rhaenyra. Even if he had not had a single face-to-face conversation with her, he already despised her. Not only for usurping his rightful place as heir to the Iron Throne but also for the fact that she was attempting to deceive the entire realm by passing off three peasant boys, as legitimate Targaryen, as legitimate dragons.

“Take us to see her.” Viserys ordered, “I want to see how she is; besides we must offer our condolences to her husband.”

“My love,” Alicent grabbed his shoulder, looking at him pleadingly. “The children are tired; it’s been a long journey.”

Viserys glanced sideways at everyone in the room, then nodded his head.

“Of course.” Viserys looked at Ser Criston Cole. “Ser Vaemond, please have one of your guards show Ser Criston the way to our chambers. Ser Criston, escort my wife and the princes to rest.”

“Your Grace.” nodded the two men.

“Well... Ser Harold, join me with Ser Vaemond and my son, Aegon.”

When he said that, everyone stared at him in disbelief. It was no secret that after some ‘too hard’ training, Rhaenyra’s children had cut practically all ties with them. Maegor was happy that his ‘lessons’ made those bastards see that they were not friends and he didn’t even consider them part of the family.They were bastards, without a drop of Valyrian appearance Everyone in the kingdom could see that!

“Viserys,” Alicent looked at him with questioning eyes.

“This is non-negotiable,” Viserys looked directly at him. “I think this is a good opportunity for Aegon to apologize for his actions. This unfortunate loss should remind us all that we are one family and that we must put all these silly old quarrels behind us.”

“It’s nonsense!” Alicent was startled. “You know perfectly well that those are insults, my son never acted in bad faith against those bas... those children. Ser Criston was a witness of that, a knight anointed under the light of the seven who is also your most faithful knight, do you doubt his word?”

“I do not question Ser Criston’s word,” Viserys shook his head. “But he is your sworn shield and his judgment in some matters is not the best.”

Maegor laughed lightly at the man’s words, for they made no sense and were frankly ridiculous. Even with his short time knowing the weak king, it was obvious that he preferred Rhaenyra over all his other children. The mere naming of a woman as heir already broke all previous precedents for House Targaryen, not even before the conquest was there any record of a woman ruling over Dragonstone.And, after all, how blind or imbecilic should he be to ignore such a self-evident truth?Only willful ignorance served to justify the king’s inaction in the face of his daughter’s whims and humiliations.

“I will do as you command father,” Maegor replied. “It is a good opportunity to see if seeing my dear sister will bring back forgotten memories... seeing family is always comforting to every man.”

Chapter 10: Funeral

Maegor

Year 127 after the Conquest​

The skies began to darken, as if the very air had succumbed to a dark curse. Two thunderclaps resounded in the distance, each one louder than the last, like the beats of a heart pulsing with increasing ferocity. Clouds amassed, threatening to unleash their fury upon the island. The tears of the sky began to fall, drops that seemed ripped from the night by the passing storm. The ground was soaked, and the mud and sodden earth reflected the thickening clouds in the sky with a dull tone, as if death was near.

The wrath of the gods, whoever they may be, seemed to have fallen upon the Velaryons with full force.It was an undeniable fact, a clear message sent from above. A funeral was a serious matter, even he, who had little regard for formality, knew that. But there, in front of Laena Velaryon’s coffin, a woman he had never known in life, flies buzzed about in a formless cloud, as if they knew something dark was brewing.

The hum of their wings was an unsettling, almost macabre sound that echoed in the sepulchral silence of the funeral.Could those flying creatures perceive the stench of death through the wood of the casket? Or perhaps they were announcing something even more sinister?In the distance, a dog howled mournfully, as if sensing the arrival of misfortune.

Before his eyes stood Vaemond Velaryon, the foolish flatterer who was less subtle than a pig wallowing in the mud. He muttered words in the language of ancient Valyria, trying to play the role of an improvised priest in some kind of ritual that had to do with his family’s bloodline. The words coming out of his mouth were nothing but hollow, meaningless sounds without power. It was a pathetic attempt to imitate the true Valyrian priests, who had disappeared long ago. There was nothing sacred or spiritual about the way Vaemond moved his lips. It was simply an empty act, a mockery of all that was once sacred.The Velaryons, humiliating themselves as always.

Maegor couldn’t help but feel a certain admiration for Vaemond Velaryon. After all, the man had the audacity to challenge Rhaenyra in public, and that wasn’t something one did lightly. Although, of course, perhaps Viserys Targaryen was too naive and slow to realize that Vaemond was directly attacking Rhaenyra’s bastards. But Maegor knew better than anyone that anyone with even a modicum of cunning would be able to see through his wordplay.

Vaemond kept throwing cold disdainful looks at the Strong Boys, as if he considered himself superior to them in terms of blood and lineage. His words were like knives, sharp and deadly, and his voice resonated with a icy tone that chilled the blood in their veins. It was evident that he placed great importance on blood purity and lineage. Maegor couldn’t help but wonder if those ideals were shared by other members of his Velaryon family.Perhaps, after all, he could be useful in the future.

Suddenly, his reflection was interrupted by the sardonic laughter of Daemon, a man he had avoided until now. The sound echoed in his head, like the scream of a wild beast. It was a madman’s laughter, a laughter that seemed to mock everything and everyone. Maegor drew a slight smile on his face upon hearing it, though he tried not to show it.Were they the delusions of a deranged man, whose pain over the loss of his beloved had overwhelmed his senses and reason?It could be, but his unsettling laughter had not gone unnoticed by anyone, leaving a trail of bitterness in the air.

Laenor was also there, miraculously showing up at the funeral, although according to rumors he had heard, not before indulging in an orgy with many of the boys of Driftmark. It was evident that he was not in his right mind, as if the death of his sister had taken a toll on his mind, leaving only an empty shell. His ears clearly heard the accusations and insults that his uncle hurled at Rhaenyra’s children, yet the young man seemed motionless, as if he were under a spell caused by Laena’s death. Not even his wife’s furious glances could rouse him from his state of lethargy. It was as if he had lost all interest in life, plunged into an apathy so deep that neither rage nor pain could touch him.

His face was pale and haggard, his eyes dull as if he had seen the abyss and never been able to recover from the vision. He seemed a shadow of himself, a man whose dreams had been swept away by hopelessness, as if there was nothing, he could do to escape the cruel fate that had been assigned to him.“It reminds me of myself, just after the countless betrayals.”

When it was time to cast the coffin into the sea, Vaemond stepped forward and raised his hand, making a gesture with his fingers towards the dark horizon. The soldiers understood the gesture, and with a push, the coffin was thrown into the opaque and cold water, which seemed to devour it eagerly.

“From the sea we come, and to the sea we shall return.”

The sound of the coffin splashing into the water echoed above the sound of the wind and waves, as the wood slowly sank into the depths of the ocean. Maegor remained silent, watching the black and icy water that seemed to devour the coffin with the same indifference that it devours a man. And so, like the sands that faded away with the wind, like the ashes of a Septon burned by Balerion’s fire, the coffin disappeared among the waves. Flies and seagulls scattered in the air, as if the sea had expelled them with its fury. All that remained was the sound of the water crashing against the shore.

Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Sea and Master of ships, strode forward with purposeful steps. His grey eyes were fixed on the ocean, but his face was as cold as the water that surrounded them. He had not shed a single tear during the entire funeral, but his grief was reflected in the stiffness of his jaw and the clenching of his fists. Behind him, his wife Rhaenys followed with slow and heavy steps, as if being dragged forward by an invisible force. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her grey hair was tousled by the wind blowing in from the sea. She recited a few more words alongside her husband, but her voice sounded hoarse and broken by weeping. When they finished, without a word, they turned around and began to walk away.

Alicent gave him a gentle push on the shoulder, urging him to follow the group, but he resisted and did not move. He did not want to follow the others in that funeral procession, preferring to stay there, planted in his place, watching as the procession slowly moved away. The air was heavy with an ominous silence, only broken by the howling of the wind. It blew strongly, stirring the shadows of those present and raising swirls of dust and sand that coiled around the ominous figures. The black cloaks, which had been carefully chosen for that day, waved in the air like the wings of a flock of black crows.

The sun hid behind the grey clouds, as if it did not want to witness that macabre spectacle.The funeral had come to an end, the play had been performed, and the audience had left. But Maegor was still there, standing like a solitary sentinel, looking out to the horizon with squinted eyes. As he was willing to leave, he found something very interesting that made him stop.

Maegor observed his sister with curiosity. From the brief interactions they had had, he sensed that Helaena was sensitive to things that others could not see, and the way she fixed her gaze into the distance made him think she was witnessing something beyond physical reality. The wind, now stronger, made her long silver hair and black cloak flutter, as if she were a ghost herself. Maegor approached her, and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. Helaena looked at him with wide eyes, and whispered something incomprehensible to him. Maegor felt a shiver run down his spine as he heard her voice, which sounded like it came from another place. She had escaped him before, but there she was, staring at him fixedly.Something was not right with that girl.

“The hand turns the loom, yes, but it is not a hand of flesh and bone, but a hand of shadows and nightmares.”

Suddenly, as if she had seen something that terrified her, the girl made a face of confusion, then her eyes widened and her gaze became one of terror. She pushed him onto the sand and ran away, as fast as she could. Maegor stood there, puzzled and confused. He then remembered the story of his house, told by his mother when he was a child.

The legend said that they had been saved from the fall of Valyria thanks to a Dreamer, a woman capable of seeing the threads of the future.Could this girl be a Dreamer?A person capable of seeing the destiny of those around her. The idea intrigued him.What had the girl seen to run away in such fear? What destiny awaited him in that new body?

The sound of the roar echoed throughout the island, shaking the air and shaking the ground beneath their feet. It was a sound that could not be ignored, a sound that indicated an indomitable force. The sight of Vhagar, the dragon with scales the size of shields and teeth as long as a man’s hand, was an impressive and terrifying vision. Her massive body soared in the sky like a dark shadow, her wings beating powerfully to keep her aloft. Even from afar, one could feel her presence, the heat emanating from her body was so intense that it could be felt on the skin.

It was a sound that made even the bravest warriors tremble, a roar that ignited a flame of unease in the hearts of the men and women who heard it. But at the same time, there was a note of sadness in her howl, a feeling of loneliness and abandonment that seemed to permeate every fiber of her being. It was as if the animal was carrying an emotional burden that transcended its wild nature, a burden that weighed heavily on its soul.If only a part of the child that once inhabited his body were not already tethered to a dragon...

Chapter 12: Dinner

Corlys

Year 127 after the Conquest​

Corlys Velaryon, the Lord of the Sea and head of House Velaryon, was immersed in a dark struggle against the pain of losing his only daughter. The pain was an unrelenting enemy that pursued him like a shadow, and no matter how much he tried to escape it, it always caught up with him. However, in the midst of the darkness, a faint light emerged that kept him afloat, a flame that refused to be extinguished. That light was the fascination he felt for the superstitions and legends that were told in Yi Ti.

In the far reaches of the Golden Empire, land of mysteries and wonders, there was a superstition as old as the first whispers of time. It was said that when a man ordered a dinner at a funeral, it was like invoking the birth of a new beginning. The inhabitants of the Jade Lands, always so prone to interpreting omens, firmly believed in that legend. Food, for them, was more than just a delicacy, it was the link with the gods, a tool to unravel the secrets of destiny.

For weeks, even before receiving the fateful news of his daughter’s death, he had dreamed a dozen times of those stories. He remembered with clarity the Forbidden City of White Gold, with its jade towers and ivory bridges, and the oily black stone statue of the Three-Tailed Monkey in Yin, whose eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went. The king’s strange request had left him perplexed.What did it mean? Was it an omen of good times to come? Or perhaps a sign of destiny, a hidden message that only he could decipher? Uncertainty gnawed at him, making him doubt his own judgment. Had he lost his mind, like those men who were carried away by superstitions and madness?

His thoughts were interrupted by a bell that rang loudly, resonating through the stone walls of the fortress. It was a sound that Corlys had heard countless times before, the unmistakable signal that dinner was served. But that time, the call to the banquet was different. The occasion was gloomy and funereal, with the echo of his daughter’s funeral still ringing in his ears. Part of him wanted to stay in his room, hidden from curious glances, immersed in the solitude of his grief.But his duty obliged him to attend.

He dressed in his best attire, a clean gray doublet, embroidered at the ends with silver threads, that highlighted his features as a seasoned warrior. Although his heart was heavy with pain and sadness, he walked with fluid elegance through the main hall.Why now, just on the day of his daughter’s funeral? What motivations did the king have to summon a luxurious banquet at such a time?Every step he took was like walking on burning coals, his mind running frantically in search of an answer that could justify the king’s strange request. He looked around, noticing the furtive glances and the low whispers that surrounded him. Most of those present were his acquaintances, courtiers of House Targaryen, but that day, their presence seemed sharp, almost hostile.

Finally, he arrived at the dining room where a huge table awaited him, covered with a red velvet tablecloth and adorned with gold and silver candelabras. The scent of exotic delicacies wafted through the air, mixed with the perfume of flowers and incense. But the impression of opulence and wealth was overshadowed by the fact that the dinner was being held on the same day as his daughter’s funeral. The contradiction made him feel sick. If it weren’t for his eagerness to decipher the signs of destiny, he would have taken that gesture as an unforgivable insult.Was it a gesture of sympathy, a way to offer comfort to his friend in his grief? Or was there something more behind the invitation, a subtle threat disguised as kindness?

Corlys cautiously advanced towards the central table, his gaze fixed on the dishes and delicacies that spread out along it. There were roasted lambs, ducks stuffed with nuts, meat pies, fish empanadas, and fresh fruits. The aromas mingled in the air, creating a heady atmosphere that tempted his senses. The dishes were arranged with meticulous and exquisite art, with brightly colored and edible flowers adorning the edges of each tray and dish. Wine and beer jugs stood tall like towers, lending a majestic look to the dinner.How could he eat and drink with joy when he was still suffering the loss of his beloved daughter?However, the need to understand the strange request of the king urged him to sit down.

Corlys waited in silence, surrounded by the dimness of the room, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of mourning that surrounded him. It was then that the sound of Rhaenys’ footsteps echoed through the room, like a slow funeral march announcing the arrival of his wife. Beside her, held on her left arm, appeared the king, a haggard and decrepit man whose figure strongly contrasted with the power emanating from the throne he occupied. Queen Alicent Hightower stood by his side, holding him on his side in the absence of his right arm, amputated.

The old man was frail, at the mercy of time and illness, the shadow of what he once was. The effects of age and pain were clearly reflected on his face, his sickly eyes shining with a dim light, as if they were ready to go out at any moment. The atmosphere in the room became tense at the presence of the dying monarch, who seemed to be in the final stages of his life. Corlys could not help but feel a chill running through his body at the sight of his king so frail and vulnerable. It was hard not to feel pity for the man who had lost so much, and who now seemed to be at the end of his path. The room fell silent, only broken by the sound of the king’s breathing, a constant reminder of his mortality and the transience of his power.

Corlys stood up and slightly bowed his head.

“Your Grace.”

With a tired gesture, he ignored the greeting and desperately searched for a chair to sit in. Every step he took seemed to be a superhuman effort, his breathing was labored and choppy. His face was pale and sweaty, and it seemed like death had been stalking him for a long time. When he finally found one, he sank into it with a heavy sigh, trying to catch his breath. The queen sat next to her husband, not taking her eyes off his emaciated and sickly face. Rhaenys, his faithful wife, hurried to sit on his right side, taking his hand, expecting the announcement the king would make.

After the king sat down, Otto Hightower made his entrance with a confident step, wearing a subdued green tunic, a symbol of mourning. However, his hand couldn’t help but slide over the Hand of the King pin, as it had just been restored to him. Behind him, the queen’s children entered the hall, silent and solemn. Princess Helaena walked with a strange determination, her hands holding a strange object, paying no attention to anything else, as if her mind was preoccupied with something no one else could see. Prince Aemond, for his part, wore a serious and respectful look, aware that the funeral day was not yet over.He was clearly a boy who had been trained in court protocol and etiquette since his earliest childhood.

But the one who caught his attention the most was the king’s eldest son. The prince’s figure stood imposing and confident, as if he were a stone statue, with great determination in his gaze, an unbreakable will that suggested he would not let anyone or anything stand in his way. His height already matched that of his father, and there was no doubt that he would soon surpass him in height. It was as if his body was eager to grow, as if he knew that someday he would have to face the challenges that awaited the heirs to the Iron Throne. But it wasn’t just his body that was changing. His face, with angular features and bright eyes, was transitioning from puberty to adulthood. His incipient beard, barely visible, was like a promise that he would soon become a man.It was clear that he was no longer a child.

The atmosphere in the hall tensed when Rhaenyra and Daemon arrived. His gaze fixed on them with a mixture of disgust and contempt.He, who had been a brave and honorable warrior, was forced to accept the infamy that his son and Rhaenyra had created to maintain the farce that those bastards were his legitimate grandchildren and heirs. But he couldn’t help but feel a knot in his stomach when he saw those imposters. Their vulgar and ordinary features, devoid of the majesty and elegance of the true descendants of Valyria, were an insult to his noble lineage.The shame of Laenor!

Not even a single trace of Velaryon or Targaryen blood could be glimpsed in those bastards. They were only a grotesque mockery of the memory of his ancestors and the greatness of his house. Corlys clenched his fists, fighting the urge to violently expel them from the hall, but he knew he had to maintain appearances, even if it meant enduring the humiliation of seeing those imposters seated in his presence.

He fixed his eyes on Daemon.That damn traitor. He had kidnapped his daughter, Laena, and kept her away from home for years, without even visiting Driftmark once. The letters she had sent to Rhaenys and him every month always said the same thing: that she longed to return to Westeros, that she missed her home and her family. But that bastard Daemon insisted on avoiding his brother. Corlys had tried to negotiate, had tried to persuade him, but there was no reaching an agreement with a man who had his own agenda.

Because of his pride and arrogance, his beloved daughter had died in a foreign land. He could feel the weight of his grief in every limb, in every beat of his heart. There was no avoiding the rage that consumed him. He wanted to take it out on Daemon, wanted to hit him until his knuckles bled and he begged for mercy. But he knew he couldn’t afford to lose his head at that moment, especially not with his granddaughters around. There were more important matters to attend to, matters that had to be addressed with prudence and wisdom.

Vaemond was the last to arrive, sitting down at his left side. Then he gestured for the servants to start serving the wine. The room filled with the sound of the maids’ heels carrying crystal wine jugs, adorned with intricate golden designs. The jugs were deftly lifted and slid down the table, leaving a trail of dark, thick wine behind them. A fruity and spicy aroma filled the air, mixing with the smell of melted wax from the golden candlesticks. Each glass was filled to the brim, its red liquid bubbling and shimmering in the candlelight.

The servants quietly departed, leaving behind a brief silence. Each person held their glass in the air, waiting for the first toast. Everyone’s eyes moved nervously, searching for any signal that might suggest who would be the first to speak. Finally, Otto Hightower stepped forward, raising his glass high and toasting to the king’s health. Around him, the others joined the toast, their voices filling the room with a chorus of greetings and well wishes.

“Where is Ser Laenor?” Viserys asked as he broke off a piece of bread. “I haven’t seen my son-in-law since the funeral ceremony ended.”

“My son was too overwhelmed by grief,” he responded firmly. “I personally accompanied him to his chambers. He is deeply asleep and I did not want to wake him.”

Viserys nodded, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. He took a sip of wine and then turned to Corlys with a forced smile.

“Oh, well, well...this is a very good wine, Lord Corlys.”

He nodded politely, but he was getting impatient. The real reason behind the banquet remained a mystery to Corlys, who couldn’t help but feel uneasy at the lack of explanations.He wanted to know more, needed to know more, but he didn’t want to appear desperate or anxious. Instead, he moved to signal his wife, who helped him satisfy his curiosity.

“Dear cousin,” Rhaenys, with her sweet and gentle gaze, asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. “What is the reason for this banquet?”

“Oh yes, the announcement,” Viserys tried to stand up, but his legs did not respond until the queen helped him. The guests remained silent, waiting for the king to speak.

“It is no secret that Lord Corlys and I have had our differences. However, I believe that with this sudden death, we all know that it is necessary to strengthen our family union.”

The room fell into a deathly silence as everyone tried to process what they had just heard. Rhaenys squeezed his hand and gave him a reassuring look, then turned to Viserys.

“What do you suggest, cousin?” she asked with a soft voice. “What can we do to strengthen our family union?”

The king took a deep breath before responding with renewed determination.

“I propose a marriage. A marriage between our two families, to reseal our alliance and strengthen our union. Lord Corlys, what do you say?”

“Another marriage, you say,” murmured Corlys, furrowing his brow. “Between our two families?”

Viserys nodded solemnly, looking at him with an inquisitive expression.

“Our houses must be united at this time of pain and need. Do you not agree, Lord Corlys?”

Corlys felt the pressure of his wife’s hand and knew she was waiting for a response from him. His mind drifted back in time, remembering his dreams and beliefs from the distant east. At that moment, everything seemed to connect in his mind.A new beginning. He straightened up in his seat, with a newfound determination in his gaze.

“Of course, Your Grace. If that is what is needed to strengthen our union and ensure the future of our families, then so be it. But who do you propose as a match?”

Viserys turned to his firstborn and gave him a loving smile.

“I think we have a perfect candidate in mind,” he said, looking towards where Daemon and his daughters were. “Princess Rhaena would be a good choice. What do you think, Aegon?”

“Viserys,” the queen whispered, although the king seemed to ignore her.

It was then that Rhaenys squeezed his hand harder, and Corlys felt his heart beat faster. He looked around, and his eyes met those of Aegon, the prince. The latter seemed unable to understand the situation, unable to respond to anything. Corlys remained silent for a moment, as if evaluating the proposal. He looked in the direction of Rhaenyra’s bastards, his eyes scanning every part of their impure bodies with disdain.Those who did not carry the ancient blood of the Velaryons had no place in his world, much less in his lineage and heritage.

But if he did nothing, if he didn’t make a decision soon, those impure bastards would cling to his ancestral seat, turning it into an object of ridicule for the other nobles at court. Finally, after a long silence, Corlys nodded with a smile, showing that he had come to a resolution, one that ensured the legacy of the Velaryons.

“As always, Your Grace, your wisdom and your words resonate in my heart,” he said with a firm and resonant voice. “I agree. Another union between our houses in these difficult times could be the best for both, for House Velaryon, and undoubtedly, for the Seven Kingdoms.”

His response was measured and calculated, but his words were full of meaning. He knew that accepting the proposal could have unpredictable ramifications, but he also knew that the game of thrones was not for the faint of heart.It was time to make a decision, and as always, Corlys Velaryon was willing to take risks and consequences. At that moment, his bond with the bastards would end forever.

“Perfect,” Viserys said, satisfied with the outcome. “Then it is decided. Princess Rhaena will marry my eldest son when she is fertile. Now, let us toast to the future of our united houses.”

The sound of a chair falling to the ground was as loud as a thunderclap on a stormy night. Daemon’s furious gaze swept the room, his challenging eyes as he leaped from his seat. The looks of all those present were fixed on him, surprised by his abrupt exit from the room without even uttering a word to his brother. Tension was palpable, as if an impending conflict was looming. But in the midst of the chaos, a twisted smile appeared on Corlys’s face,enjoying seeing the man who allowed his beloved daughter to die so furious and out of control.

“For our union, Your Grace,” he said, raising his wine glass.

Capítulo 13: Reaction

Maegor

Year 127 after the conquest​

His father’s voice echoed in his ears like a hammer striking repeatedly against a cold iron surface. Maegor was stunned by the news he had just heard. A betrothal to someone with Velaryon blood, something he had never imagined for himself, something he had never wanted. And to make matters worse, it was with one of the girls he had seen at the funeral, the same ones who had caught his attention for their resemblance to the infamous queen of whor*s, Alyssa Velaryon. A bitter laugh formed in his throat as he tried to process that new reality. The world seemed to be fading away around him, as if the ground beneath his feet had turned into quicksand.How could he marry a woman who seemed to be cut from the same mold as the infamous queen of brothels?

Memories of Rhaena, who had proven to be so ungratefully disloyal, surged in his mind like a dagger in his heart. His niece’s betrayal had been an affront to his greatness and mercy. It had been a political marriage, but he had strived to make her feel like a true queen.However, all his effort and generosity had been rewarded with a backstab. He remembered her betrayal and ingratitude, her total lack of appreciation for the mercy he had shown her.

Maegor could have decapitated her for her role in her husband’s failed rebellion. He could have locked up her daughters with the silent sisters and forgotten about them. But instead, he had been merciful, letting them escape and, in an act of goodwill, marrying her and granting her the title of queen. But she had responded with an even greater betrayal, stealing the sword Blackfyre and fleeing beyond his reach.

His mother’s thoughts continued to echo in his head, like a constant whisper of wisdom and prudence.“Do not act without thinking, even in the greatest affront there is an opportunity.”Despite his anger and resentment towards his niece’s family, his mother’s advice had planted a seed of doubt in his mind.

The island of Driftmark, once a ruined fortress inhabited by common sailors who had achieved prosperity at sea, had been transformed into a magnificent palace, worthy of the most opulent royalty. The walls were now made of polished stone and adorned with gold and jewel encrustations, while the towers rose to the sky, delicately sculpted and adorned with silk banners. Even the gardens were impressive, with bubbling fountains, marble statues, and exotic flowers that perfumed the air.

Driftmark was a place that inspired envy and fear, and his father’s conversation with Lord Corlys Velaryon only confirmed his suspicion:that was a powerful and respected man, a true leader.Maegor wondered if they could forge a temporary alliance, an opportunity to defeat his sister and her bastards. After all, as his mother had said, even in the worst affront, there was always an opportunity. Although, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disdain towards his father, a weak and pathetic king who needed to ask permission from a vassal to do as he pleased.The fact that his father had to ask permission from that Velaryon to marry one of his granddaughters was humiliating.

Maegor was lost in thought, but his attention was diverted when a loud crash echoed through the room. The sound of breaking wood rang out like thunder in the darkness. As he turned his head, his eyes met the figure of Daemond Targaryen, the ‘grieving’ husband of the late Laena. His face was enveloped in a mix of anger, pain, and despair, his body trembling with restrained fury, and his breath ragged.It was evident that Viserys’ announcement had struck a sensitive nerve in his soul.

Daemond stood with a hidden anger, his body vibrating with the pent-up tension of a beast about to unleash its fury. His face was reddened, and his breath was ragged as he struggled to maintain his composure. His gaze fixed on Viserys and then on Maegor, as if seeking someone to blame for his anger. His eyes burned with contempt as his tongue was tied with rage. Finally, without saying a word, he turned and left the room, leaving behind a tense silence. Rhaenyra, with a tense expression on her face, followed closely, as if trying to calm him or prevent him from doing something he might regret. Meanwhile, the Strong bastards remained in the room, looking at each other with confusion and fear, as if they were unable to comprehend what had just happened and what the future might hold for them.

“For our union, Your Grace,” Lord Corlys said, raising his wine glass.

Viserys shook his head disapprovingly, looking in the direction where Daemon had gone. He pressed his lips tightly, surely trying to hide his concern. The wine glass in his hand trembled slightly, but then he made an effort to appear normal, raising the glass in an empty toast, forcing a smile on his face.

“For our union.”

“Viserys!” a female voice shouted.

His ‘mother,’ Alicent Hightower, rose with a slow and determined movement, her dark eyes fixed on Viserys. The woman seemed to despise the man, and her disapproval of the engagement was evident. She approached her husband and took his tunic, right where his amputated arm should have been.

“Aegon is betrothed to Helaena,” she sobbed. “You can’t do this! How dare you betray our family in this way?”

Viserys flinched at his wife’s verbal attack, but his eyes remained fixed on hers, filled with a determination that Maegor had not seen in his father.

“The decision has already been made, Alicent,” he replied firmly. “There is nothing you can do to change it.”

“It’s not that simple, Viserys,” Alicent said, her eyes shining with fury. “This betrothal is madness. I won’t let you make this mistake.”

Viserys moved away from Alicent with a sharp gesture, refusing to continue the discussion. His Kingsguard, who had remained silent in the corners, quickly moved toward him, offering support as he walked toward the exit of the hall. Rhaenyra’s bastards followed him. As they walked away, Alicent’s eyes remained fixed on her husband’s figure, filled with a mixture of disapproval and concern. Maegor, for his part, did not move from his place. He watched his mother with coldness, his brow furrowed in a look of disgust.

“Mother, I know you don’t agree with the engagement, but we must trust in the wisdom of my father. He knows what’s best for our family,” he said, trying to calm her. Although inside,he wanted to laugh at calling someone as pathetic as Viserys “wise.”

“The best for our family?” Alicent repeated incredulously. “How can you say that? They’re Daemon’s daughters! How can you believe that joining their lineage will be good for us? Do you think Daemon and his daughters will be loyal to the crown?”

Corlys Velaryon, the Lord of the Sea and grandfather of Daemon’s daughters, laughed disdainfully from his seat. The sound of his laughter faded into the air like a cloud of dark smoke.

“Daemon’s daughters?” Corlys smiled from his seat. “Yes, they are Daemon’s daughters. But they are also my granddaughters, and their father is a landless man. He has no voice or vote in this matter.”

Maegor took a deep breath, trying to control his temper.

“No matter what you think of them or their loyalties, mother,” he approached Lord Corlys. “What matters is that we have to make sure we are on the right side, the winning side, when all of this is over.”

Alicent clenched her fists, unwilling to give in.

“I can’t believe you agree with this. Don’t you understand what this alliance means? You’ll betray your own family for a handful of empty promises.”

“It’s not your choice, mother,” he said coldly. “I’ll make the decisions I consider necessary. Whether you like it or not.”

Alicent stormed away angrily, without saying another word. Ser Criston and his brothers escorted the furious woman out of the room, leaving the others alone to discuss the matter. Princess Rhaenys walked away from her husband and approached her granddaughters with her tender and protective gaze. She whispered something to their ears, probably trying to console them after the tense discussion they had just witnessed. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but her reassuring presence seemed to have a calming effect on the little ones.

Meanwhile, Lord Corlys remained in his seat, observing him with a penetrating gaze. It was difficult to read his thoughts, but he could feel his judgment on him. He returned the gaze and realized that he was in the presence of one of the most astute and ruthless men he had ever known in his life, a true master of the political game. He wondered if Lord Corlys was thinking about the conversation they had just had, about how he had supported the union with Daemon’s daughters over the wishes of his own family.Would it have been enough to earn his trust?

Maegor carefully observed Lord Corlys’s features: his hair as white as snow, his skin as dark as ebony, and his shrewd and bright eyes, his silver beard that fell over his chest. He was an impressive man, tall and burly, radiating power and authority. Maegor wondered if Lord Corlys had faced a battle in his youth, if he had fought in any of the endless wars that had plagued the Seven Kingdoms for decades. Or perhaps his power had been gained through his intelligence and political acumen, his ability to weave networks of alliances and manipulate his enemies.

Finally, Lord Corlys broke the silence.

“My prince, I understand that this situation may be complicated for you,” said Corlys with a feigned, soft and kind voice. “But I believe you are making the right decision. Your father made many mistakes, but you can correct them. You can bring peace and prosperity to the kingdom.”

Maegor nodded, grateful for the words of encouragement. He knew he could not afford to show any doubts at that moment.He had to stand firm in his decision, no matter how difficult it was.

“I have,” he responded. “And I am willing to face the consequences, whatever the outcome may be. I will defend my decision with my life, if necessary.”

Lord Corlys smiled slightly, as if he had found a satisfactory answer.

“That’s what I expect from an ally,” Corlys stood up and walked towards Princess Rhaena. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to. It has been a pleasure to meet you, Prince Aegon. But before I go, don’t you think it would be a good idea for you to get to know Rhaena a little better?”

The girl looked at him cautiously, almost with fear. “I can’t blame her,” he thought, “with everything that’s going on, she must be confused.”

“Of course, Lord Corlys.”

The full moon rose majestically on the horizon, illuminating the coast with its ethereal glow. The waves of the sea crashed against the rocks with a constant rhythm, creating a music that was both relaxing and threatening. He observed the horizon, trying to find some sign of life amidst the darkness. There was nothing in sight, except for the rocks and the sand that stretched before them, a desolate land that seemed to have been abandoned by the gods. They were alone, in a deserted and barren landscape, with no other company than the cold ocean breeze blowing on their faces.

The darkness of the night enveloped Princess Rhaena as she walked in silence, two steps behind him. Shadows twisted in the corners of her mind, and the cold dampness seeped into her skin. They had left the castle a while ago, but not a word had been spoken between them since then.The princess seemed oblivious to everything around them, lost in her thoughts, and he wondered what demons were passing through her mind to keep her so quiet.But he was not a man to insist on conversation if his traveling companion did not seem willing to talk.

However, he had a limit, so he turned to her, ready to start a conversation. But he stopped when he felt her looking at something in the distance.

“Someone is trying to approach Vhagar!” she shouted, running towards the horizon.

Maegor stopped in his tracks when he felt the imposing presence of the dragon before him. Vhagar was a legendary beast, with scales that shone with bronzed and bluish-green tones, and discovering that it was still alive left him petrified. However, he could not think much more, as the girl ran in front of him, oblivious to the danger of being so close to the dragon. Maegor caught up to her and took her hand, stopping a few meters from the beast. He could feel the heat emanating from its body and the smell of sulfur it gave off. He wondered what would become of him if Vhagar woke up from its sleep.Would she remember him? Would she attack them? Would she devour them?Despite everything, Maegor could not help but feel fascinated by the dragon, as if it were a living and comforting memory of his mother.

The cold, damp air was filled with the sound of the dragon’s deep breathing, its nostrils expelling clouds of vapor. The gigantic beast rested on the golden sand, its scaly skin shimmering under the moonlight. Its brother, however, advanced fearlessly, his eyes shining with a fierce determination.

“It’s him!” Rhaena shouted. “Your brother wants to steal my mother’s dragon!”

Aemond, who had been so focused on the animal, did not notice her presence and was startled by her voice. He stumbled backwards, losing his balance and falling onto the sand with a loud thud.“Stupid kid!”

Maegor ran towards him, fearing the worst, but the boy quickly stood up, albeit somewhat dazed. Fortunately, the dragon remained motionless, but Maegor knew they had to get away from there as soon as possible, before something worse happened. He doubted any of these brats could ride a dragon like that.

“Let’s go. We need to get out of here before it’s too late,” he whispered to his brother as he got up.

Maegor stopped short when he heard the thunderous roar that shook the ground and made his body tremble. The hot and stale air of a fiery breath hovered over his skin. Slowly, he turned around and saw it: Vhagar had awoken. The dragon rose majestically and powerfully, its wings flapping with force and its body writhing with energy. Its emerald-green eyes shone with a biting and cunning intelligence.

“Vhagar,” Maegor extended his arms towards the dragon, trying to calm her with his gestures while staring at her.

However, Vhagar seemed indifferent to his attempts, and the brightness emanating from her mouth intensified, becoming a blinding light that enveloped everything. Maegor covered his eyes with his forearm, feeling the scorching heat on his skin, and wondered if his luck had run out.Was he going to be devoured by his own mother’s dragon?But then, something unexpected happened. The light suddenly faded, and Vhagar let out a deafening roar that seemed to fill the entire horizon.

“Grrr,” she purred, approaching her head towards him.

Maegor was shocked to feel the dragon’s wet and slimy tongue running over his body, leaving a trail of drool that covered him completely. For a moment, he feared the worst, but upon seeing the dragon’s eyes, he knew it wasn’t its intention to harm him. Still, he couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable at the proximity of that winged monster, whose mere presence commanded respect and fear from anyone who saw it. Vhagar seemed to enjoy the contact with Maegor, as if remembering the days when it had been the loyal companion of his mother, Queen Visenya Targaryen.

Maegor tried to stroke its scaly skin, feeling the rough texture beneath his fingers. The dragon’s skin was cold and hard like steel, but at the same time, soft and flexible like a lizard’s skin. As he continued to stroke it, Maegor was flooded with a torrent of memories, a flow of images that crowded his mind. He remembered his childhood, when his mother took him on the dragon’s back across the continent, gliding through the skies at incredible speeds while smallfolk from towns and cities looked on in awe. He also recalled the horrors of war, the countless enemies who had tried to kill them, and how Vhagar had once been a loyal beast alongside Balerion, devouring his mother’s and his enemies with insatiable voracity.He allowed himself a smile at the fact that, despite all that had changed, Vhagar remained the same noble and loyal dragon he had known as a child.

“I know, my girl,” he whispered. “But I already have a dragon. But...”

Maegor turned his head and saw Aemond and Rhaena, who were as amazed as he was. They seemed so small and fragile compared to the magnificence of the beast. Aemond had his mouth open, while Rhaena clutched his tunic with trembling hands.

“Come on, you two!” he ordered firmly. “You both want the dragon, don’t you?”

The two children looked at each other, hesitating, until they finally nodded and approached shakily. Rhaena stood on his left side and Aemond on his right.

“These two brats don’t have a dragon,” he whispered to Vhagar. “Please choose one of them.”

Vhagar seemed to understand what he was asking for. She sniffed the children with her wet snout, scrutinizing their essences with meticulous attention. It was a sinister and majestic spectacle at the same time, the creature’s gaze seemed to penetrate deep into their being, as if it could see all the shadows and secrets hidden in their young and innocent souls. She breathed in deeply, savoring the scents of the children, and then exhaled a puff of dark smoke. Maegor could barely see what was happening, but he knew from the noise that something was happening. And then, when the smoke dispersed, he saw the scene unfolding before his eyes. The dragon had wrapped Aemond in its wings, as if protecting him from some invisible danger. Rhaena, on the other hand, had fallen to the ground crying.That was it, it was over.

“Remember Rhaena, the rider does not choose the dragon, the dragon chooses the rider,” he said, approaching her and offering her a hand to help her up. “I think it’s obvious that no one stole anything. Now, let’s go back to the castle.”

Chapter 14: Deal

Otto

Year 127 After the Conquest​

Otto Hightower walked down one of the corridors of High Tide, a fortress that echoed with its own majesty, as if the walls themselves reveled in the grandeur of the family that inhabited it. However, the weight of the responsibility that rested on him made him feel tired and confused. The news that the king had announced in the hall had shaken the foundations of his world.How could the monarch make such a momentous decision without consulting his Hand of the King? He wondered if that disregard was deliberate or simply negligence.The anguish enveloped him like a dense and cold fog.

Of course, he was not the only one in his state of confusion. Alicent and Aegon, whom he had accompanied in the room, had been equally perplexed by the king’s proclamation. But while they had been able to stay behind and process what had happened, Otto had been forced to follow Viserys to his chambers. And although he had longed for a chance to speak with the king and get clear answers, he had obtained nothing. Viserys had avoided any conversation related to the proclamation. And so, like a man lost in a sea of uncertainty, Otto had resigned himself, powerless, while the king lay down and sank into a deep sleep.

The clinking of soldiers’ armor who guarded the corridors was the only sound that could be heard in the silence of the night. Moon rays filtered through the high windows illuminating faint patches of his path, revealing reliefs of dragons and griffins that seemed to watch him with steel eyes, while torches flickered and cast shadows that gave him the impression that something was moving in every corner. It was then that he stopped abruptly, his body shaking from the sudden sensation of cold that flooded him. The night wind blew through an open window, and its icy breath struck him in the face. Otto stood there, his mind blank, as he gazed into the emptiness outside.

The smell of salt and dry sea invaded him, and he wondered how many macabre stories were hidden beneath the ocean waves.How many tragedies and secrets lay buried there, by tides and currents?It seemed like an eternity since the last time he entered High Tide, and every day he had tirelessly fought to maintain stability and order in the kingdom. He had sacrificed everything for his family and for those who supported them, but at that moment, he faced a situation that threatened to jeopardize everything he had worked to achieve.What would it mean for him to be allied with the Velaryons? What secrets and machinations could be hidden behind that alliance? The power of the Velaryons was legendary, and their motivations often dark and mysterious. How could they affect his and the kingdom’s future?

Otto felt a chill run down his spine as he lost himself in dark thoughts. As if the cold night breeze that continued blowing through the open window wanted to remind him of the fragility of life and the relentless power of fate, footsteps were heard behind him.

“Lord Hand.”

Vaemond Velaryon stood at the end of the hallway. His silver hair cascaded down his shoulders, and his dark skin seemed to be illuminated by the moonlight. But what stood out the most was the determined look on his face, a clear indication that he was not there by chance.

“Ser Vaemond,” he said, greeting him with a look. “It’s a bit disconcerting to see you at this hour, let alone in the darkness of this hallway. One might think you were following me.”

“I wasn’t following you, my lord,” Vaemond replied, his deep voice resonating in the darkness. “I was just taking a nighttime stroll and saw that you were here. I couldn’t miss the opportunity to talk to you.”

“Ser Vaemond,” Otto replied with reservation. “I’m not sure a ‘nighttime stroll’ is the best explanation for finding ourselves in this hallway at this hour. Is there something you need? It’s late, and I have important matters to attend to tomorrow.”

“I see no point in pretending with you, My Lord,” said Vaemond, in a soft but insistent tone. “My family cares deeply about you, My Lord. There are things to discuss in private.”

“Well, let’s talk then,” said Otto, with a firm but cautious tone.

“Not here and not with me. My brother, Lord Corlys, has asked me to escort you to his private study,” said Vaemond.

Ser Vaemond’s request cast a shadow on Otto’s face. The Velaryons were one of the oldest and most powerful houses in Westeros, with an influence in the court that allowed them to easily manipulate the threads of power. And Vaemond, standing there in the dark hallway, with his inquisitive gaze and soft tone, was a clear signal that the Velaryon’s political games were in motion.

Otto had witnessed Lord Corlys’ cunning, knowing that his political intrigues had already manipulated the king’s council on several occasions in the past. And it was clear that he would now be devising complex stratagems to take advantage of the king’s decision. “He’s probably already plotting something,”Otto thought, frowning as he took a few seconds to consider his response.“What do you want from me, Lord Corlys?”The question hung in the air as Vaemond looked at him patiently. Finally, he made a decision:

“Very well, I will follow you. But, Ser Vaemond, I hope Lord Corlys will be direct in what he has to tell me. I don’t have time for detours.”

Vaemond nodded, and began to walk down the hallway in silence, with Otto by his side. The sound of their footsteps echoed off the stone walls, and the torchlight reflected off his Hand of the King insignia. After a few minutes, they finally arrived at the door to Lord Corlys’s private study. Vaemond stopped and indicated for Otto to enter the room.

“Lord Hand, my brother awaits you inside. I hope your conversation will be fruitful and satisfying for both of you.”

He nodded and entered. The study was a large, well-lit room with candles, filled with shelves of scrolls and ancient books. In the center stood a large oak table surrounded by leather chairs. Lord Corlys was seated at the opposite end of the table, with a jade pen in hand and a pile of papers scattered in front of him.

“Lord Hand,” Corlys said, rising from his chair to greet Otto. “Thank you for coming.”

“My Lord,” Otto replied with a formal nod.

Otto looked at him suspiciously.What was he plotting?

“What is this about, Lord Corlys?” Otto asked as he settled into a chair in front of the desk.

Corlys stood up, then approached the desk with an ambiguous smile on his lips. Leaning with one hand on the carved wood, revealing his ring with the symbol of House Velaryon. The carved wood creaked under his weight, as if the room itself were trembling at his presence.

“Otto, I am here to propose an alliance,” he said, with a voice that left little room for discussion.

Otto frowned, examining the Sea Snake carefully. They had a history of clashes and disagreements in the council, and although Lord Velaryon was offering an alliance, Otto couldn’t help but wonder what the true intentions behind his cordiality were. On the one hand, an alliance with his family could be a shrewd strategy to strengthen Aegon’s position in the realm, but on the other hand, it could also be a dangerous risk. Otto knew that Corlys had an unbridled ambition, something he had demonstrated by offering an alliance despite all their previous disagreements. However, he could not deny that the Velaryons could be a valuable piece in the complex game of politics.

“Go on, Lord Corlys,” he replied.

“As you know, House Velaryon has always been loyal to the Targaryens. But since Viserys ascended to the throne with tricks that humiliated my wife, our loyalty has not been rewarded. We have been ignored and marginalized for too long,” he said, with a challenging tone. “And now, with bastards set to inherit control of the Iron Throne, what of the Velaryons? Are we to be mere spectators while others fight for power? While bastards inherit my ancestral island?”

There it was. It had been an open secret that during the Great Council, the Sea Snake had been on the brink of rebellion, ready to launch his ships in a naval blockade that could have brought the capital to its knees. Although ultimately, he had obeyed the Council’s decision, the seed of bitterness had been planted. The wounded pride of House Velaryon had never fully recovered from that insult.It was clear that Lord Corlys, like a viper lurking in the darkness, was ready to unleash his venom and seek revenge against those who had denied him what he believed was his right.And with the possibility of an alliance with him, the old flames of ambition burned brighter than ever in the man’s eyes.

“I don’t understand where you’re going with this, Lord Corlys,” Otto said.

“What I propose is an alliance between our two houses. The Velaryons and the Hightowers, united as one house. The king has opened the door to that union, but we can strengthen it even more. Together we could face any enemy who dares to challenge us. What do you say?”

“An alliance with the Velaryons...” Otto murmured, carefully weighing his words. “It would be an interesting move, but what guarantee do I have that they won’t stab us in the back as soon as they get the chance?”

Corlys let out a sardonic laugh.

“My Lord, if I wanted to stab you in the back, I would have already done so. I am not such a cowardly man as to play with deceit and double-crossing. What I offer is a true alliance, one in which both parties benefit mutually.”

Otto observed him in silence, evaluating his sincerity. He knew that Corlys was cunning and shrewd, and that his ability to manipulate others was feared by many. But he also knew that he couldn’t afford to reject an opportunity like that.

“Well, Lord Corlys,” he said finally, his voice firm and decisive. “Let’s discuss the terms of this alliance.”

“It’s easy,” said Corlys. “Aegon and Rhaena will marry, as the king wants. But, I would like another guarantee.”

“Another guarantee?”

“Of course, I’m not so politically inept as to demand the prince’s replacement, your second grandson,” replied Corlys with a shrewd smile. “That would close the doors to many of our possible future alliances. Instead, I propose that the queen’s third son, Prince Daeron, be betrothed to my other granddaughter, Baela.”

Otto took a few moments to consider Corlys’s proposal. He couldn’t help a small smile of approval. It was an intelligent move, and it showed that Lord Corlys was willing to make concessions.But, of course, there was a reason behind every political move.

“An interesting proposal, no doubt,” he said finally. “But what would you gain from this betrothal?”

“When the time comes, I will disinherit Rhaenyra’s bastards and name Baela as heir. Of course, the children of both will have the Velaryon surname, which will strengthen our alliance and the opportunities for Prince Aegon. It would also cement the dominion of some dragons for my house.”

The change of surname in the nobility was a common process in the kingdoms and lordships of the Seven Kingdoms. The children of minor branches of the great houses patiently waited for their opportunity to ascend the social scale, and often achieved it through strategic alliances with other houses. Political marriages were carefully negotiated and sealed with the blood of the betrothed, and often carried with them a transfer of power and wealth from one house to another.

The proposal was a bold, but calculated move by Lord Corlys. Baela and Daeron, too far down the Targaryen succession line, were convenient pieces for his game. The Velaryons, an ancestral house, had recently gained a lineage of dragonriders, and with the union of Baela and Daeron, the Velaryon surname would further strengthen their position at court.There was no doubt that Corlys was not a man who acted on a whim, his decisions were carefully thought out and calculated to ensure the future of his house.

Otto’s dilemma was not trivial. In his mind, a whirlwind of thoughts churned, aware that he had to look after the future of his family. Daeron, his grandson, was the owner of a dragon, a weapon that could be key in the struggle for power in the Seven Kingdoms. However, if he accepted Lord Corlys Velaryon’s proposal to marry his granddaughter Baela to Daeron, he would practically hand him over to the Velaryons.And if the Velaryons also acquired another dragon, who knows what they could do with that power?

But the alternative was worse. He knew that Lord Corlys was not someone to be underestimated. He had tried to take the throne by force, and although he had failed, no one doubted that he would try again. Rejecting the deal could put his family in danger. Aegon had already betrothed to Rhaena, and the Sea Snake had enough influence to become a dangerous enemy if he felt slighted; he would remain a constant threat. Aegon would have to rely on the grace of an ambitious and resentful lord who undoubtedly would be waiting for the slightest opportunity to betray them.If he wanted to protect his family and secure his place in history, he had to think with a cool head and make a difficult but necessary decision.If he accepted the pact, Lord Corlys’s loyalty would be assured, and his own offspring would be protected from any betrayal.

“I accept your alliance, Lord Corlys,” he said, extending his hand to the man.

Lord Corlys shook it, sealing the pact. But moments later, the atmosphere in the room became tense. Ser Vaemond burst into the room like a gust of wind, his disheveled appearance and sweat-beaded skin making it clear that something terrible had happened. Lord Corlys released Otto’s hand and moved toward his brother; his eyes filled with concern.

“What has happened, Vaemond?” he asked with a voice full of unease.

“Brother!” he shouted. “Laenor has committed suicide!”

Chapter 15: Chaos

Viserys

Year 127 After the Conquest​

The thunder roared in their ears, as if the gods were mocking their powerlessness in the face of the whirlwind of somber events that had begun to unfold. It had been only a few short hours since he had proclaimed the betrothal between Rhaena and Aegon, a desperate attempt to secure the future of their lineage, yet it seemed that the gods could not stop tormenting him. He felt like a pawn in a divine game, a puppet in the hands of forces beyond his comprehension. His hands, clutching the wooden throne, were silent witnesses to his impotence in the face of the celestial designs that seemed to revel in his misfortune.

The throne room plunged into darkness, its walls emitting a cold and oppressive presence that seemed to absorb any glimmer of light and hope that dared to enter. In the center of that abyss of hopelessness, Otto Hightower, his Hand of the King, stood with austere majesty. By his side, Ser Vaemond stood tall like a fierce warrior. The Velaryon sigil adorned his chest, its brilliance standing out clearly against the gloomy surroundings.

In front of them, kneeling and gagged, a young man with a familiar face emerged from the darkness. The king felt a twinge of familiarity as he observed him, as if he had seen him countless times in the Red Keep.Was he a courtier?The gleam in his desperate eyes and the traces of tears streaming down his face bore witness to unspeakable agony. The young man sobbed desperately, his tears flowing from his weary eyes down his cheeks like tributaries of desolation, mingling with mucus in a grotesque dance. It was a pathetic sight, an image of despair and vulnerability that cut deep into the king’s empathy.

The king cast his gaze upon the young prisoner, contemplating the humiliation and suffering unfolding before his eyes. A shadow of compassion stirred within him, a spark of empathy that threatened to challenge the rigidity of his position.What had led that young man to such depths of despair? What secrets did his tormented soul conceal?

“Your Grace...” Otto spoke the words with sorrow. “A tragedy has occurred. Your Majesty’s son-in-law, the noble Laenor Velaryon, has taken his own life. The pain of his sister’s loss was too much for him...”

Rhaenys’s heart-wrenching cries, like the wails of tortured souls, resonated through the castle hall, reverberating against the walls and enveloping everything in a embrace of anguish and desperation. His cousin, who had also been awakened by the terrible news, appeared before his eyes in a desolate image. Clad in her humble nightclothes, she had not had the time or will to dress, revealing raw and unmasked vulnerability.

Rhaenys’s once radiant and full-of-life face seemed to have aged all at once, as if the weight of suffering had left its mark on every wrinkle and furrow that lined her skin. She was a pale reflection of the image he had of her in her youth, when they both fiercely competed for the right to succeed the Old King, when ambition and passion burned in their eyes. But now, only a heartbreaking shadow remained, a specter of what once was.

But in an instant, that pain-ravaged countenance transformed into a mask of burning anger. Her eyes, reddened and ablaze, exuded an internal fire that rivaled the depths of hell itself. It was as if indignation and rage had momentarily eclipsed her sorrow, fueling an inner fire that threatened to consume everything. In those eyes, he found the fury of a woman who had endured too much, who had witnessed betrayal and tragedy in a merciless world. Rhaenys’s anger was not just for the misfortunes that surrounded them, but for all the injustices they had suffered over the years, all the broken promises and crushed hopes.After all, women were much more sensitive than men and emotionally more easily broken, that’s what the maesters had told him since he was a child.

“Lies!” the woman exclaimed; her voice broken by pain. “Vile lies! My son, my beloved Laenor, would never take his own life!”

Viserys watched the woman with a mix of sorrow and compassion in his weary eyes. The king felt the weight of her words, the weight of the despair that lay behind them. He was trapped in the embrace of a tragedy that overwhelmed him, unable to offer comfort or answers to the woman who had suffered such a devastating loss. Pain and anger intertwined in the air, fueling an emotional storm that threatened to tear everything apart.

“Dear cousin,” he murmured, his voice resonating with infinite sadness, “I understand your pain, your denial. But the reports leave no room for doubt. Laenor...”

“No!” the woman interrupted with fierce determination. “You cannot believe those words. My son would not have ended his own life! Don’t you see how these accusations tarnish his memory, how they sully everything he was?”

Alicent, his wife, gently touched his shoulder, taking a step forward. The King stared at her intently, trying to find any sign of what she was thinking. But as always, she maintained her inscrutable and calculating gaze, revealing not a hint of her thoughts. Finally, Alicent stepped forward and stood by his side. Her presence gave him a certain sense of security.“She is a woman, she will know how to handle this,” he thought wearily.He slightly moved his hand, indicating that she could speak.

“Where is Princess Rhaenyra?” she asked with a sad look. “She was Ser Laenor’s wife; she must be devastated by the news.”

The doors of the hall swung open with a thunderous crash that shook the floor and stirred the air. As if a storm had suddenly arrived, his daughter, Rhaenyra, burst into the room. Her silver, curly hair was disheveled, and she wore only a white nightgown that exposed much of her pale, sweaty skin.She seemed to have run from her chambers, likely tormented by nightmares. Behind her, like a silent shadow, walked Daemon, with an undisturbed countenance and enigmatic eyes. He appeared immune to the emotions that stirred others, a true master in the art of concealing his feelings. He observed the scene with a chilling coldness, as if he had left his humanity behind and become a being of ice and steel.“Poor thing, my brother is shattered and disturbed by the death of his wife.”

Rhaenyra fixed her eyes on Rhaenys, her gaze laden with pain and anguish. Then she turned her attention to him, seeking answers or solace amidst the tempest surrounding them. But finally, her eyes landed on the helpless young man, bound and trembling. As if the ground itself had been anointed with the gravity of the situation, Rhaenyra knelt, a gesture that transcended protocol and formalities.

A plea, filled with relentless lament, escaped her lips with the force of a broken cry:

“My beloved husband!” she exclaimed, her voice resonating in the hall like a gloomy and tormented echo. “Ser Qarl Correy, the guardian of Laenor, responsible for his safety, has failed. In the name of my beloved Laenor and our now orphaned children, I implore for justice. Father, I beg you, behead him, please!”

Her words, laden with a heart-wrenching mix of pain, anger, and thirst for vengeance, hung in the air like a cursed oath. The shattered and desperate plea encapsulated the tragedy that had befallen her daughter.He knew Rhaenyra, he had witnessed her devotion as a wife and mother. The intensity of her love for Laenor had taken root deep within her being, becoming a burning flame that defied even the gods themselves.But amidst the whirlwind of misfortune that had ravaged them, it was evident that grief had clouded her judgment and pushed her limits beyond reason.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Otto said in a hoarse voice, cautiously approaching her. “I understand your pain is great, but we cannot allow anger and thirst for vengeance to blind Your Grace’s eyes. We must seek the truth and ensure that justice is served, regardless of who is responsible.”

However, Otto’s response, filled with wisdom and prudence, seemed to further enrage Rhaenyra. She screamed louder and sobbed more bitterly:

“I don’t want truth; I want justice for my beloved husband and my children! I want to see the killer’s head on a spike!”

It was then that Lord Corlys, that old serpent with his cunning and piercing gaze, decided to intervene. He raised his voice above the emotional storm that ravaged the hall and questioned Rhaenyra’s claims.As always, objecting and complaining about the Targaryens.

“Killer?” he argued, raising his voice. “I have no information about any murder, unless the princess suggests she knows something we don’t.”

The tension in the air became palpable as those present watched the confrontation between Rhaenyra and Lord Corlys. His daughter, consumed by anger and sadness, seemed to falter for a moment in the presence of the Sea Snake’s authority. The hall vibrated with uncertainty and distress, and each word spoken echoed in the collective consciousness. Meanwhile, overwhelmed by the whirlwind of events that had been set in motion, he sought refuge in the figure of Otto.“Please Otto, fix this”.

“Enough,” he whispered, placing a hand on his face, fatigue resonating in every syllable that escaped his mouth. “Otto, please, tell me what has happened.”

“Your Grace,” Otto said, approaching the throne. “This young man was caught attempting to escape in a boat. The guards believe he was drunk and asleep while Ser Laenor left the fortress to dive into the ocean, and that’s why he feels guilty for his death.”

The young man, despite his tears, couldn’t help but notice the presence of the king and looked up at him.

“Remove that cloth from his mouth, let him speak.”

A moment of hesitation flashed across Rhaenyra’s face, as if the words of denial were forming in her mouth, but before she could utter them, Otto advanced toward the young man who knelt on the floor, gagged and with tears in his eyes. The crowd fell silent as he removed the fabric covering his mouth. The young man gasped and coughed, struggling to breathe. Then he took a deep breath and directed a piercing gaze towards Rhaenyra. In his eyes burned a mixture of fear and determination. His voice, rough from the imposed silence, emerged from his trembling lips.

“It’s not true!” he cried out in a fit of desperation. “I had nothing to do with his death! I would never harm him! But I’m sure that you...”

Before the young man could utter his last words, Daemon emerged out of nowhere. In a movement as swift as the flash of lightning in an endless storm, his brother delivered a precise cut, ending the young man’s life with a single blow. The head of Ser Qarl Correy, detached from his body, rolled with a macabre dance until it came to a stop in front of his daughter, Helaena. A moment of paralyzing horror seized the scene, as the eyes of the child, filled with lost innocence, refused to witness the horror unfolding before her. Desperate to shield her from the gruesome reality, Alicent rushed to her daughter’s side, enveloping her in a protective embrace and encircling her with loving arms.

The hall was enveloped in a shroud of whispers, where the darkest and most twisted emotions intertwined with the fabric of life itself. Muffled sighs and pounding hearts were the melody that accompanied the violent end of that young man. Daemon’s eyes, hidden behind the veil of darkness, revealed a trace of twisted satisfaction as he contemplated the outcome of his bloody act.“Madness has consumed him; he is as devastated as Rhaenyra.”

“By the gods!” Alicent shrieked, embracing Helaena. “He is a savage! What kind of monster is capable of such atrocity?”

The royal guards, with their gleaming armor and raised swords, surrounded Daemon, their faces hardened by duty and loyalty. The gleam of their weapons reflected the anger and defiance emanating from their hearts. Amidst the chaos, Ser Harrold Westerling stepped forward with firm steps and a defiant gaze in his eyes. His voice, deep and authoritative, sought answers from the man who had unleashed such carnage.

“Explain yourself, Prince Daemon,” demanded Ser Harrold, his voice resonating with the solemnity of a trial. “How dare you commit such an atrocity before the king? What dark motive has driven you to stain this hall with innocent blood?”

Daemon, staring intently at his accusers, sheathed his sword with a chilling calmness. His presence, magnetic and somber, seemed to defy fate itself. His eyes, sparks of blunt anger, locked onto Ser Harrold’s before his voice emerged as a threatening whisper.

“Innocent?” he laughed. “Laenor, as the husband of my beloved niece, was the future consort of the realm. To be the cause, even indirectly, of his death is an unforgivable crime.”

The hall fell into a dense silence, as if the spoken words resonated beyond audibility.

“Daemon, I understand your pain, I comprehend the tragic loss you have suffered,” whispered Viserys, his voice piercing the silence with a note of sorrow. “But your behavior... You have frightened my daughter and spilled blood in this hall.”

Daemon stood tall, unyielding to him.

“After you humiliated me by betrothing my daughter without seeking my opinion on the matter, believe me, Viserys, I did not expect your understanding. But if you think my action is a disgrace, you are mistaken. The true shame is inaction in the face of an affront to our family and our kingdom.”

Those present glanced at each other, feeling the accumulated tension. It was evident that the situation had reached a point of no return. Ser Harrold frowned, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter.

It was then, interrupting the scene, that Rhaenys, with firm and determined steps, made her way through. Her gaze was loaded with contained fury, and each step echoed on the marble floor as a warning. Rhaenyra, kneeling and in shock over her husband’s death, didn’t notice her presence until, without warning, Rhaenys raised her hand and slapped her forcefully across the face. The impact was such that the princess’s head jerked abruptly, leaving a fiery red mark on her cheek. The sound of the impact filled the room, followed by an even more deafening silence. Rhaenyra brought her hand to her cheek, feeling the burning sensation from the blow as she rose slowly, her gaze fixed on Rhaenys.

“How dare you?” Rhaenyra shouted, her voice broken by emotion and anger. “How dare you attack me at a time like this?”

But Rhaenys remained unfazed. Her gaze, cold as ice, bore into her niece’s as she spoke.

“You... I saw how you looked at Daemon, so Ser Qarl wouldn’t speak,” growled Rhaenys, her voice laden with pain and resentment. “We know he loved my son! You bastards didn’t want the truth to be spoken.”

The rest of those present, stunned and speechless, watched the scene with a mix of horror and fascination. Pain and tragedy had torn apart the family ties, revealing the deep and dark cracks that lay beneath the noble and radiant facade of royalty. Viserys rose slowly, with a concerned expression on his face. He tried to intervene, but the words got stuck in his throat, caught between grief and helplessness. The fate of his family was crumbling before his eyes, and his role as a leader and father was becoming increasingly challenging.It was madness!

“Rhaenys...” Viserys coughed, his voice weakened by grief and the weight of the tragedy. “Do not utter senseless words in this moment of despair and pain!”

Lord Corlys hurried to surround his wife with protective arms. His imposing and serene figure radiated authority and wisdom, attempting to calm the emotional chaos enveloping everyone.

“Your Grace,” he said, with a grave and respectful voice, “my wife has suffered enough. Her pain and suffering have clouded her judgment in this dark moment. I beg you to grant us your forgiveness and understanding.”

Viserys, exhausted by the weight of the crown and the impossible decisions demanded of him, staggered slightly, falling back onto his throne. His weary eyes, filled with sadness, scanned the room, searching for a solution that seemed to elude his grasp.

“Rhaenys, Lord Corlys,” he whispered, his voice trembling, his glassy gaze laden with anguish, “deep in my heart, I understand your grief and anger. In light of that, allow me to overlook those senseless words that have escaped your wounded tongues.”

A twisted sound seeped through the cracks of the conflict. A cold and ruthless laughter filled the air, entangling like poisonous thorns in the hearts of those who heard it. The source of the laughter stood before him, it was Daemon, his brother, rising with a mixture of disdain and defiance.

“I can no longer bear witness to this spectacle of weakness, brother,” he declared, with a cold and ruthless disdain. “I will no longer tolerate the burden of this cursed island and the chains that bind us to it. I shall leave here with my daughters, far away from this accursed place.”

Daemon made a desperate attempt to leave the hall, but the royal guards, resolute and determined in their duty, blocked his path. Clad in gleaming armor with impassive expressions, they stood between him and the freedom he longed for. Daemon’s face displayed a mix of frustration and fury, his eyes challenging the guards with a spark of rebellion and disdain.

However, the voice of Lord Corlys, firm and respectful, broke the oppressive silence that dominated the hall. His words resonated with unwavering wisdom, a voice of reason amidst the emotional tempest.

“Your Grace,” Lord Corlys said, slightly inclining his head in a gesture of respect, “allow me to remind you of our agreement. Furthermore, my family has endured immense suffering in these dark times. To mitigate the tragedies that befall us and considering that, due to Prince Daemon’s imprudence, we will never know the truth about Laenor’s death, I beseech you to allow us to take care of Baela, while Rhaena joins your company, so that she may come to know Prince Aegon more intimately.”

Viserys, with a resigned sigh and the shadow of pain in his eyes, eager to disappear from there quickly, slowly nodded, accepting the Serpent’s proposal.

“Brother!” roared Daemon with a voice full of anger and desperation, his words reverberating in the air like a storm’s roar. “How dare you take my daughters away from me? Will you deny me the right to see them?”

Viserys, consumed by the illness eating away at his body and spirit, staggered slightly as he tried to stand firm against his brother’s rage. His eyes, darkened by the weight of suffering, locked with his brother’s in a clash of wills.

“Da... Daemon,” he coughed, his voice choked and weak. “No one is stopping you from seeing your daughters. You are welcome in my court to visit Rhaena, and I trust that Lord Corlys will not hinder your ability to see Baela.”

“Don’t deceive me with your empty words!” Daemon roared, his voice resonating in the hall with the ferocity of a beast. “You know very well that this game goes beyond merely seeing my daughters. It’s about power, control. You are not only taking them away from me but also my legacy... You damned fool! If that’s what you desire, then keep them. I can no longer bear witness to your humiliation.”

Viserys’ battered body writhed under the weight of a piercing pain that threatened to extinguish his feeble flame of life. The sound of the crown hitting the floor reverberated in the room, symbolizing the collapse of his authority and the shattering of his dreams.

“Let him... go,” he whispered, his voice barely an agonized sigh. “He... he is shattered by the death of his beloved wife. Keep the princesses in their chambers, ensure their safety.”

Daemon left the room, his figure fading into the distance. Exhausted by the pain that besieged him, he closed his eyes tightly, seeking refuge in the arms of unconsciousness. His mind quickly plunged into a deep and restless sleep, where the chaos of the real world momentarily faded, allowing him to escape the chains of his own destiny.“Aemma...”

Chapter 16: Time

Maegor

Year 130 After the Conquest​

The relentless flow of time wove its somber web over the kingdom, dragging along the fates of mortals. Days faded away like ephemeral sighs, weeks slipped into oblivion, and months were lost in the vastness of the past, while implacable time dragged the world toward its inevitable destiny. Amidst that ruthless dance of the ages, a new day arose, a day that shone with the blazing light of the sun at its zenith, bathing the royal chambers in its golden splendor.

The golden glow danced and bounced off the walls, illuminating the suspended dust in the air. In that luminous splendor, King Viserys rose with a fragility that contrasted with the majesty of his past. Wrinkles furrowed his face, life maps traced by relentless time. His once upright and powerful body now seemed stooped under the weight of old age and years of reign. However, despite that physical decline, a faint trace of power and wisdom still emanated from his weary gaze.

The new Grand Maester, Orwyle, had brought with him the secrets of the latest and most advanced medicine. Thanks to his treatments, leprosy, that accursed disease that had threatened to devour the king, had been contained in its insidious advance. Pustules and sores had retreated, but scars and blemishes remained as testimony of the past struggle. The monarch’s skin, sprinkled with freckles and moles by relentless age, became a macabre canvas upon which the sunlight sparkled, creating an iridescent halo that gave his figure an almost supernatural appearance.

Noon sun defied the darkness, clinging to its fleeting reign over the sky. And in that radiant brightness, King Viserys immersed himself in deep contemplation of his latest pastime: a miniature marble model erected in the center of the room on a carved oak table. The miniature encampments seemed to pulsate with a life of their own under his wrinkled finger. With the delicacy of an artisan, the king moved and rearranged them as if every minute change influenced the destiny of the men and women who inhabited those ephemeral camps. But his behavior was not that of a wise and self-controlled king, but that of a child who had found a new toy. In each movement, each change of position, there was childlike amusem*nt, a delight that defied the reality of his advanced age and fragile health.

The king turned towards him, a forced smile on his withered and parched lips. His eyes seemed to distill an ancestral weariness, as if they had seen more of the world than any other man could bear. Maegor, however, appeared unperturbed by his father’s presence. His strong and muscular body had grown significantly, reflecting years of training and discipline.

“What do you think, Aegon?” he asked. “Are you enjoying the tournament complex I ordered to celebrate your eighteenth name day?”

Maegor reveled in the subtle curve of his lips, a twitch that traced the furrows of his masculine face. That barely perceptible gesture reflected a satisfaction that only true warriors knew, the ecstasy awakened in the heat of battle and the conquered glory. In his previous life, tournaments had been his playground, his testing ground where his mettle was forged with every unsheathed sword and every shattered shield.

Remembrances of bygone eras rose in his mind, like restless shadows emerging from the past. Memories of a time when he, Maegor, asserted his dominance with every battle in the arena. His vigorous muscles, like colossi of steel, annihilated knights from the farthest corners of the realm. His young and powerful body stood tall as a beacon of skill and bravery, while Aenys, his frail and pathetic brother, remained relegated to the stands, an insignificant figure in the face of his greatness. In those days, though not the designated heir, the glow of cheers and praise leaned towards him, demanding his attention and provoking the proud gleam in his father’s eyes, Aegon the Conqueror.“But now,” he thought bitterly, “now everything has changed. Now I am someone else, and Aenys... Aenys is dead.”

“It’s a splendid feast, father,” Aegon responded with a soft yet firm tone. “I greatly appreciate the effort you’ve put into organizing all this for me.”

The king nodded, satisfied with the response.

“It’s important that we celebrate life, Aegon,” the king said in a low voice, as if speaking to himself. “We never know when the Stranger may come to claim us.”

Maegor’s face darkened at his father’s somber words, but silence was his only response. He understood that Viserys had crossed the threshold of existence long enough to recognize the transience of life, a delicate glow destined to extinguish at any moment. He himself was living proof of it. Before Orwyle, the new Grand Maester, took charge of his father’s health, Maegor would not have given him an additional year of life. The murky events at Driftmark had left the king bedridden for endless weeks, and the sudden news of Daemon and Rhaenyra’s marriage just days later had triggered a relentless fever that plunged him into unconsciousness for a long and torturous month.“It was obvious that they were the ones responsible for Ser Laenor’s death.”

In those days, the shadow of death had loomed over King Viserys, and for Maegor, the rapid deterioration of his father’s health boded ill. In those dark times, he had not yet fully assimilated the complexity of the court and its intrigues, nor had he established solid connections with the advisors and nobles who wielded their influence in the halls of power. His father’s life hung by a thread, and his own was inexorably tied to his survival; therefore, his possible and premature death threatened to snatch away the opportunity to secure his position and consolidate his power.

Viserys’ illness, so mysterious and voracious, had left the other Maesters perplexed, unable to find a cure for his ailment. Faced with the inefficiency of his supposed saviors, Maegor had taken drastic measures. He had not been benevolent towards those who failed in their duty to keep the king alive, locking them away in the dark, gloomy cells where despair and darkness slowly devoured them.It was his way of demonstrating that betrayal and negligence would not go unpunished, that those who dared to fail would be mercilessly crushed.

However, fortune finally smiled upon them in the form of a new Grand Maester, Orwyle. That wise and cunning man quickly understood that his fate would be sealed if he didn’t find a solution to the king’s illness. With skilled hands and profound medical knowledge, Orwyle became the last resort, the last hope for Viserys and Maegor. Maegor had witnessed how the Grand Maester had immersed himself in the extensive tomes of medicine and herbology housed in the library of the Red Keep, with firm steps and unwavering determination. His quest for answers led him to explore forgotten knowledge and forbidden rituals, as hours melted into days and nights were tinged with a mysterious twilight. In his eagerness to discover the cure that would restore Viserys’ health, Orwyle ventured into forbidden territories, crossing unknown boundaries.

Even with the intervention of Otto and the Hightowers, pressure had been exerted on the Citadel to grant Orwyle access to its darkest corners. The Maester regularly traveled to Oldtown, and upon his return to the capital, he sought refuge in his study. There, his skilled and wise hands moved with precision, preparing brews and potions with exotic and rare ingredients. His eyes, injected with an almost supernatural gleam, scrutinized every line of ancient text, every hidden inscription on dusty scrolls. He didn’t pause at any difficulty, challenging the limits of morality and ethics in his desperate search for a solution to the rapid spread of the king’s illness.

“That’s why you have to enjoy every moment, son,” the king continued, now with a livelier tone. “Have fun, be free. That will be your day, and you deserve everything it offers.”

Maegor nodded, but his gaze remained serious.

“I will, father,” he replied with genuine conviction.

The king observed him for a moment longer, then smiled, placing his only arm on his shoulder before returning his attention to his marble model.

“Orwyle showed me some letters,” he said, rearranging the pieces once again. “Lord Corlys will arrive in a week, the Lannisters will take two more.”

Maegor clenched his fists with contained fury upon hearing the name Lannister. The mention of that surname resonated in his mind like a personal affront, an open wound that would never heal. Otto’s words, insisting on the need to ally with them, barely found an echo in his unwavering anger. The Lannisters, in their arrogance and opulence, represented everything he despised in the court of King’s Landing. Unlike Lord Corlys, a veteran of countless battles, whose presence he could reluctantly endure, Ser Tyland embodied arrogance in all its dazzling pomp. He was a man without battle scars, a ponce who believed himself cleverer than others despite never having set foot on a battlefield.He was detestable scum.

The hatred Maegor felt towards the Lannisters intensified as he remembered how they had provided refuge to traitorous nephews in the past, refusing to hand them over to his justice. That act of disloyalty still lingered in his memory, fueling the fire of his vengeance. Furthermore, they had disregarded his demands for gold to hire mercenaries and soldiers to confront the unstoppable advance of Jaehaerys’ forces. The Lannisters, like the Velaryons, had become traitors, but unlike the latter, Maegor was not bound to them by blood ties.At every opportunity that presented itself, he would ensure that they learned their place and repented their disdain.

His eyes flashed with ancestral fury, fueled by memories of past betrayals and the desire for revenge. There would be no truce or forgiveness for those who believed themselves invulnerable in their high towers and rich lands. The Lannisters would pay a price that transcended mere gold; their arrogance would be crushed under the weight of relentless justice.In the Seven Kingdoms, the ‘mighty’ Lannisters would soon discover that defying him was not an action without consequences.

“Well, you invited all the lords,” he said with concealed disdain. “You’re the king, they can’t refuse to come.”

“It’s not just about inviting them, Aegon,” he responded with a weary yet firm voice. “The lords have their own agendas, divided loyalties, and their own political games. Inviting them is one thing, getting them to attend and cooperate is quite another. Not all will answer my call. Lord Stark, for instance, is just one of the many lords who have yet to respond to my summons. His reasons are known only to him.”

“Father, you cling to the weakness of diplomacy and mutual respect,” he whispered, his voice like a respectful sigh. “But in this world, authority is earned through strength and determination. You can’t allow those lords to mock you behind your back. You must assert yourself, show them who the true king is.”

“Authority is not built on fear, my son,” he replied, his words laden with the weight of experience. “True greatness lies in the ability to govern with wisdom and empathy. Forcing the lords to submit will only breed resentment and rebellion. My goal is to unify the Seven Kingdoms, not fuel the flames of chaos and discord.”

As his father’s words resonated in his mind, Maegor felt laughter struggling to escape his lips. The pathetic weakness of the one who was supposed to be his king was unbearable to him. But he knew he had to contain his sarcasm and disdain. The bond he had forged with his father over the years could not be destroyed by a simple discussion about the complexities of governance. Maegor sought to deflect attention, eager to change the course of the conversation to safer and familiar grounds.

“Did you invite Rhaenyra and Daemon?” Maegor inquired softly, sliding the words like a hidden dagger in the shadows. “It has been years since they set foot in this court.”

Viserys, whose fingers had stopped caressing the model representing the new tournament camp, turned his face towards Maegor. His gaze reflected the weight of years and unfathomable sadness.

“Your mother did not approve,” Viserys sighed, his voice carrying the echo of a man burdened by the weight of his own blood. “It’s better not to stir the waters. You know well the nature of women and their inscrutable motivations.”

Maegor exhaled a sigh tinged with hopelessness. His mother, subtly but undeniably, had ascended to the role of regent in the kingdom. Although Viserys had regained some of his health, he had relinquished the reins of governance to his wife and Otto. It was an affront, a blow to his pride, to see the Hightowers standing over the throne as usurpers of power. If he were not bound to the same faction, Maegor would not hesitate to take drastic measures to restore the balance of power.

“Father, she is your daughter, and the heir...” Maegor’s voice broke into a whisper, struggling to utter those last words. “We should invite her. After all, my wedding to Princess Rhaena will be celebrated just before the grand tournament.”

Viserys let out a sigh laden with sadness and doubt. His countenance reflected the weight of the decisions he had to make, the ties that tightened and the ties that broke. The tired eyes of the king met those of his son, revealing an internal conflict that tore at his soul.“Gods, he is truly a pathetic old man.”

“Aegon, you understand...” Viserys spoke with a choked voice, as if each word tore a piece of his being. “The situation is complicated. Rhaenyra... she...”

Maegor nodded solemnly, knowing what his father couldn’t say aloud. The kingdom was steeped in the shadows of the past, in rivalries and betrayals that extended through the years. The figure of Rhaenyra, his half-sister, loomed like a threatening ghost on the horizon, a shadow that divided the realm and fueled the ambition of many. However, Maegor knew that, despite it all, he had to invite her. He had to bring the serpent into the warmth of the nest, where she could be watched and controlled.He preferred to have his enemy in his territory, in plain sight of everyone, rather than allowing her to plot in distant shadows, weaving conspiracies and webs of treachery while the kingdom crumbled.

“Father, I know the paths of the realm are dark and tangled,” he declared firmly, his eyes burning with a spark of resolve. “We must face reality. Inviting Rhaenyra is a necessary step to seal the unity of our house, to show our adversaries that together we are invincible.”

Viserys smiled, the weight of the crown seemed to crush his shoulders. His gaze, a mixture of sadness and longing, settled upon his son with a blend of pride and pain.

“Aegon, my dear son... understand that every choice we make has unforeseen, and often deadly, consequences,” Viserys whispered, his words floating in the air like a whisper of warning. “But if you believe it is right, if you believe it is the only way to unite us... then, so be it.”

Chapter 17: Doctrines

Maegor

Year 130 After the Conquest​

The gloomy chambers of the library in King’s Landing housed endless lessons with the Maesters, where the air grew thick with the scent of old parchment and dried ink. Maegor found himself trapped in that labyrinth of knowledge, struggling against his disdain for the imposed teachings. For him, those moments were a waste of time, a charade he had to put on to win the favor of his “mother” and Viserys, the king he barely recognized as his father. However, despite his aversion to the lessons, Maegor understood the importance of demonstrating his commitment to his education.

He couldn’t afford to be seen as a slacker, an indolent and ignorant prince who didn’t understand the significance of his duties to his family, the court, and the kingdom eagerly awaiting his ascent to the throne. That’s why he subjected himself to endless hours of study, feigning interest while his mind wandered into dreams of conquest and power. In the midst of that abyss of knowledge, Maegor and Rhaena encountered Grand Maester Orwyle, a young man with a keen gaze and measured words. Although their ideas clashed on multiple aspects, he recognized the vast wisdom harbored by that enigmatic scholar.Orwyle, with his vast mind and ability to ponder over profound and mysterious subjects, was a beacon in the intellectual darkness of the kingdom.

“And how do you see it, My Prince, My Princess,” the Maester spoke, his voice vibrating with wisdom, “according to the military compilations of Maester Anselm, there is nothing better for winning a war than ravens and letters, just as your great-grandfather, King Jaehaerys Targaryen, won his throne.”

Rhaena, the youngest grand daughter of the Sea Snake, listened attentively to every word the Grand Maester pronounced, nodding with a serious and devout gesture. Her eyes, bright and filled with curiosity, reflected the insatiable thirst for knowledge that resided in her restless soul. Maegor, by her side, observed her with penetrating attention. Though she was barely fourteen years old and on the verge of celebrating her fifteenth birthday in anticipation of her impending marriage, she displayed a maturity that defied her youth.

At first, dealing with the young girl had been a true odyssey for Maegor. Enveloped in the shadows of confusion and pain that had plagued Driftmark, Rhaena refused to open her heart, and her lips barely uttered words. Trapped in the whirlwind of events that had shaken her life, the girl clung to silence as a protective shield against a world that had robbed her of innocence. However, something had changed when news of the betrothal between Daemon and Rhaenyra reached Rhaena’s ears. Driven by the need to escape loneliness and pain, the young girl had emerged from her solitary chambers, though her countenance had been covered with a layer of anger and frustration.

In those moments of anger and childish tantrums, her “mother,” the cunning and manipulative Alicent Hightower, had seized the opportunity to weave a web of apparent comfort and closeness around the girl. Aware of her vulnerability, her sense of loss and displacement, the queen had found a point of connection with Rhaena, establishing a bond that was as delicate as it was insidious. The days went by, and Maegor, from the shadows, witnessed how Rhaena allowed herself to be enveloped in the threads of sweet words and compassionate gestures from Alicent. It was as if, in her helplessness and desire for solace, the young girl had found in the queen a maternal figure, a guide in the turmoil of emotions that besieged her.

“She’s a foolish puppet,”Maegor had hastily judged upon observing Rhaena’s first steps under Alicent’s influence. But time, like a relentless pendulum, had led the girl down a dark and irreversible path towards the abyss of manipulation. Her eyes, once shining with innocence and hope, now sparkled with a different light, an incipient cunningness that fascinated Maegor himself. It was as if an enigmatic creature emerged from the depths of her being, ready to spread its wings and fly towards an uncertain destiny.

His mother, having accepted the betrothal that bound them all, had begun to instruct Rhaena in the duties and responsibilities of a future queen. In that intertwining of teachings and shared secrets, Maegor glimpsed something more than mere manipulation. Sometimes, in the gestures and fleeting glances of his “mother,” he found glimpses of genuine affection towards the young girl. He knew that Helaena, his sister, was an unfathomable and different enigma, so he sensed that the relationship between her and Alicent was far from close. It was obvious that the queen had found in Rhaena a more “normal” companion, someone with whom to share conversations about every day and mundane matters of the feminine world, away from the dark corners of reality. Maegor understood his mother’s need to cling to that thread of connection with normalcy, even if only for fleeting moments.

Resignation to the betrothal had also found a home in Maegor’s heart, woven into a web of bitterness and resentment. The betrothal with the Velaryon, a bond forged in the fire of circ*mstances and strategic alliances, became a heavy burden on his shoulders. He had sworn to hate that family with overwhelming ferocity, as their past betrayals still echoed in the depths of his tormented soul. However, on the horizon stood an unavoidable figure, a titan whose words and actions could not be ignored: Lord Corlys Velaryon.

The Sea Snake was a warrior, a true man of the sea and of war who had carved his own destiny with his own blood and sweat. Maegor couldn’t help but admire that quality, even if it was tainted with resentment and distrust. The experience of battle, the deadly dance of the sword and the roaring of the enraged seas, were credentials that earned his respect.He would prefer the company of that man who had forged himself in the forge of adversity a thousand times over the weak and pathetic courtiers who strutted about with titles and wealth but whose souls had never felt the intoxication of battle.

Thus, accepting his fate, Maegor had orchestrated his move. With a calm voice and a steady gaze, he had asked Viserys to allow Rhaena to accompany him in his lessons with the Maesters. That territory, traditionally restricted to men by tradition and prejudice, would be a perfect stage to gain his betrothed’s trust and weave the threads of his own manipulation in her fragile will. Viserys, weak and easily influenced, had resisted at first.“Women have no place in those matters, and she, unlike your sister, inherits nothing,”he proclaimed with the conviction of someone clinging to traditions.

But Maegor knew the cracks in his father’s armor, the fissures in his wavering character. With patience and persistence, he had hammered away at the weak will of the king, wearing it down with subtle arguments and carefully crafted manipulations. Each word had been a battering ram, striking at the defenses of his father until finally, like a crumbling castle, they yielded to the pressure of his persuasion. Reason tore through the mantle of tradition, and Viserys, defeated by his own weakness, succumbed to his son’s plea.“With my cousin by my side, I can mold her into someone loyal.”

“But how?” Rhaena asked, her voice soft and melodious but infused with a determination that defied her young age. “How can a mere raven or a letter tip the balance of a war?”

“Words, dear princess, are sharper weapons than any steel,” he solemnly responded. “Ravens and letters are messengers of hidden truths and secret alliances. In their wings and in their ink lies the power to change the destiny of entire kingdoms. The Old King knew this, and that’s how he built his empire.”

The mention of theOld Fool, “Jaehaerys the Corruptor,”stirred within him an ancestral fury, an open wound that would never heal. He would not allow the Grand Maester to defile Rhaena’s naive mind with twisted and deceitful stories, painting a vile traitor as a fallen hero. Then, with a burst of anger, Maegor’s palm slammed against the solid wooden desk, causing it to tremble and making them flinch. The thunderous sound echoed through the walls, reverberating like the roar of a chained dragon. It was a gesture charged with authority, a silent warning that he would not tolerate another word about his nephew and his supposed exploits. With a sneer of contempt, he shook his head, defying the wise man and hissenseless and delusional illusions.

“Enough!” he roared, his deep voice resonating in the air like thunder. “No more sweet words and flattery about Jaehaerys. I will not allow his legacy to poison the mind of my future wife. His actions were tainted by treason and weakness. There is no glory in his name, only deceit and ruin.”

Silence engulfed the room, a tension-filled silence. The eyes of the Grand Maester, brimming with wisdom and experience, met Maegor’s, sparks of challenge colliding in the air.

“My prince, I do not understand your anger. You must remember that history has many facets,” he responded, his voice calm and firm. “Jaehaerys, although labeled by Maegor the Cruel as a ‘traitor,’ was a wise and cunning king in his time. His legacy cannot be ignored or forgotten. You yourselves descend from him, not King Maegor.”

Maegor, with his defiant and somber gaze, let out a sigh laden with heaviness. He knew that his words and attitudes could be bewildering to those who saw his alleged lineage as a direct connection to the traitor Jaehaerys. However, he could not afford to appear vulnerable or yield ground in his position. He decided to regain his composure, standing tall like a warrior seasoned in a thousand battles, and directed his gaze toward the Grand Maester with a piercing look. The words flowed from his lips with solemnity, resonating in the tense air.

“We cannot afford to rely on birds and scrolls as if they were our sole hope in a war,” his voice, rough and grave, echoed in the library. “War, my esteemed Maester, is not a game of desks and letters. It is a torrent of blood and steel.”

“Prince Aegon, I understand your disdain for the arts of diplomacy and cunning,” the Maester responded, with a serenity that seemed to defy the storm raging in the heart of the Targaryen. “But in a war, often the greatest victories are won before the swords clash. Do not underestimate the power of words and alliances woven in the shadows.”

Maegor furrowed his brow, his gaze darkened by a spark of defiance. The gleam of fire danced in his eyes, fueled by the anger and rebellion that had taken root in his spirit.

“I cannot agree, Maester Orwyle,” he replied, his voice resonating with unwavering determination. “Plans and machinations only unnecessarily prolong conflicts. I prefer to face my enemies with a drawn sword, in an epic battle where the destiny of kingdoms and men is decided. War is won in the heat of combat, not in study halls and written letters.”

The Grand Maester nodded, his face showing deep understanding. His words and gestures conveyed a mix of respect and concern, as if he feared the outcome of an impending tragedy.

“Indeed, there are dissenting voices among our wise men, Prince Aegon,” he responded, his voice carrying a deep and measured cadence, as if the echoes of ancient truths resonated in every syllable. “Archmaester Rigney, known for his tactical wisdom and studies on the epics of Aegon and the events that took place in ‘The Battle Beneath the Eye of the Gods,’ advocates for a revolutionary strategic doctrine, named ‘The Decisive Battle.’”

Maegor leaned forward, eager to hear every word that came out of the Maester’s lips. The faint glow of the candles illuminated his face, revealing a mixture of anticipation and satisfaction. The mention of the battle that had ended his nephew’s pathetic rebellion filled Maegor with a sense of gratification, as if the gods themselves had recognized his skill and courage.He felt praised by that Archmaester, for Maegor, that man had surely been much wiser than the foolish weaklings who praised Jaehaerys, a useless king who had been undeservedly admired. “A rat with eyes among a bunch of blind moles.”

“Tell me more about this doctrine,” he urged, his voice filled with curiosity and palpable determination. “What does this ‘Decisive Battle’ consist of and how can it change the course of conflicts?”

The Grand Maester, accustomed to dealing with the paradoxes and nuances of history, closed the book he held in his hands and placed it on the polished oak table with reverent care. Then, his eyes met the prince’s, his gaze burdened with the weight of knowledge.

“The ‘Decisive Battle,’ Prince Aegon, poses a bold and risky premise,” the man began, his words floating in the air like whispers of stormy winds. “Instead of waiting for the conflict to unfold in an endless series of skirmishes and disconnected battles, this doctrine advocates for seeking the opportune moment to confront the enemies in a monumental confrontation, a battle that decides it all.”

He absorbed each word eagerly, his mind envisioning blood-soaked battlefields and the clash of weapons.

“And how do we know when is the right time to unleash this ‘Decisive Battle’?” Rhaena inquired, her voice trembling with anticipation and a mix of excitement and apprehension.

The Grand Maester leaned forward.

“The ability to discern the precise moment is an art in itself,” he replied, his eyes gleaming with a spark of excitement. “It requires a deep understanding of the enemy’s movements. Although among the adherents of this doctrine, it is generally accepted that the decisive attack should be what initiates and concludes the war.”

“That is undoubtedly a much better idea than what you had revealed to us at the beginning,” Maegor said with a voice filled with confidence and contempt for conventional strategies. “To end the problem before it even begins, that is precisely what the world needs. Adversity is not for cowards but for those who are willing to confront it and overcome it at its very core.”

“Keep in mind that this doctrine is a double-edged sword,” he cautioned in a measured and cautious tone. “While it has left its mark in the annals of history, both in Aegon’s Conquest and in the Battle beneath the Eye of the Gods, it has also witnessed devastating failures, such as the fateful Burning of the Sept of Remembrance. A ‘decisive’ battle can result in a stalemate, without a clearly victorious side, which can lead to perpetual conflict with enemy forces renewing their resistance and the horrors of war lingering on.”

Maegor, with a somber countenance and hardened gaze, shook his head disdainfully at the mention of religious fanatics lurking in the shadows. To him, those deranged individuals were only an insignificant exception in his worldview.In his mind, a decisive battle far surpassed the mere act of hiding behind the high walls of a castle, blindly relying on diplomacy and the uncertain will of vassals.

“A decisive battle,” he continued, his voice resonating with a mix of determination and bitterness, “is the crucible in which destinies are forged. We cannot rely solely on the arts of diplomacy and rhetoric, for their effectiveness is uncertain and their results fleeting. It is on the battlefield where the true nature of men is revealed and where it is determined who deserves to prevail.”

Chapter 19: Dragonstone

Rhaenyra

Year 130 after the conquest
​

A log, resting upon a bed of glowing embers, yielded to the inexorable dance of fire in the hearth. Through the leaden lattice of the stained glass windows, weaving a fine mesh that seemed to capture time within its mysterious interstices, a timid October sun filtered, hesitant and reticent in its bestowal of luminosity.

The occasional creak of the log, consumed by flames, whispered like a lover's murmur in the ear, resonating within the chamber, while the dancing flames rose in a fervent ballet of golden and orange hues. Each fleeting spark that ascended into the air seemed to carry with it a fragment of the stories that had been shared around that hearth, an ephemeral tale that dissipated into the ether.

In the warmth of her chamber, Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Princess of Dragonstone, sat gracefully upon a crimson silk-upholstered chair, cradling her baby with tenderness. The sparkling candlelight reflected in her silvered locks, bestowing upon her a halo of majesty. Her gaze, filled with love and devotion, settled upon the little prince nestled in her arms.

Beside her, a skilled bard, adorned in vibrant-hued attire, deftly held his lute and began to recite a poem, his fingers dancing upon the strings with grace, as if weaving a melancholic melody.

The bard's voice flowed with a disquieting melody that filled the vast hall, a space that seemed designed for grandeur and majesty, but which proved too expansive for a woman to find solace in her solitude.

Rhaenyra, her gaze still tinged with melancholy, listened attentively to the poem's final notes. The bard's voice faded into the air, and she took a moment to reflect upon the words she had heard. Then, with a warm smile on her lips, she spoke appreciatively to the poet.

“It is a beautiful poem,” she began, her voice soft and regal, filling the room. “It speaks of war and its shadows, but also of hope. Aegon the Conqueror was an indomitable warrior, that is undeniable. But what is often forgotten is that he was also a man of letters, a lover of poetry and music. He cherished the arts as much as he did battles, and that is an essential part of what made our lineage great.”

The whisper of the wind outside the chamber was abruptly interrupted by the sound of a door slamming open. The tall, slender figure of Daemon Targaryen burst into the room with an expression of displeasure etched upon his face.

His eyes sparked with an intensity that could melt ice, and his hair cascaded in disheveled waves over his shoulders. Daemon stood with a magnetic presence, like a king of shadows emerged from the very night.

“Rhaenyra, have I not told you a thousand times not to let that meddling maester interfere in your affairs?” Daemon roared with authority.

Rhaenyra rose gracefully from the chair, cradling her baby with delicacy as she regarded her husband with a serene yet determined gaze.

“What do you mean, Daemon? What are you talking about?” she inquired, knowing that the storm looming over her had nothing to do with the weather.

Daemon approached her with long, determined strides, ignoring the bard who had ceased his music in the corner of the room. He halted before Rhaenyra and spoke with a tone that barely contained his fury.

“That meddlesome maester dared to inform me that you plan to attend the tourney in honor of Aegon. I, your husband, have not even been informed! Do you plan to make decisions without consulting me, without consulting us all?”

Rhaenyra lowered her gaze to her son, as if seeking strength in his small form. Then, she lifted her eyes to meet Daemon's.

“Daemon, this tourney is important. Besides, I haven't seen my father in a long time... I miss him,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice soft and sorrowful.

Daemon let out a bitter laugh.

“Your father has done nothing but belittle us since Laenor's death, and now he honors a bastard as if he were the heir to the throne,” he retorted with disdain.

Rhaenyra closed her eyes for a moment, holding back the tears that threatened to surface. She knew that Daemon did not share her nostalgia for the time she had spent with her father, and that their relationship was filled with resentment and rivalry.

“Aegon is not a bastard, Daemon. You may not like it, but he is the legitimate son of my father. He has the right to celebrate his son's birthday,” she replied.

Daemon growled, but the expression on his face became less hostile.

“Right?” he sneered. “This is not about rights. It's about loyalty and what is just for our house. But if you prefer to ignore the contempt he hurls at us and yield to his whims, go ahead.”

Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, feeling the weight of the responsibility and loyalty that bound her to both her father and her husband. Her son, oblivious to the conflict unfolding around him, emitted a small coo as if sensing the tension in the air.

“It's not about ignoring anyone, Daemon. It's about maintaining peace and unity in our house. If this tournament can achieve that, then it is a just cause.”

Finally, she stepped away from him and began to pace the room, like a caged lion.

“Very well, Rhaenyra, go to the damned tourney if that's what you wish. But stay vigilant. The court is a nest of vipers, and I cannot allow you to endanger our son.”

Rhaenyra knew it would not be easy to convince Daemon.

“Daemon, you should also come to the tourney. It is not only an opportunity to strengthen ties with noble houses, but it could also be a chance for you to reconcile with my father.”

Her words seemed to clash against the armor of pride that Daemon had erected around himself. Daemon furrowed his brow, evidently reluctant to the idea. But she continued.

“You know that the division between you and my father only weakens our house. It is time to leave the past behind and seek unity among us. Aegon the Conqueror united the Seven Kingdoms; we must do the same with our own family.”

Daemon's face hardened even further. A gleam of mockery shone in his eyes as he spoke with disdain.

“Reconcile with Viserys, you say? With that sickly man who can barely stand on his own? Don't make me laugh, Rhaenyra. That weakling lacks the strength and will to be a true king.”

Rhaenyra furrowed her brow, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of anger and concern. Viserys was her father, and she would not allow anyone to denigrate him in such a manner.

“He may be sickly, but his wisdom and experience are invaluable to us. He is my father, our king, and deserves respect.”

Daemon let out a sarcastic laugh, as if finding the idea even more absurd.

“Wisdom, you say. The rumors I hear suggest that the man can barely remember his own name half the time. How do you expect him to lead our house? He should abdicate and let you rule already!”

The tension in the room escalated, the air grew dense with hostility.

“Daemon, I ask that you at least try. The division between us only weakens our house. We must find a way to heal these wounds and come together.”

He released an exasperated sigh, as if deeming the idea a waste of time. However, he finally nodded with an expression of resignation.

“Very well, Rhaenyra. I will try, though I have little hope that Viserys can change.”

Rhaenyra held her son with tenderness for a moment longer. With a resigned sigh, she turned to one of the wet nurses, a woman with a serene countenance and modest attire. With a gentle gesture, she entrusted her precious treasure into the woman's arms.

“Take good care of him, Myra. Make sure he has everything he needs.”

The wet nurse nodded with deference, cradling the baby with care and shielding his small form with experienced hands. Rhaenyra watched him with a mixture of love and apprehension before turning to Daemon, who still held his gaze sharp.

“I know you're still upset about everything that happened in Driftmark,” she said with a soft voice, approaching him. “But you haven't seen Rhaena in a long time. Do you want her to think that you despise her?”

Daemon's face softened, and his eyes, which had previously burned with resentment, filled with sorrow. It had been years since the engagement between Rhaena and Aegon had been announced, and during that time, Daemon had not visited his daughter even once.

“Rhaena... Is there still a part of my daughter left in that fortress?” he asked, his gaze distant, as if he could see through the walls of Dragonstone to where she was. “Or has she become a pawn of the queen of whor*s?”

Rhaenyra stood by his side, feeling the anguish in her husband's words. Though she understood the concern that consumed him, she also knew they could not afford to weaken their house's position with reckless accusations.

“Daemon, I understand your worry, but we must be cautious with our words, even here. Accusing the queen in such a manner... could have serious consequences.”

Daemon clenched his fists.

“Serious consequences? Can't you see the chains that bind her? Rhaena is my daughter, my blood, my legacy!”

“Then this is the perfect moment for you to remind Rhaena that she is your daughter,” she said with determination. “For her to feel your presence and support. Together, we can protect her and ensure she does not fall into the clutches of manipulation.”

Chapter 20: Storm

Rhaena

Year 130 after the conquest
​

The storm roared with deafening fury that night, the furious winds pummeled the battlements of the Red Keep as if they wanted to topple them stone by stone. Lightning tore through the overcast sky, illuminating the cobblestone streets of King’s Landing with its blinding light for a fleeting moment, before plunging them back into darkness with the rumble of thunder.

Inside the fortress, Rhaena lay awake amidst the sheets of her bed, listening to the onslaught of the storm. Her violet eyes, a heritage of her Valyrian lineage, remained wide open, fixed on the high vaulted ceiling of her quarters. With every thunderous crash that made the windowpanes shudder, she cowered under the covers, curling up like a small child seeking refuge.

She had always feared storms, ever since she was a child. They reminded her of the tales of magical storms her septa would tell her to scare her. Storms conjured by wicked witches or twisted sorcerers. She knew they were just stories, but still...

After what seemed like an eternity listening to the storm’s assault, Rhaena finally rose, pushing aside the sheets with determination. She wouldn’t find rest that night, not while the thunder continued to roar unabated. With a trembling sigh, she slid out of bed and groped for her silk robe in the dimness.

Her bare feet left the warmth of her fur and found the cold of the floor. A shiver ran through her at the icy contact against her skin. Wrapping herself in the robe, Rhaena crossed the room towards the door. She opened it with a slight creak, peering into the torch-lit corridor that danced with drafts of air.

She had no fixed course as she walked through the winding halls of the castle. Her feet guided her by mere instinct, as if carried by a force beyond her control. She traversed galleries and intersections, climbed spiral staircases and crossed carved stone archways. The fortress was unusually silent and empty at this hour of the night, with only a few flickering torches casting faint glimmers on the limestone walls.

Eventually, Rhaena found herself standing before a very familiar door, one she had visited countless times over the past years. The intricate wooden carvings formed a beautifully crafted mosaic. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand to knock with three firm raps.

Long moments passed before any movement was heard from the other side. Finally, the door opened a crack and a tired but beautiful face peered out, framed by golden curls. Alicent Hightower’s eyes met Rhaena’s, studying her with a mix of curiosity and maternal concern.

“Rhaena,” the queen spoke softly. “What brings you to my chambers at such an hour?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Rhaena responded with a slight bow of her head. “I did not mean to disturb your rest. It’s just that...” Her words faded for a moment when another clap of thunder made the walls tremble. She shivered at the roar, as if the heavens themselves were roaring against her.

Alicent’s eyes softened then with understanding. Without a word, she opened the door fully and gestured for Rhaena to enter. The young princess advanced into the royal chambers, stepping into a realm of ornate tapestries and fragrant scented candles. In the center of the room was a lit fireplace where the flames crackled and danced.

“Sit down, dear,” Alicent urged in a maternal tone. Rhaena obeyed, settling onto the cushions. Alicent sat beside her, wrapped in a silk robe of ivory color. For a moment, the queen seemed to study her.

“I see that you still fear storms,” Alicent observed with a slight furrow of her brows. “There’s no need to be ashamed, Rhaena. Everyone fears something.”

The fire crackled before them, filling the silence following those words. Rhaena remained gazing at the flames, lost in her own thoughts for a moment. Finally, she nodded with a trembling sigh.

“I know, Your Grace. But sometimes…” Her voice faded, as if she feared revealing too much of herself. She swallowed before continuing. “Sometimes I feel overwhelmingly human. Vulnerable, weak, terrified by mere storms like a frightened child.”

“You are not weak, dear,” Alicent corrected firmly, extending a hand to cover Rhaena’s with a comforting squeeze. “That fear, that vulnerability... they are only proof of your humanity. It’s easy to be brave and bold when one lacks fears. The truly brave are those who feel fear and yet find the strength to carry on.”

Her words resonated deep within Rhaena. The young princess blinked with suddenly moist eyes, nodding almost reverently. Alicent’s advice and comfort always managed to calm the storms that raged within her, just as the warm hearth of the flames tempered the onslaught of the external tempest.

They sat in companionable silence for long minutes, simply watching the hypnotic dance of the flames. Every now and then, another clap of thunder echoed with force, causing Rhaena to shiver. But whenever that happened, Alicent tightened her grip once more, enveloping her in the warmth of her unwavering support.

Finally, the queen broke the silence with an almost inaudible sigh.

“I can see the shadows under your eyes, Rhaena. You’ve been restless for reasons other than this storm, haven’t you?”

It wasn’t a question, but a keen and insightful observation like the edge of a dagger. The Hightowers were known for their discernment, for seeing what others overlooked. Rhaena moistened her lips before responding in a thread of a voice.

“It’s... about Prince Aegon’s tournament. And what comes after.”

The words hung in the air, thin almost to nonexistence. But the hidden meaning behind them was clear to both. Alicent slightly hardened her jaw before speaking again.

“Your wedding to my son.”

Rhaena felt her heart constrict at hearing those words. Her wedding. The event she had been both dreading and longing for in equal parts. The moment when she would bind her destiny to Aegon Targaryen’s, the prince who was heir to the Seven Kingdoms for some.

Of course, it was an arranged marriage, like so many others in the history of Westeros. A union meant to strengthen alliances, to cement the power of the Targaryen dynasty. But for Rhaena, it was much more than that. It was the promise of an uncertain future, of a life tied to a man she barely knew.

“Marriages are not always like fairy tales. For instance, your father, Daemon, didn’t waste time finding a new marital bed after your mother’s death, did he?”

The question cut through the air like a whip. Rhaena shivered, the mere mention of her father awakening bitter-sweet memories. He had barely waited for his wife Laena’s body to cool before remarrying Rhaenyra, the king’s firstborn daughter.

“No, Your Grace.” Rhaena murmured with downcast eyes. “My father acted... hastily in that matter.”

Alicent made a disparaging sound.

“Hastily... is a polite way of saying it. Some might call it disrespect and indecency.”

The queen’s eyes gleamed, her face hardened by bitterness. Rhaena remained silent, a knot in her throat. Unable to defend her father’s actions but also not entirely willing to condemn him, after all, he was still her father.

“Men rarely think with their head when there’s a pair of tit* involved.” Continued Alicent with biting sarcasm. “And a hard co*ck clouds their judgment better than the strongest wine.”

Rhaena blushed at the vulgar language. But she couldn’t deny the underlying truth. Her father, powerful and charismatic, was also impulsive and impatient. Guided by his base instincts as often as by reason.

The image of her late mother came to Rhaena’s mind, as clear as if she were seeing her at that very moment. Laena’s beautiful features, her long hair, her kind and deep eyes. She had been a wise woman, of great inner strength and indomitable spirit. What would she have felt seeing the man to whom she had given her heart and virtue dishonoring her memory so soon? The mere thought pressed on Rhaena’s chest with unbearable sorrow.

“Not all men lack the restraint of King Viserys.” Said Rhaena carefully, trying to steer the conversation towards safer territory.

But the queen huffed at that.

“My dear husband has his own flaws, don’t idealize him too much.” Alicent leaned back in her chair, her anger fading as quickly as it had arisen. “But this is not the time to discuss men’s faults. What matters is the future. A future you will help shape, girl. Alongside my son Aegon, when they marry. If both live up to their duties.”

The emerald gaze of the queen returned to focus intensely on Rhaena.

“Listen well, child. I harbor no illusions about the true nature of this marriage. Like you, I recognize the political motivations that have orchestrated it, the ambitions and thirst for power that move behind it, specifically from my father and your grandfather. But that doesn’t mean it has to be a sad and bitter union from the start.”

She paused, as if to let her words sink in.

“A marriage can be born from the most adverse circ*mstances, from the most twisted and imperfect reasons. But that doesn’t condemn it to eternal unhappiness. There’s always a glimmer of hope, a spark of opportunity for something genuine to bloom...”

Chapter 21:Paternal Pride

Viserys

Year 130 after the conquest
​

The morning sun shone over the training yard, casting glimmers from the swords as Prince Aegon and Ser Criston Cole exchanged thrusts and blows. King Viserys watched proudly from the pavilion, marveling at the swordsmanship his firstborn demonstrated.

“Good! Very good!” Viserys exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement, when Aegon disarmed Ser Criston with a skillful twist of the wrist after a series of feints. The white cloak’s sword flew through the air before plunging into the ground with a dull, pathetic sound.

“The prince improves day by day, don’t you think, Your Grace?”

Viserys turned to see Maester Orwyle approaching, hands hidden in the wide sleeves of his robe. The man had a pleased expression on his face as he watched Aegon help Cole to his feet.

“Indeed. He is a true Targaryen, through and through, forged from the steel and fire of the dragon lineage.” He nodded vehemently, causing the plates of the crown on his head to tinkle lightly with the movement.

Though young, Aegon had grown into everything he had dreamed of in an heir.

“Although he is not my true heir...”

His gaze traveled beyond the training yard, to the sea, towards Dragonstone. Somewhere deep inside was Rhaenyra, his firstborn, the true designated heir... the only reason Aegon would not rightfully occupy the Iron Throne one day.

His mind returned to that fateful day so many years ago, when he held Aemma’s hand as she gave birth to their stillborn son. The labor had been long and difficult, consuming the last of her queen’s strength. And just before exhaling her last breath, she made him promise that their daughter would be the heir to the Iron Throne.

Viserys closed his eyes tighter, until colors danced behind his eyelids. Aemma... his queen, his friend, the love of his youth. She had failed to give him a living son, and that had consumed her inside for years. So, Viserys made that promise at her grave... to ensure that her only daughter would reign after him, to give her peace in the afterlife.

And he had kept it. Despite the protests of some lords and members of his council, Viserys publicly named Rhaenyra as Princess of Dragonstone and his legitimate heir. Everyone in the kingdom, high and low, swore allegiance to her. Her fate seemed sealed.

But now, seeing the gap between his stubborn daughter’s personality and that of his talented younger son grow day by day, Viserys couldn’t help but question... had he done the right thing?

“A king belongs to the realm, not to himself,” his grandfather, old Jaehaerys, had told him solemnly. “You must rule with wisdom and justice, putting the needs of your people before your own desires.”

Viserys closed his eyes tightly again.

Was he putting the needs of the realm first? Or was he still a prisoner of that promise made years ago, motivated more by his own pain and guilt than by wisdom?

Rhaenyra resembled him so much at times. She had Aemma’s eyes, the shape of her face, that stubborn chin. Every time he looked at her, it was like finding a piece of his beloved lost queen.

Was that the reason he clung so much to her right to the throne? Was he allowing his judgment to be clouded by the ghost of a lost love?

He brushed that thought aside, reluctant to allow the bitter reality to overshadow his paternal pride. Either way, Aegon would always be his firstborn son, the living proof of his virility, his closest legacy of the conqueror’s blood.

“Your Grace? Are you alright?”

Viserys blinked suddenly, emerging from the whirlwind of his thoughts.

“What...?” He stammered, disoriented, gradually gathering his senses. “Ah, yes... I’m fine, Maester. Just... pondering certain matters.”

He forced himself to swallow and regain his composure, smoothing his tunic with trembling hands. He couldn’t allow his fears and hesitations to become so evident, not in front of Orwyle’s eyes.

The maester gave him a scrutinizing look, as if trying to discern the truth in the shadows crossing his tired features. For a moment, Viserys feared he might read him like an open book and sense all the turbulent thoughts that had assailed him.

“As you say, Your Grace,” Orwyle finally conceded with a slight nod of the head. “Although, if I may make an observation... the prince reminds me of your brother Daemon in his glory years. Just as skilled, though with more self-control, thank the gods,” Orwyle commented.

Viserys snorted.

“My brother squandered his talent by recklessly throwing himself into any battle. Aegon has more judgment. He knows when to fight and when not to.”

Below, Aegon helped Cole retrieve his sword. They exchanged a few words and some backslaps before adopting defensive stances for another round. Viserys smiled.

Without a doubt, his son had the gift of inspiring loyalty and admiration in the men around him.

“He will be the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms,” he muttered.

“Undoubtedly,” Orwyle agreed. “While age and experience are good teachers, strength and skill also count. And Prince Aegon possesses both in abundance.”

Viserys nodded in satisfaction, but the maester was not finished.

“The prince also possesses a keen strategic and political mind that should not be overlooked. He could be a great king...”

He frowned at Orwyle’s veiled implications. The maester, closer to the Hightowers than his own house had ever been, had always been a staunch defender of the old tradition dictating inheritance through the male line. The same tradition that he, Viserys, had dared to break by proclaiming his daughter Rhaenyra as the legitimate successor to the Iron Throne.

“Do not worry about the line of succession, maester,” he cut him off with a tone sharper than intended. “My heir has been chosen and the lords of the realm have pledged to respect my decision. Aegon will have his role when the time comes, but Rhaenyra is my heir.”

Orwyle twisted his face, but refrained from arguing. Both men turned their gaze to the yard, where Aegon was helping a battered Ser Criston to his feet.

The young prince removed his helm, letting his white mane fall disheveled over his shoulders. A smirk of satisfaction curved his lips, as arrogant as the demeanor of a conqueror. He turned towards the pavilion as if he could feel the gaze of his father and the maester.

For a moment, their eyes met Viserys’, and the king could see a glint of barely veiled impatience and ambition. The same thirst for power and glory he remembered nesting in his own spirit when he was young.

Aegon... the son that had been so hard to conceive, the proof of his manhood and the blessing of the gods that allowed the Targaryen dynasty to continue beyond his generation.

Maester Orwyle cleared his throat, drawing the king’s attention back to him.

“If I may be so bold, Your Grace, I believe Prince Aegon well deserves a sword befitting his great skill. Even if fate did not place him in the line of succession to the Iron Throne, he is undoubtedly the finest swordsman the Seven Kingdoms have seen in generations. A Valyrian steel blade would be a worthy gift for the future champion of the realm.”

Viserys raised a white eyebrow at the suggestion. He knew well that the legendary Valyrian steel swords were exceedingly expensive and hard to come by, relics of a bygone era whose forging had been lost to time.

“A certainly generous gift, maester. And costly,” he pointed out. “There are not many swords of that caliber left in the world.”

Orwyle nodded deferentially.

“True, my king. But your grandfather, old King Jaehaerys, used to say that certain achievements deserve equally extraordinary rewards.”

Viserys stroked his silver beard, considering his words. He could not deny the truth in them. After all, he himself wielded Blackfyre, the ancestral sword of Aegon the Conqueror, forged with dragon fire from ancient Valyria. A living part of his ancestor’s legend that accompanied him from the Iron Throne.

But Viserys was now nothing more than a walking corpse, a decrepit monarch who could make little use of such a magnificent sword. The years and disease had weakened his body, turning him into a withered shadow of the young prince he once was. Rhaenyra, his firstborn and heir, was a woman, not suited for hand-to-hand combat according to the customs of Westeros. And his brother Daemon already wielded Dark Sister, a Valyrian steel sword almost as legendary as Blackfyre. Someone younger and more vigorous deserved to wield the conqueror’s sword, to restore its former glory on the battlefield.

And what better opportunity to announce the transfer of the legendary weapon than the grand tournament to be held in King’s Landing in honor of his son. The best knights and warriors of the realm would come to the capital to compete in a display of martial skill. Awarding Blackfyre to the victor would be quite the event, celebrating a new era of glory and conquest under the banner of the three-headed dragon.

“You are right, maester,” Viserys muttered after considering it for a moment. “I believe the time has come to pass Blackfyre to a new generation. To the finest swordsman in the realm.”

Orwyle sketched a satisfied smile.

“A gift that will certainly earn the prince Aegon’s undying appreciation and loyalty, Your Grace.”

“Certainly,” agreed Viserys, though in the back of his mind a little voice whispered bitterly: And perhaps also his ambition.

He shook off that somber thought and refocused his attention on his younger son, who was helping Ser Criston Cole rise after knocking him down once more in the training yard.

“Yes,” Viserys told himself. “It’s time for Blackfyre to come to life again.”

Chapter 22: Threads of Fate

Alicent

Year 130 After the Conquest​

The air crackled with nervous energy as Alicent oversaw the final preparations for the great hall. Servants hurried back and forth, their steps silent but hurried, like mice fearful of waking a sleeping predator. She watched with a critical eye, adjusting a vase of golden lilies here, straightening an embroidered tapestry there. Every detail, no matter how insignificant, had to be perfect.

It wasn’t just a banquet, it was a statement. A demonstration of strength and unity for House Targaryen, or at least that was what her husband, King Viserys, insisted on believing. A tournament was to be held in King’s Landing in honor of Prince Aegon’s eighteenth birthday, an event that would draw the finest of the nobility from the Seven Kingdoms. And, of course, Rhaenyra and her entourage would also be present.

Alicent clenched her jaw at the mental mention of her stepdaughter. Three years had passed since Laena Velaryon’s death, three years in which the tension between the two women had only increased. Viserys’ decision to name Rhaenyra heir to the Iron Throne, overlooking the rights of his own son, had created an unbridgeable rift between them. A rift that deepened with each passing year, with each new child Rhaenyra bore.

And now, to make matters worse, Daemon Targaryen, the king’s brother and the dark shadow that always seemed to loom over Rhaenyra, was also returning to the capital. Alicent had heard the rumors about Daemon’s growing influence over his niece.

That libertine, that man without honor or decency, having the audacity to court Rhaenyra so soon after Laena’s death… The mere thought made the hair on the back of Alicent’s neck stand up with repulsion.

Laena had been an admirable woman, a true lady of the highest nobility. Beautiful, gentle, pious, everything a wife and mother should be. And Daemon had dishonored her with his deplorable conduct, pouring his unrestrained lust onto his own niece just moons after Laena’s body had been given to the purifying tides.

The supposed marriage vows that Rhaenyra and Daemon had exchanged in secret were a mockery in the eyes of the Seven. A union stained by lust and unbridled ambition. Alicent couldn’t help but feel bile rise in her throat every time she thought of it, the utter lack of decorum and moral rectitude those two demonstrated.

They were lost souls, corrupt to the core, threatening to drag the realm into the darkest depths with their reprehensible conduct. Daemon with his vices and limitless perversions. Rhaenyra with her outward “innocence” hiding a bottomless pit of lust and hunger for power. Together they were like a festering wound on the body of the Seven Kingdoms, an infection that had to be excised before it spread and poisoned everything in its path.

A shiver ran down her spine as she recalled the cold, relentless look the rogue prince had given her at their last meeting. Daemon was a dangerous man, unpredictable, and his presence in King’s Landing boded ill.

“Your Grace, Lord Strong requests an audience.”

Alicent turned and saw one of her ladies-in-waiting, a timid young woman named Jocelyn, waiting patiently near the entrance. The girl had her gaze lowered, but Alicent perceived a flicker of unease in her eyes. No doubt, Jocelyn had also heard the rumors about Daemon’s arrival and the tension it generated in the Red Keep.

“Let him in,” Alicent ordered with a gesture of her hand.

Jocelyn curtsied and quickly withdrew. A moment later, Larys Strong entered the room, limping slightly as he made his way through the bustling servants. Despite his deformity, Larys possessed an imposing presence. His eyes seemed to observe everything and everyone, absorbing information like a sponge.

“Lord Strong,” Alicent greeted with a slight nod. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

“The pleasure is mine, Your Grace,” Larys replied with a courteous bow. “It is always an honor to serve the crown.”

Alicent studied her ally in silence. Larys Strong, the youngest son of Lord Lyonel Strong, the former Hand of the King, was one of the most astute and intriguing men at court. His physical deformity, which prevented him from participating in tournaments or battles, had made him a master of information and manipulation.

A master of whispers and shadows.

And Alicent, despite her aversion to him, had learned to appreciate the value of an ally like Larys. In a world ruled by ambitious men and women willing to do anything for power, information was a weapon as powerful as any other, perhaps the most important.

“Well?” Alicent asked, getting straight to the point. “What news do you bring me, Lord Strong?”

Larys smiled, a subtle grimace that did not reach his calculating eyes.

“My little birds have informed me that Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon have arrived in the capital.”

Alicent suppressed a grimace of disgust. The news did not surprise her, but that did not make it any more pleasant.

“And how was their reception?” she asked, though she feared the answer.

Larys smirked.

“Let’s say… enthusiastic. The common folk adore Daemon, despite his… reputation.”

That did not surprise Alicent. Daemon had always been a vulgar man, even cruel, with coarse manners and a sharp tongue. He despised the subtleties of court etiquette and reveled in low and vulgar pleasures. Drinking until unconsciousness, wallowing with whor*s, betting obscene sums on dog fights… those were the pastimes that delighted that animal.

In a way, his unrefined brutality and disdain for conventions made him attractive to the masses. The rabble saw in Daemon a reflection of themselves, a noble who behaved with the same crudeness and lack of decorum as they did. They adored him for his indecent frankness and reprehensible conduct.

The more he outraged good customs, the more they cheered.

“And Rhaenyra, well, she has always known how to win the favor of the masses,” Larys added with a hint of irony.

Alicent clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. It was a bitter truth that Rhaenyra, despite her evident flaws, possessed a natural charisma that she had always lacked. People were drawn to Rhaenyra, to her outer beauty, to her brazen audacity, to the dragon’s blood running through her veins.

While Alicent, despite her impeccable lineage as a Hightower and her unwavering devotion to the realm, would always be seen as the second wife, the ambitious stepmother whose only motivation was to dethrone Rhaenyra and put her own son on the Iron Throne. A rival in the shadows, condemned to be despised by the masses for her very virtues.

Her piety was hypocrisy, her devotion a mask, her decency a farce according to the blind populace.

Deep down, Alicent knew that her status as second, as a replacement for the late Queen Aemma Arryn, was a stain she could never erase. Aemma had been the beloved wife of all, the radiant flower that had captivated the heart of the young Viserys with her beauty. Her premature death had plunged the realm into mourning and the king into inconsolable sorrow.

Alicent had only been a temporary patch for the open wound in Viserys’ heart. A lady-in-waiting he had taken as a wife due to her fleeting beauty and ancient lineage, but who could never replace the love the king had professed for Aemma. To the realm, Alicent was the intruder, the dim shadow that had slipped into the place that rightfully belonged to the legitimate queen.

No matter how hard she tried to be an exemplary wife and mother, Alicent would always feel the accusing gaze of the people upon her. She would see the disdain in the eyes of the nobles when they watched her walk through the halls of the Red Keep. She would hear the whispers as she passed, “there goes the Hightower,” said with the same tone reserved for spitting an insult.

She would never be more than a substitute, a blurry imitation of the true queen the people had loved. No matter how many children she bore Viserys, no matter how much devotion she demonstrated to the Seven, Alicent would carry that stigma like a permanent mourning band. To be the second, the consolation prize, when what everyone longed for was the triumphant return of Aemma from the dead.

That thought made Alicent’s heart shrink within her chest. It was a dull, throbbing pain, a thorn stuck in her flesh that would not stop bleeding no matter how hard she tried to pull it out. Knowing herself relegated to that dark corner, condemned to be the queen no one wanted while the acclamations were reserved for Rhaenyra, the daughter of the beloved Aemma.

That was her cross of ashes to bear while she pretended to accept it with composure and a smile.

“And my husband… how is he?” Alicent asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

Larys looked at her with a mix of compassion and pity in his eyes. She couldn’t tell if it was a genuine reaction.

“The king is… as always, Your Grace. Weak, sick, clinging to life like a drowning man to a piece of rotten wood.”

Alicent sighed. Larys’ words, though brutal, were not devoid of truth. Viserys, consumed by illness and the weight of the crown, was little more than a shadow of the vigorous king he had been in his youth. His body weakened day by day, and his mind, though lucid at times, increasingly lost itself in a labyrinth of memories and regrets. Although, thanks to the young new maester, he had regained a bit of vigor.

“And Aegon?” Alicent asked, needing to cling to a ray of hope amid the growing darkness. “How is my son?”

A shadow of admiration crossed Larys’s face.

“The prince is eager for the tournament, Your Grace. He trains tirelessly, perfecting his swordsmanship. Ser Criston Cole has confessed to me that he has never seen a young man so dedicated and skilled.”

Alicent smiled, a glimmer of maternal pride lighting up her features. Aegon, her firstborn, was her greatest joy and her greatest concern. He possessed the intelligence, charisma, and determination necessary to be a great king, but also the ambition and impatience typical of his lineage. Alicent knew that Aegon felt frustrated by his position, relegated to the background by his father’s decision to name Rhaenyra as heir. And she feared that if not controlled, that frustration could lead him down a dangerous path.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Alicent said, though her voice still reflected her worry. “But remind Aegon that prudence is as important as bravery. I don’t want him to do anything reckless, especially with Daemon around.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Larys nodded. “I will keep your words in mind.”

Alicent rose from her seat and walked to the window, observing the hustle and bustle of the courtyard from her privileged position. Servants, guards, and knights crossed paths in a chaotic yet orderly ballet, preparing for the arrival of the tournament guests.

“The fate of the realm hangs by a thread, Lord Strong,” Alicent said, her voice barely a whisper. “And I fear this tournament might be the spark that ignites the fire.”

Larys approached her, stopping at a prudent distance.

“Fire is dangerous, Your Grace,” Larys replied, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “But it can also be purifying. Sometimes, it is necessary to burn everything down to build something new and better from the ashes.”

Alicent turned to look at Larys, their eyes meeting in a silent challenge.

“And are you willing to pay the price, Lord Strong?” she asked. “Are you willing to sacrifice everything to see our plan come to fruition?”

Larys smiled, a cold and calculating grin that sent a shiver down Alicent’s spine.

“Everything I have, Your Grace, is at your service.”

Alicent nodded, satisfied. Larys Strong was a dangerous man, no doubt. But he was also a valuable ally, and she would need all the help she could get to navigate the turbulent waters ahead.

“Very well,” Alicent said, returning to her seat. “Then let us prepare for the storm.”

Chapter 24: The Snake in the Nest

Corlys

Year 130 After the Conquest​

The roar of the waves, a sound that had been the melody of his life, faded as they entered the Blackwater Bay. Corlys Velaryon, Sea Snake, Lord of the Tides and Lord of Driftmark, gazed tiredly at the city rising before him. King’s Landing, the nest of the Targaryens, buzzed with the energy of a hornet’s nest on the verge of eruption. Brightly colored banners fluttered on the towers and walls, ships from all corners of the realm filled the harbor, and the bustle of the crowd filtered to his ship like a constant hum.

A tournament was being held in the capital, a celebration in honor of Aegon Targaryen, the king’s eldest son, who was coming of age. An event that would seal the union between the prince and his granddaughter, Rhaena.

Corlys frowned, feeling a knot in his stomach. The idea of this union provoked a mixture of satisfaction and repugnance. Satisfaction because it secured the future of his house, the continuity of his lineage, and the consolidation of his power. Repugnance because it involved making a pact with the Targaryens, a dynasty that had humiliated and betrayed him in the past.

He recalled bitterly that Great Council where his wife, Rhaenys, the queen who never was, had been passed over as heir to the Iron Throne in favor of Viserys, a weak and pusillanimous man. The wound from that slight still bled in his heart, feeding the thirst for vengeance that consumed him.

However, the death of Laena and then that of Laenor, his only son, had forced him to reconsider his strategies. The pain of that loss had struck him with the force of a tidal wave, sweeping away his dreams and ambitions. He had found himself on the brink of the abyss, about to succumb to despair.

Every night, he went over and over the details of the supposed “suicide” that had taken his son’s life. The official explanations made no sense, were hardly believable, and were full of holes that his sharp mind could not ignore.

No, it had not been a suicide.

But in the midst of darkness and hatred, a faint light had appeared, guiding him to a new path. A pact with the Hightowers, the eternal rivals of Rhaenyra, the king’s eldest daughter and the designated heir to the Iron Throne. An alliance forged in the fire of resentment and ambition but also offering him a chance to redeem his son’s memory and secure the future of his house.

Corlys turned his gaze to the imposing figure of his wife, Rhaenys Targaryen, who stood beside him, gazing at the city with eyes full of nostalgia and sadness. Her silver hair, like sea foam, framed a face weathered by years and marked by pain. Despite her age, Rhaenys retained a singular beauty, an aura of royalty and wisdom that distinguished her from other ladies of the court.

“To think this city could have been ours,” murmured Rhaenys with a melancholic voice, as if her words were carried away by the wind.

Corlys intertwined his hand with his wife’s, feeling the coldness of her fingers and the strength of her spirit. He understood the pain consuming her, the frustration of being relegated to the background.

“The past can’t be changed, Rhaenys,” he replied firmly, trying to encourage her. “But the future is yet to be written. And we will continue to fight for our place in the world.”

Rhaenys nodded with a sigh, but her eyes did not reflect the same conviction as her husband’s words. Corlys understood her doubts. The alliance with the Hightowers was a double-edged sword. Alicent Hightower, the queen, was an ambitious and ruthless woman, willing to do anything to secure the throne for her son Aegon. Otto Hightower, her father and the King’s Hand, was a master of intrigue and manipulation, a formidable enemy who would not hesitate to use them for his own purposes.

However, Corlys had no other choice. Rhaenyra and Daemon, now allies through a marriage reeking of treachery and lust, represented an even greater threat to his house. Rhaenyra’s bastards, with their vulgar appearance and dubious lineage, were an insult to Laenor’s memory and a danger to the future of the Velaryons. He could not allow those usurpers to inherit Driftmark, his ancestral home, nor let his blood mix with those impostors.

The very idea that Rhaenyra’s bastards could one day claim lordship of Driftmark made his blood boil.

They were bastards, fruits of depravity and greed, deserving only contempt.

Rumors about the true father of those three monsters were increasingly insistent, and Corlys had no doubt that Ser Harwin Strong, the deceased and unworthy knight, had defiled his son’s marriage with his repulsive lust.

Then there was the indecent marriage between Daemon and Rhaenyra… His hatred for those two was visceral. He saw in them nothing but moral abominations willing to stoop to any baseness to grab more power. The idea of swearing loyalty to them, of bowing before those two brazenly opportunistic individuals, churned his stomach to the point of nausea.

How dare they unite their lives in marriage so hastily, barely weeks after the tragic deaths that had plunged House Velaryon into mourning? It was an insult, an obscene mockery of their grief and family!

“They not only murdered my son, but also tainted his honor,” he thought. “It’s as if they spat on Laenor’s grave, insulting his memory with their shameless lust.”

“I also desire justice, but we must be cautious, Corlys,” Rhaenys warned, reading his thoughts. “The Hightowers are serpents that slither in the dark, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. We cannot trust them blindly.”

Corlys nodded, aware of the danger his new allies represented.“I am the true master of serpents,”he thought with a bitter smile. He had spent his life sailing turbulent waters, facing storms and pirates, negotiating with kings and emperors. He knew human nature in its darkest facets and knew how to manipulate his enemies to get what he wanted.

“Do not fear, Rhaenys,” he assured with a reassuring smile. “I know the Hightowers better than you think. And I know how to play their cards to get what we need.”

Rhaenys returned his smile, but distrust still shone in her eyes.

“I hope you’re right, Corlys. But let’s not forget we are entering the dragon’s mouth. And dragons, as you know, are unpredictable creatures.”

The ship docked in the harbor, and Corlys disembarked with his wife, escorted by a small entourage of knights and servants. As he set foot on solid ground, he felt the weight of curious gazes upon him. The nobles and courtiers present in the capital had come in droves to witness the tournament and celebrations, and the presence of the Sea Snake did not go unnoticed.

Corlys walked with a firm step, his head held high and his gaze defiant. He would not be intimidated by whispers. He had come to King’s Landing to defend the interests of his house, and he would not let anyone stand in his way.

“Lord Corlys,” a soft, honeyed voice interrupted his advance.

Turning his head, he found himself facing Otto Hightower, the King’s Hand, who gave him a cordial smile. Beside him, Alicent Hightower, the queen, watched him with calculating eyes.

“Lord Otto, Your Grace,” Corlys greeted with a slight nod, without showing too much deference.

“It’s a pleasure to have you in our court, Lord Corlys,” Otto responded kindly. “I hope your journey was pleasant.”

“The sea is always a pleasant place for a sailor, Lord Otto,” Corlys replied with irony. “Though I must admit the land feels somewhat… uncomfortable.”

Alicent smiled wryly.

“I understand your sentiment, Lord Corlys. The court can be a… stifling place for those accustomed to the freedom of the sea.”

Corlys nodded with a faint smile, not letting himself be fooled by the queen’s kind words.

“Your Grace, I’m glad to see the king’s health is improving,” Corlys said, turning his attention to Viserys, who sat on a nearby throne, surrounded by courtiers.

Viserys, with a gesture of weariness, raised his hand in greeting. His face, pale and haggard, reflected the inexorable advance of the disease consuming him. His informants at court had told him that despite the maesters’ efforts, his body weakened daily, and his mind wandered through a maze of memories and delusions. Though at least he had not died, and that was worthy of congratulations for the new Grand Maester.

“Lord Corlys,” murmured Viserys weakly. “It's good to see you after so long.”

Corlys observed the king with a mixture of compassion and contempt. Viserys was a broken man, a powerless king, a puppet in the hands of his wife and the Hightowers. His reign had been a series of errors and misfortunes, and his weakness had allowed discord and ambition to take over the realm.

“A senile fool who let the kingdom rot from within,” Corlys thought with bitter disdain as he looked at the king in his pitiable state. “Too weak to bring order to his own house, too blind to see the snakes coiling around him.”

“Your Grace, I have come to Kingʼs Landing to celebrate the union of our houses and to offer my respects to your son, Prince Aegon,” Corlys said firmly, diverting his attention from the king.

Viserys nodded with a faint smile, as if Corlysʼs words had given him a glimmer of hope.

“Yes, the union of our houses... is important in these difficult times,” the king replied weakly.

Alicent, with a triumphant smile, approached Corlys and offered him her arm.

“Lord Corlys, come with me. We must discuss the details of the wedding between your granddaughter and my son. And of course, we also need to talk about... other matters.”

Corlys took the queenʼs arm, feeling the coldness of her skin and the firmness of her grip. He knew he was entering a dangerous game, but he was not afraid. He had faced stronger storms and would not be intimidated by court intrigues.

As he walked alongside the queen, Corlys felt Rhaenysʼs inquisitive gaze upon him. His wife understood the risk they were taking. But she also knew they had no other choice. The future of their house depended on that alliance, and Corlys was willing to pay whatever price was necessary.

Chapter 25: Rogue Prince

Daemon

Year 130 After the Conquest​

The flames danced in the fireplace, casting wandering shadows over the stone walls of the Red Keep. The crackling of the burning wood was the only sound breaking the dense, uncomfortable silence that extended like an oppressive fog.

Daemon sat before the fire, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames, his face hidden in the shadows. Outside, the night was a mantle of darkness dotted with stars, but inside the fortress, a different storm was brewing, a storm of contained emotions threatening to unleash its fury.

Rhaenyra's words still echoed in his mind, like the echoes of a past that refused to die.

“You must come to the tournament, Daemon. For our future child, for Rhaena… for our house.”

"Our house," he thought bitterly. What was left of his house? A dynasty fractured by cowardice and weakness, a kingdom on the brink of chaos.

His brother, Viserys, was a sick and senile king, a puppet in the hands of the Hightowers. Rhaenyra, his wife, clung to a crown that would be snatched away the moment death claimed her father. And he, Daemon Targaryen, prince of the blood and legendary warrior, was relegated to the shadows, an exile in his own home.

He rose abruptly from his seat, rage coursing through his body like an electric shock. He walked to the window and gazed out at the dark expanse of the sea. The wind howled furiously, lashing the waves against the rocks.

“Reconcile with Viserys?” he said to himself with disdain. For what? To humiliate himself before a man who had dishonored his own blood by naming a woman as his heir? Before a senile old man who had naively given Rhaena to the Hightowers? No. His pride would not allow it.

He remembered the day he had left the court, consumed by anger and frustration. Rhaenyra’s proclamation as heir had been a stab in his heart, a betrayal he would never forget.

He, Daemon Targaryen, brother of the king, seasoned warrior, and rider of the dragon Caraxes, had been overlooked. Ignored by a council of cowards and opportunists who feared his strength and determination.

He had chosen exile over humiliation, preferring the freedom of the storm to the suffocating prison of the court. He had taken refuge in the Stepstones and Essos, where he had forged his own kingdom with fire and blood, proving his worth as a warrior and leader.

But fate had other plans for him. The death of Laena, the woman he had loved with passion and loyalty, had dragged him back to Westeros. His heart had shattered into a thousand pieces, but the need to protect his daughters, Rhaena and Baela, had forced him to return to that nest of vipers.

And now Rhaenyra, his niece turned wife, was asking him to reconcile with the man who had scorned him, with the king who had unleashed the chaos threatening to devour them all.

A sneer of contempt formed on his lips. Viserys’s weakness was evident to all. His illness had consumed him, turning him into a ghost of his former self. The Hightowers, cunning and ambitious, controlled the court like puppets. And Rhaenyra, blinded by her love for her father, refused to see the threat looming over them.

“Poisonous snakes, all of them,” he muttered angrily. “And we, caught in their game.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Rhaenyra’s serene gaze upon him.

“Daemon, do not torment yourself,” she said softly. “I know it’s hard, but we must do what’s necessary to protect our family.”

“Our family?” he repeated bitterly. “Are we really a family? Your father has repudiated us, pushed us aside. Why should we keep playing his game?”

Rhaenyra sighed.

“I know, Daemon. But we have no other choice. If we want to survive, we must unite.”

Daemon looked at her intently.

“Do you think this union with the Hightowers is a coincidence?” he asked, his voice tinged with irony.

“Daemon,” she said, with a weary grimace. “Now is not the time to think about it. My father is sick; he wants to see us united.”

Daemon frowned. He did not trust the Hightowers, nor Corlys Velaryon, that old sea wolf who only cared about his own benefit. The union was a risky strategy, a leap into the void.

“And what about Rhaena?” he asked with concern. “Do you think she will be happy with Aegon? I do not know him well, but what I’ve heard does not inspire confidence.”

Rhaenyra looked at him with compassion.

“I know you worry, Daemon. But Rhaena is a Targaryen, strong and smart. She will know how to defend herself. Besides, Alicent has taken her in as a daughter and is instructing her in the duties of a wife.”

“Alicent,” he repeated with a bitter laugh. “That venomous viper disguised as a pious lady. I do not trust her one bit. I am convinced she is manipulating Rhaena, poisoning her mind, molding her to her will to serve her twisted interests blindly.”

“I don’t think so, Daemon,” Rhaenyra replied with a hint of impatience. “Alicent may be ambitious, yes, but she is also a loving mother. I genuinely believe she cares for Rhaena and loves her like a daughter. And let’s not forget that she is your daughter. She has her own power, and no one will make her do anything she does not want to.”

“Loving?” he interrupted her with a mocking laugh. “Don’t be naive, Rhaenyra. That harpy is as cold as winter. No warm feelings dwell in her chest, only greed and a thirst for power. She is like her father and her damn brothers: hyenas lurking, waiting for the right moment to sink their teeth into their prey.”

He shook his head furiously and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, as if he wanted to draw it right there.

“I cannot believe you still see her with the same eyes as when you were an innocent girl. Don’t you see the snake she truly is? The way she has poisoned Viserys’s mind, confusing him with her schemes until he became her puppet? She will soon reign over all of us, Rhaenyra, unless we open our eyes and get rid of her before it’s too late.”

“Enough, Daemon!” she reprimanded, raising her voice. “You are letting your old grudges against Otto cloud your judgment. Our friendship may have cooled, but she remains an honorable woman. I will not allow you to slander her in this way.”

Daemon fell silent, reflecting on Rhaenyra’s words. Perhaps she was right. But that did not mean he had to like it.

“Very well, Rhaenyra,” he said finally with resignation. “I will pretend everything is fine. But I will remain vigilant. I will not let the Hightowers or anyone else sideline us.”

Rhaenyra smiled with relief.

“Thank you, Daemon,” she said, relaxing her posture and moving closer to kiss him on the cheek. “I know we can overcome this together.”

Daemon embraced her, feeling the warmth of her body and the beat of her heart.He had to believe her.

“I will do whatever it takes to protect you, Rhaenyra,” he whispered in her ear, caressing her belly. “You and our child.”

​The dawn light filtered through the windows of the Red Keep, painting the chamber walls with golden and scarlet tones. Daemon awoke with a start, his body tense and alert.

He rose from the bed without waking his wife and walked to the window, stretching lazily. Outside, the sky turned a deep blue as the sun slowly rose over the horizon. The air was fresh and clean, and a light breeze caressed the leaves of the trees in the courtyard.

The atmosphere was completely different from the previous day.

He observed the activity unfolding in the fortress. Servants hurried back and forth, attending to their tasks. Guards patrolled the walls, vigilant against any threat. And in the distance, he could see the gleam of the knights’ armor as they prepared for the tournament.

He felt a knot in his stomach at the thought of the tournament. He was not a man who enjoyed court festivities and spectacles, except for the jousts. He preferred action, the heat of battle, the adrenaline coursing through his body as he faced an enemy. But Rhaenyra was right. He had to attend, for the sake of his house, for the future of his child, for Rhaena.

The idea of seeing his daughter filled him with a mix of hope and fear. It had been three long years since he last saw her, three years in which his daughter had grown under the tutelage of the Hightowers.

He wondered if Rhaena would still recognize him, if there would still be a place in her heart for him. He feared Alicent’s influence had driven her away from him, turning her into a stranger, an enemy.

He made a decision. He would seek out Rhaena, speak with her, remind her that he was her father and would always be by her side. He needed to assure her that, despite the intrigues and power plays, he loved her and would protect her with his life.

He left the chamber and headed to the quarters that the guards still loyal to him had said belonged to Rhaena. Upon reaching the door to her room, he hesitated for a moment. He doubted whether it was appropriate to enter without warning, whether his presence would be welcomed. But impatience won out, and he knocked softly on the door.

There was no answer. He knocked again, more insistently.

“Rhaena, it’s me, your father,” he said softly.

He waited a few seconds, but the silence persisted. He frowned.

Where could Rhaena be at this hour?

He turned on his heels and headed towards Alicent’s chambers. Upon reaching the door, he found it ajar.

He cautiously pushed the door open and entered. The chamber was empty, the bed unmade, and a lavender scent lingered in the air.

“Where is Rhaena?” he asked a maid folding clothes in the corner.

The young woman started at seeing Daemon and curtsied.

“My prince,” she replied nervously. “Princess Rhaena did not spend the night in her quarters. I haven’t seen her since yesterday afternoon.”

Daemon felt a chill run through his body.

Where could she be? Had something happened?

He left Alicent’s chamber with hurried steps and began to roam the fortress halls, searching for his daughter with growing desperation.

He questioned servants, guards, and knights, but no one had seen Rhaena. He wandered through courtyards and gardens, his eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. Frustration and anguish mixed in his chest, creating a storm of emotions threatening to overflow.

Where could she have gone? Had she been kidnapped? Had she fled her marriage?

He stopped by the fountain in the main courtyard, resting his hands on the stone edge and lowering his head. Water flowed from the mouth of a sculpted dragon, creating a soothing sound that contrasted with the whirlwind of thoughts tormenting him.

“Daemon.”

He started at the sound of his name and turned to find Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, observing him with a probing gaze.

Otto approached with slow, measured steps, his gray eyes studying him coldly. He wore a dark green silk tunic embroidered with the symbol of his house: a burning tower. His gaze and neatly trimmed beard gave him an imposing and authoritative appearance.

“Otto,” Daemon greeted with a nod, not hiding the disdain he felt for the older man.

“It’s good to see you back at court, Daemon,” Otto replied with an icy smile that did not conceal his insincerity. “The king is eager to speak with you.”

Daemon frowned.

“I haven’t come to see the king, Hightower,” he replied curtly. “I’m looking for my daughter.”

“Rhaena is with Alicent, preparing for the tournament. The king awaits you in his chambers. You should not keep him waiting.”

“And why should I heed the wishes of a king who ignores mine?” Daemon replied defiantly.

Otto looked at him coldly.

“I advise you not to test Viserys’s patience, Daemon,” he responded with a voice laden with threat. “He may be ill, but he is still the king and will not tolerate insolence.”

Daemon let out a mocking laugh.

“Threats, Hightower? You don’t scare me. I have challenged the king before, and I will not hesitate to do so again if necessary.”

Otto remained impassive in the face of Daemon’s challenge, his face inscrutable as a mask.

“Don’t be foolish, Daemon. It doesn’t benefit you to create more enemies than you already have. The king has extended a hand to you, offering a chance for redemption, to return to the fold. Do not squander it.”

Daemon clenched his fists, fighting against the anger consuming him. He knew Otto was right. Now was not the time to confront his brother, not while the kingdom teetered on the brink of chaos.

“Very well, Hightower,” he said at last with resignation. “I will see the king. But make no mistake, I’m doing it for my daughter and my wife. And if he thinks he can manipulate me with his weakness, he’s wrong. I am not Rhaenyra.”

Chapter 26: A Dream of Steel

Olyver

Year 130 After the Conquest
​

Olyver Bracken rode at the head of his uncle Lord Humfreyʼs entourage, feeling the wind whip against his face as the immense city of Kingʼs Landing rose before them. It was Olyverʼs first time leaving Stone Hedge, the ancestral home of the Brackens, and excitement made his heart pound like a hammer on an anvil.

He had never seen so many colors, so many banners, so many people. Merchants hawked their wares with hoarse voices, blacksmiths struck red-hot iron with resounding hammers, and musicians played merry tunes on flutes and lutes. The aroma of food mixed with that of manure, sweat, and the sea, creating a unique, intoxicating atmosphere.

At sixteen, Olyver was considered a prodigy with the sword. Tall and strong for his age, with bright blue eyes and a contagious smile, he had earned the admiration of everyone at Stone Hedge. His master-at-arms, old Ser Willis, had said of him that “he had the gift, the grace, the speed of a wolf with a blade.”

And now, here he was, in the capital, about to participate in the largest tournament in the kingdom, a tournament in honor of Prince Aegon Targaryen, son of King Viserys. The opportunity to measure himself against the best knights of the Seven Kingdoms, to prove his worth, to win glory for his house, and, who knows, perhaps even catch the eye of a maiden.

“Uncle, do you think Iʼll have the chance to face Prince Aegon?” Olyver asked eagerly, addressing Lord Humfrey, a burly man with a weathered face and a reddish beard.

Lord Humfrey smiled indulgently.

“Calm down, Olyver. First, you must prove your worth in the jousts. If you manage to stand out, you might have the chance to challenge the prince. But donʼt rush, remember there are many skilled knights in the tournament.”

Olyver nodded, trying to contain his impatience. Jousting was his specialty; he had trained for years. He imagined the impact of his lance against his opponentʼs shield, the sound of wood splintering, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he maintained his balance on his steed.

“I will do well, uncle,” Olyver promised determinedly. “I will win the joust for House Bracken.”

Lord Humfrey patted his shoulder proudly.

“I know you will, boy. You have the heart of a lion and the skill of a falcon. I trust you.”

As the Bracken entourage advanced through the crowded streets, Olyver watched everything with fascination. Street performers acted out comical scenes with puppets, jugglers tossed knives and torches into the air, and fortune-tellers offered their services with mysterious voices.

The atmosphere was festive, contagious. Olyver felt like a child entering a candy store for the first time.

He wanted to see it all, experience it all.

“Can we stay in the marketplace for a while?” Olyver asked, pointing toward the throng in the distance.

Lord Humfrey looked at him sternly.

“We donʼt have time for distractions, Olyver. We must present ourselves to the king and queen. Then Iʼll give you time to explore the city, but for now, focus on your duties.”

Olyver nodded obediently, though disappointment showed on his face. He wanted to immerse himself in that sea of people, feel the cityʼs vibrant energy, but he understood that his duties as a knight and nephew of Lord Bracken came first.

Finally, the entourage arrived at the gates of the Red Keep, where two guards in gleaming armor awaited them. Lord Humfrey identified himself, and the guards, after a brief consultation, allowed them entry.

As they passed through the gates, Olyver felt a chill run down his spine. It was like entering another world, a world of power and majesty. Towering spires rose toward the sky, guarded by sentries with spears and crossbows. Courtyards and gardens spread out before him, filled with fountains, flowers, and statues.

“Incredible,” Olyver whispered, unable to take his eyes off the castleʼs grandeur.

Lord Humfrey smiled, pleased with his nephewʼs reaction.

“This is the heart of the kingdom, Olyver. The home of dragons.”

Guided by a servant in red and gold livery, they passed through courtyards and hallways until they reached the throne room, where King Viserys awaited them.

Olyver felt a knot in his stomach as he entered the room. It was even more impressive than the courtyards and gardens. The vaulted ceiling soared above, decorated with vibrant mosaics. Enormous tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of battles and conquests. And in the center of the room, on a stone dais, stood the Iron Throne, a monstrous chair forged from the swords of Aegon the Conquerorʼs enemies.

However, King Viserys, seated on the throne, looked more like a specter than a man. Pale and gaunt, with a bandaged hand and a weary gaze, he conveyed a sense of fragility that contrasted with the throneʼs majesty. Beside him, Queen Alicent Hightower, beautiful and elegant, radiated an aura of power and determination.

Lord Humfrey knelt before the king, bowing his head in respect. Olyver followed suit, feeling the weight of history and tradition on his shoulders.

“Lord Humfrey Bracken, welcome to my court,” said Viserys in a weak but kind voice. “I am glad you have answered my call.”

“It is an honor to be in your presence, Your Grace,” Lord Humfrey replied. “I have brought my nephew, Ser Olyver Bracken, to participate in the tournament in honor of your son.”

Viserys fixed his gaze on Olyver, studying him with curiosity.

“A promising young man, I see,” the king said with a faint smile. “I hope he proves his worth in the jousts. May the gods be with you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Olyver responded, feeling his cheeks flush at the kingʼs attention.

After the brief audience, Lord Humfrey and Olyver were led to the rooms assigned to them. Anxious to explore the city, Olyver asked his uncle for permission to go out, and after a brief admonition about the importance of behaving with decorum, his uncle agreed.

“Donʼt be late, Olyver,” Lord Humfrey warned. “Thereʼs a banquet tonight in honor of the tournament guests. I donʼt want you to be tardy.”

Olyver nodded, promising to return on time. He left the room with the energy of a wild horse, eager to discover the capitalʼs secrets.

The streets of Kingʼs Landing buzzed with life. Olyver walked, marveling at the diversity of cultures and customs. He watched blacksmiths forging weapons, bakers baking crusty bread, potters molding clay with skilled hands. He stopped to listen to the old sailorsʼ tales of their adventures in distant seas.

The city was a melting pot of experiences, a place where the past and present intertwined in a vibrant tapestry. Olyver felt that every step he took was a step into a new world, a world full of possibilities.

He stopped at a tavern, drawn by the smell of ale and the music coming from inside. He pushed open the wooden door and entered, finding a noisy and festive atmosphere. Men and women laughed, drank, and sang, celebrating the tournamentʼs arrival.

Olyver sat at an empty table, ordering a mug of ale from the innkeeper. As he waited for his drink, he listened to the conversations and stories around him.

“They say Prince Aegon is unbeatable with the sword,” said a gray-bearded man at the next table. “Heʼs defeated every knight whoʼs faced him.”

“Heʼs a true Targaryen,” nodded another man with a scar on his cheek. “Blood of the dragon, fire, and steel.”

“And Princess Rhaena, his future wife, is as beautiful as the moon,” added a woman with bright eyes. “They say her beauty rivals that of Queen Alicent.”

Olyver listened, feeling increasingly excited. The anticipation for the tournament grew with each passing hour. He drank his ale slowly, savoring the bitter, refreshing taste. He felt full of life, as if the cityʼs energy coursed through him.

“This is my moment,” Olyver thought with determination. “The moment to win glory for my house and my name.”

He left the tavern with his heart pounding, ready to conquer the world. The sun was beginning to set, tinting the sky with shades of orange and red. Olyver walked back to the Red Keep, full of hope and enthusiasm.

The tournament would be the beginning of his legend.

Night fell over Kingʼs Landing, and torches illuminated the Red Keepʼs main courtyard with a flickering light. Music filled the air, creating a festive and magical atmosphere. Hundreds of guests gathered in the courtyard, dressed in their finest attire, to attend the banquet in honor of the tournament participants.

Olyver, dressed in a dark blue tunic embroidered with the Bracken emblem, watched the scene with fascination. Beside him, Lord Humfrey conversed with other nobles, while Willis stayed close, his gaze sharp and attentive.

The tables were laden with delicacies: roasted boar, venison pies, grilled trout, fruit tarts, and pitchers of wine and beer. The aroma of the food mingled with that of incense and flowers.

Olyver felt like he was in a dream. He had never seen such opulence, such beauty. It was as if he had entered a fairy tale.

He approached a table full of sweets, his eyes shining with delight. He tried a lemon cake, then a bite of marzipan, and finally a chocolate-covered strawberry. Each bite was an explosion of flavors on his palate.

“Olyver, allow me to introduce you to Lady Jeyne Swann,” said Lord Humfrey, interrupting his culinary delight.

Olyver turned and found himself facing a young woman with chestnut hair and honey-colored eyes. Lady Jeyne Swann, daughter of Lord Gulian Swann, was one of Queen Alicentʼs ladies-in-waiting.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Jeyne,” said Olyver, bowing.

“The pleasure is mine, Ser Olyver,” responded Lady Jeyne with a smile.

They conversed animatedly for a while, enjoying the banquet. Olyver was attracted to Lady Jeyneʼs intelligence and grace, and she seemed to enjoy his company. They talked about their homes, their families, their dreams. Olyver told her about his passion for the sword, and Lady Jeyne spoke of her love for music and poetry.

However, Olyver couldnʼt stop thinking about the tournament. He imagined the clash of lances, the adrenaline rushing through his veins, the glory of victory.

“Will you participate in the joust, Ser Olyver?” asked Lady Jeyne, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yes, Lady Jeyne,” Olyver replied with a smile. “I hope to win the joust for my house... and my lady.”

Lady Jeyne blushed at his words, lowering her gaze. Olyver felt a pang in his heart. He liked the young Swann very much, and he promised himself he would court her fervently during the tournament.

Their conversation was interrupted by the blare of trumpets announcing the arrival of the king and queen. Everyone stood, bowing as Viserys and Alicent entered the banquet hall. The king, aided by the queen and Grand Maester Orwyle, advanced slowly, his body weak and his gaze tired. Alicent, on the other hand, radiated an aura of authority, her beauty glowing in the torchlight.

Following them, with firm steps and a defiant look, came the princes. Olyverʼs eyes immediately went to Prince Aegon. Tall and muscular, with silver hair and challenging eyes, the prince exuded an aura of power and arrogance. Beside him, Rhaena Targaryen, his betrothed, walked with grace and elegance.

Olyver couldnʼt help but admire the beauty of the young Targaryen. Her silver hair shone in the torchlight, and her eyes seemed to hold a sea of mysteries. She was a fairy tale princess, worthy of the prince who accompanied her.

However, Olyver couldnʼt help but feel a pang of envy seeing Aegon with Rhaena. He was undeniably a formidable warrior. But Olyver felt that he, too, had the potential to be a great knight, a hero worthy of a princess.

“Tomorrow the tournament begins,” Olyver thought with determination. “Tomorrow will be my day.”

Chapter 27: Nightmares of Blood

Maegor

Year 130 After the Conquest​

Darkness closed around him, thick and suffocating like a shroud. The air was dense and cold, filled with the stench of death and decay that turned his stomach. It wasnʼt the first time he had woken in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, with his heart pounding uncontrollably. The nightmares pursued him relentlessly, tormenting him with images of the past, ghosts of a time that refused to disappear.

He sat up in bed, fighting the wave of nausea threatening to drag him back into the abyss of unconsciousness. His body trembled, gripped by a chill that ran from head to toe. The silk sheets felt damp and sticky against his skin, and the lavender scent that permeated the room was suffocating.

He got out of bed, his bare feet groping for the cold stone floor. He walked unsteadily to the window, pushing aside the velvet curtains that blocked the moonlight.

The night stretched before him, a mantle of darkness sprinkled with stars. The wind howled furiously, lashing the waves against the cliffs. The fury of the storm mirrored the whirlwind of emotions raging within him.

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to banish the images that tormented him. But it was useless. The nightmares clung to him tenaciously, refusing to let go.

He saw himself again seated on the Iron Throne, his body bruised and bloodied. The weight of the crown pressed down on his head, as if it were an iron yoke crushing his skull. Pain coursed through every fiber of his being, making him writhe in agonizing torment.

Around him, the faces of his enemies materialized in the darkness, smiling at him cruelly. He saw the betrayal in their eyes, the contempt on their lips. They were the same people who had sworn loyalty to House Targaryen, who had knelt before him, who had called him “Your Grace.” But now they looked at him with hatred, with a thirst for vengeance.

He remembered the confusion and pain that overwhelmed him when he felt the cold steel of the throneʼs swords piercing his chest. He remembered the betrayal of Olyver Bracken, the damned dog who had sworn to protect him.

“Bracken… Curse his lineage. Curse them all,” he muttered angrily, his voice a choked growl.

The image of Olyver Bracken, his face twisted with rage, etched itself in his mind with overwhelming clarity. He saw him with a cruel sneer on his lips, reveling in his suffering. And behind him, in the shadows, the faces of other traitors materialized: the Tullys, the Lannisters, all those who had conspired against him, who had woven their intrigues in the darkness to take what was rightfully his.

He felt a wave of nausea at the memory of the helplessness that gripped him in his final moments. He had fought fiercely, yes, but betrayal had weakened him, had robbed him of the strength that had characterized him. He had been reduced to a mere mortal, vulnerable to the perfidy of his enemies.

Bile rose in his throat, and he had to step away from the window to vomit in a corner of the room. The acrid stench of wine mixed with that of the bile, creating a nauseating amalgam that burned his nostrils.

He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. The images from the nightmare still danced before his eyes, torturing him with their cruelty.

“Why?” he asked in a heart-wrenching whisper. “Why have they taken what was mine? Why have they condemned me to this torment?”

There was no answer. Only silence and darkness accompanied him in his pain.

Then, he paced the room, consumed by fury. Damn Viserys, a weak and sickly king, a puppet in the hands of the Hightowers. Damn Rhaenyra, a cheap whor* with delusions of grandeur. Damn all those who had betrayed him, who had conspired against him.

But what tormented him most, what gnawed at his insides with relentless fury, was the memory of Jaehaerys. That damned boy, his own nephew, who had taken the throne from him. Jaehaerys, the usurper, the coward who had hidden behind his motherʼs skirts and the septonsʼ robes.

“Jaehaerys…” he hissed with hatred, the name was like poison on his lips.

How could he have been so blind? How could he have underestimated that weakling? He had been overconfident, had believed that his familyʼs loyalty was unbreakable. He had been wrong.

Jaehaerys had betrayed him, had stripped him of his kingdom, had condemned him to a bitter death. And what was even worse, had turned him into a monster in the eyes of history.

“Maegor the Cruel,” they called him. The tyrant, the murderer, the bloodthirsty monster.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

Cruel? He had been just. He had done what was necessary to protect his kingdom, to crush his enemies. Was that not what was expected of a king?

The weak and the cowardly would never understand the weight that rested on the shoulders of a true ruler. They would not understand the difficult decisions that had to be made, the lives that had to be sacrificed for the greater good. They only saw the surface, the end result, without understanding the intricate web that was needed to achieve harmony.

Maegor had been a just king, one willing to do whatever was necessary to preserve the integrity of the kingdom. If that meant spilling blood, so be it. If that meant crushing those who stood in his way, so be it.

He was the king, the only one capable of making the decisions no one else could or would make!

What did those lost lambs know of true sacrifice? They bleated and whimpered at every drop of blood shed, without understanding that those drops were necessary to water the fields and allow a new era of prosperity to bloom.

Maegor was the ruthless gardener who did not hesitate to prune the sick and twisted branches so that the tree could grow tall and strong. For every life he had to uproot, ten more sprouted to fill the void, strengthened by the nutrients of past sacrifices.

Jaehaerys, on the other hand, the weakling, the pusillanimous one, who knelt before the septons and allowed himself to be manipulated by his mother… they called him “Jaehaerys the Conciliator.” The peacemaker, the wise, the just king.

A mockery. A blatant lie.

Jaehaerys had been a coward, a hypocrite who hid behind a mask of piety and benevolence. He had dismantled everything Maegor had built, had subjected the crown to the will of the Faith and the maesters. He had humiliated House Targaryen, stripped it of its power and glory.

His nephew was a festering stain on the record of House Targaryen. An infected sore that had oozed weakness and complacency in every decision he made. He had crawled before the greedy lords, begging for their support like a beggar instead of subjecting them to his will. And instead of crushing the rebels and conspirators under his steel boot, the fool had forgiven them and even rewarded them with lands and titles.

As if traitors deserved anything other than the gallows!

And worst of all, he had convinced the world that Maegor was the monster. He had woven his web of lies, had manipulated history to turn him into the villain, the dark shadow that threatened the peace and prosperity of the Seven Kingdoms.

“But I am not the monster, Jaehaerys,” he muttered with contained fury. “You are the true villain, you are the one who has corrupted the kingdom, you are the one who has sown discord and hatred.”

He felt the need to scream, to smash something, to release the fury that consumed him.

Vengeance would be his.

He would reclaim what had been taken from him. He would show the world who the true king was. And the historical memory of Jaehaerys, the usurper, the coward, the hypocrite… would pay for his crimes.

He approached the window again, watching the fury of the storm. The lightning lit up the sky, the waves crashed against the cliffs, the wind howled like a hungry wolf.

And in the midst of this chaos, Maegor felt a strange peace. The storm was nothing but a reflection of his soul, a manifestation of his might. He was the dragon awakening, the beast breaking free from its chains.

And when the sun shone again, the world would witness his fury.

His gaze settled on the sword hanging above the fireplace, a simple steel blade, so insignificant compared to the majesty of Blackfyre, the sword he once wielded with the fierceness of a god.

“Blackfyre…” he murmured nostalgically, the name of the sword resonating on his lips like a promise.

The sword, forged in the fires of ancient Valyria, was more than a weapon; it was an extension of his will, a symbol of his power. With it, he had conquered, punished, and ruled. With it, he had imposed his law over the Seven Kingdoms.

“Soon, my old friend,” he whispered with a cruel sneer. “Soon we will dance together again. And this time, no one will stop us.”

He closed his eyes tightly. In his mind, the image of Sunfyre, his new dragon, materialized with overwhelming intensity. He saw its golden scales glistening under the sun, its wings spreading with majestic elegance, fire blazing in its jaws. He felt the dragonʼs searing heat, the earth-shaking roar, the untamed fury emanating from its being. Sunfyre would be his ultimate weapon, the instrument of his vengeance, the embodiment of his power.

In his desires, he imagined Sunfyre soaring through the skies of Westeros, leaving a trail of fire and destruction. He saw the flames consuming his enemies, heard the screams of terror from those who had dared to betray him.

The Brackens, those damned bastards who had tarnished his legacy, would be the first to feel his wrath. He envisioned Sunfyre descending upon Stone Hedge, its flames engulfing the towers and walls, reducing the arrogance of that treacherous house to ashes.

One by one, the rats would fall before his fury. Their fortresses would be reduced to rubble, their armies annihilated, their families exterminated. Blood would water the fields of Westeros, a beautiful feast for the crows and wolves.

And while the storm raged outside, the fury burned within him, consuming him completely. Vengeance wouldnʼt restore what he had lost, nor erase the pain of betrayal and the scars of the past. But it would offer him a twisted satisfaction, a balm for his tormented soul.

The world would once again fear his name. The Seven Kingdoms would bow to his power. And those who had dared to betray him would pay the price of their audacity. With fire and blood, Maegor would reclaim what was his, impose his law, and become the king he was always meant to be.

Jaehaerys had sown the wind.

And he, Maegor, would reap the whirlwind.

He had been reborn.

And this time, there would be no mercy.

No one would stand in his way. No one would dare challenge him. He was Maegor Targaryen, the true king, the reborn dragon. And the Seven Kingdoms would tremble before his power.

He collapsed onto the bed, exhausted by the intensity of his emotions. He closed his eyes, trying to calm the storm raging within him.

But the images of the nightmare still lingered, torturing him with their cruelty. Brackenʼs face, Jaehaerysʼs betrayal, the blood, the pain… everything mixed into a whirlwind of horror that consumed him.

“Soon,” he told himself with determination. “Soon this will all end. And then, the guilty will pay for their crimes.”

He clung to that promise, seeking solace in the darkness. Vengeance was his only hope, his only reason to go on. And he wouldnʼt rest until it was fulfilled.

Chapter 29: The Fury of the Sleeping Dragon

Criston

Year 130 After the Conquest​

The echo of Aegonʼs footsteps resounded in the hallway, each step a heartbeat of fury. Criston walked behind him, maintaining a prudent distance, with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The silence that surrounded them was dense, heavy, laden with tension.

It had been madness. The scene in the great banquet hall still danced before his eyes: Aegon, his gaze filled with hatred, throwing a punch at Lord Jason Lannisterʼs face. The blood, the screams, the chaos…

“The wine,” Criston thought with a sigh of resignation. “The damned wine always drives him mad.”

He had noticed the change in Aegon since they started drinking. At first, the prince had been jovial, sharing jokes and laughter with his companions. But as the pitchers emptied, a shadow had taken hold of his eyes, a fury that Criston knew all too well.

He had seen that same fury in the eyes of Daemon Targaryen, the kingʼs brother, a man whom Criston had come to admire and fear in equal measure. Daemon was a formidable warrior, a dragonrider. But he was also an impulsive man, driven by his passions, capable of the greatest atrocities.

And now, he saw a reflection of that same darkness in Aegon.

Upon reaching the princeʼs chambers, Criston stopped and observed him. Aegon was swaying slightly, his gaze lost in the void. His tunic was stained with wine, and his silver hair was completely disheveled.

“Prince Aegon,” Criston said firmly. “You should rest. The wine has clouded your judgment.”

Aegon turned to him, his gaze clearing a bit.

“Judgment? What judgment are you talking about, Cole?” Aegon let out a bitter laugh. “In this court, there is no judgment, only lies and betrayals.”

Criston sighed. He knew reasoning with Aegon in his current state was useless. The wine had loosened his tongue, stripped away the veil of courtesy that usually covered his words.

“This is not the time for these discussions, prince. We must forget what happened and prepare for the tourney.”

Aegon stumbled towards him. Criston remained firm, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.

He did not fear the prince, but he knew that in his state, anything could happen.

“The tourney…” Aegon repeated with a sneer. “What does a stupid tournament matter?”

“Calm down, Aegon,” Criston insisted, trying to appease him. “The wine is harming you.”

Aegonʼs eyes snapped open, fixing on Criston with an intensity that made him step back. His pupils were dilated, darkened by fury and alcohol.

“And who are you to tell me what to do?” Aegon spat, his voice laden with venom. “A lapdog of my mother? A lackey of the Hightowers?”

Criston gritted his teeth, holding back the anger that threatened to overflow. Aegon, in his drunken state, was like a wounded beast, attacking anyone who came near.

“I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Aegon,” Criston responded coldly. “And my duty is to protect you, even if you donʼt want it.”

Aegon let out a harsh laugh, full of contempt.

“Protect me? From what? The truth? Reality? Everyone lies to me, Criston. My father, my mother, the maesters… They all weave their intrigues behind my back, using me as a pawn in their game of power.”

Criston looked at the prince with a mix of pity and concern. Aegon, despite his strength and talent, was a tormented young man, consumed by paranoia and distrust.

“Not everyone lies to you, Aegon,” Criston said, trying to reason with him. “Your mother loves you. And I… I have always been by your side, been your mentor, your friend.”

Aegon looked at him with fury, his eyes shining with a dangerous fire.

“Friend? You? Rhaenyraʼs whor*?” Aegon spat the words with venom. “Donʼt make me laugh, Cole. I know you slept with her, that you were her lover. And now you want to be my friend? Do you think Iʼm that stupid?”

Criston felt a lump in his throat, a blow of pain that made him stagger. The past, like an implacable ghost, haunted him without rest. The passion he had felt for Rhaenyra, the betrayal, the guilt… It all resurfaced forcefully, tormenting him mercilessly.

He had been a young and impetuous knight, seduced by the beauty and audacity of the princess. He had given himself to her with passion, with madness. But the guilt had consumed him, led him to repudiate her, to seek refuge in the company of Queen Alicent.

And now, Aegon, with his drunken cruelty, threw that past in his face, like a poisoned dagger.

“That was a long time ago, Aegon,” Criston replied hoarsely, struggling to maintain his calm. “And it has nothing to do with the present.”

“Nothing to do?” Aegon sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “A whor* always returns to the brothel she came from, and Criston, you were Rhaenyraʼs whor*.”

Criston closed his eyes tightly, holding back the anger that threatened to overflow. Aegonʼs accusation was a low blow, a treacherous stab.

Patience was wearing thin, compassion fading.

“Enough, Aegon!” Criston exclaimed, his voice resonating with force. “I will not tolerate your insults. I am a knight, a warrior, and I have served your house with loyalty. Do not compare me to the worms that surround you.”

Aegon staggered, surprised by Cristonʼs sudden fury. A flicker of doubt crossed his eyes, as if the drunkenness was dissipating for a moment. But the doubt vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by even more intense fury.

“Shut up, Cole!” Aegon spat, his voice hoarse and broken. Drops of saliva flew from his mouth as he spoke. “Youʼre… youʼre nothing but a… traitor.”

Aegon moved erratically, bumping into a table and knocking over a jug of wine. The red liquid spilled on the floor, but Aegon didnʼt even notice. He was too absorbed in his paranoid delirium.

“I hate you!” he screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Criston. His eyes, unfocused and glassy, couldnʼt fix on a single point. “I hate you and everyone who has lied to me!”

Aegon, seized by fury, grabbed a heavy silver candelabrum and hurled it at him. Criston instinctively ducked, narrowly avoiding the blow.

The object flew through the air before crashing against the wall. The impact echoed through the room, scattering fragments of silver and hot wax.

Criston slowly stood up, his body tense, ready to defend himself. Anger burned in his eyes, but also a deep sadness. The prince, blinded by fury and pain, was self-destructing.

“Aegon,” Criston said tiredly, filled with disappointment. “I donʼt want to hurt you. But donʼt force me to.”

Aegon looked at him with disdain, his upper lip curled in a sneer.

“Hurt me? You? Donʼt make me laugh. Youʼre nothing. Just a worm!”

Aegon, with a savage roar, lunged at Criston, wielding a dagger he had drawn from his boot. Criston, with a quick movement, dodged the attack and struck the prince on the jaw.

Aegon staggered, stunned by the blow, but did not fall. His gaze became even wilder, and with an animal growl, he attacked again.

Criston, with his experience and skill, managed to disarm the prince and subdue him, pinning him to the floor with his knee on his chest. Aegon resisted furiously, but the drunkenness had weakened him. His efforts were futile and finally, the alcohol and fatigue overcame him. His body relaxed, and his eyelids slowly closed.

Criston, observing him with a mix of pity and relief, waited until the prince was deeply asleep. Then, he got up and carefully lifted him from the floor. He carried him to the bed and laid him down gently. Then, he removed his boots and covered him with blankets.

Criston watched the sleeping prince, his face now relaxed, free of the mask of fury that had possessed him. At that moment, Aegon seemed like a vulnerable child, a tormented soul seeking peace.

“Rest, My Prince,” Criston whispered sadly. “Tomorrow will be another day.”

​The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when Criston Cole woke up with a start. His hand instinctively reached for the hilt of the sword resting next to his bed. The silence in the fortress was absolute, broken only by the distant cawing of a crow. He sat up slowly, feeling every muscle in his body protest. The previous night had been long and exhausting.

With mechanical movements, he dressed in his white armor of the Kingsguard. The cold metal against his skin helped clear the last vestiges of sleep. While adjusting the sword belt, his mind returned to the events of the previous night. The banquet, the wine flowing like an endless river, the laughter that gradually turned into tense murmurs…

Criston shook his head, trying to push those thoughts aside. He had a duty to fulfill. With a determined stride, he left his quarters and headed towards Prince Aegonʼs chambers.

The hallways of the Red Keep were deserted at this early hour. His footsteps echoed off the stone, a solitary sound that seemed to amplify the tension growing in his chest. Upon reaching Aegonʼs door, Criston paused. He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for whatever he might find on the other side.

He knocked softly, but there was no response. After a moment of hesitation, he opened the door and entered.

The stench of stale wine and sweat hit him like a slap. The room was dim, with the curtains still drawn, blocking the faint light of dawn. Criston squinted, trying to adjust to the darkness. Slowly, the outlines of the furniture began to take shape.

And there, amidst the chaos of scattered clothes and overturned goblets, lay Prince Aegon Targaryen.

Criston approached cautiously. Aegon was sprawled face down on the bed, his semi-naked body barely covered by a tangled sheet. His usually immaculate silver hair was now a sticky mess.

A deep snore escaped from his slightly open lips.

“Prince Aegon,” Criston called softly. There was no response. “My prince, you must wake up.”

Aegon grunted and stirred but showed no signs of getting up. Criston sighed.

He knew what he was about to do bordered on insubordination, but the circ*mstances demanded it.

With determination, he grabbed the princeʼs shoulders and shook him firmly.

“Wake up, for the Sevenʼs sake!”

Aegonʼs eyes snapped open, disoriented and bloodshot. For a moment, a spark of fury flared in them. Criston tensed, ready for any violent reaction. But the spark faded as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a look of confusion and pain.

“Cole?” Aegonʼs voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “What… what time is it?”

“Time for you to get up, my prince,” Criston replied, relieved that Aegon seemed more confused than angry. “The tournament will start soon, and you must be present.”

At the mention of the tournament, Aegon groaned and covered his eyes with his arm.

“Gods, my head… What happened last night?”

Criston hesitated.

Should he remind the prince of his outburst of fury? The punch that had left Lord Jason Lannister bleeding on the banquet hall floor?

He opted for discretion.

“You drank too much, my prince. I brought you to your chambers when the feast ended.”

Aegon lowered his arm and looked at Criston, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Is that all? I feel… I feel like something else happened.”

The knight kept his face impassive.

“Nothing that should concern you now, my prince. The important thing is that you get ready for the tournament.”

With a groan of effort, Aegon sat up on the edge of the bed. His face had taken on a greenish hue, and Criston reacted just in time to bring him a basin. The prince vomited violently, his body shaking with each heave.

When he finished, Criston handed him a damp cloth and a cup of water. Aegon accepted them with trembling hands.

“Thank you, Cole,” he murmured, wiping his mouth. “Youʼre always there when I need you.”

Criston felt a pang of guilt at those words.

Yes, he was always there… but was he really doing the right thing? Shouldnʼt he be guiding the prince rather than just cleaning up his messes?

“It is my duty, my prince,” he replied automatically.

Aegon looked at him, and for a moment Criston thought he saw a flash of clarity in those eyes.

“Your duty… And what is my duty, Cole?”

Criston took a deep breath.

“Your duty, my prince, is to be worthy of the crown you will one day wear. It is to learn to rule with wisdom and justice. It is to...”

“Enough!” Aegon roared, standing unsteadily. “I donʼt need another sermon!”

Criston took a step back, surprised by the sudden explosion of anger. Aegon advanced towards him, his face contorted in a grimace of fury and pain.

“Tell me, Ser Criston,” Aegon whispered, his breath still heavy with alcohol. “You who have served the crown faithfully for so many years. What do you see when you look at my father on the Iron Throne?”

Criston felt a lump form in his throat. His mind flew to the countless Small Council meetings, the court audiences, the moments he had seen King Viserys I Targaryen seated on that throne forged from the swords of Aegon the Conquerorʼs fallen enemies.

He saw a kind man, yes. A king who wished for peace and prosperity for his realm. But he also saw an indecisive man, easily swayed by the whispers of his advisors. A king who avoided conflict at all costs, even when it was necessary.

“I see my king,” Criston finally replied, choosing his words carefully. “The man I swore to protect with my life.”

Aegon let out a derisive laugh.

“Well, I see a sick and weak old man. A corpse clinging to the throne, unable to make a decision without consulting a dozen treacherous advisors. A naive fool who has forgotten what it means to be a dragon.”

The prince staggered towards the window, leaning heavily on the sill. He opened it and his gaze lost itself in the horizon, where the sun was beginning to rise.

“I see ʼmy fatherʼ…” Aegon continued, his voice laden with resentment. “The ʼgreat Viserys,ʼ who prefers to spend his days playing with his models while the kingdom falls apart around him.”

Aegon turned abruptly towards Criston.

“But I will not be like that, Cole. Do you hear me? I will not be a weak and sickly king… When I sit on the Iron Throne, the realm will not tremble. It will kneel.”

Chapter 30: The Ghost of the Past

Maegor

Year 130 After the Conquest​

The sun beat down on the jousting arena, a giant oven cooking the crowd and making the contendersʼ armor gleam. The roar of the people, a bloodthirsty monster craving spectacle, assaulted Maegorʼs ears like a raging sea. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, horse manure, and food baking in the sun, creating a nauseating mixture that churned his stomach.

With a grimace of disgust, he adjusted his helmet, feeling the cold metal against his sweaty skin.

“Focus,” he told himself. “Focus, damn it.”

But the words echoed hollowly in his head, unable to drown out the crowdʼs roar and his heartʼs frantic pounding. They couldnʼt even clear the haze of cheap wine that still clouded his senses.

He had won the first two jousts, yes, but it hadnʼt been a clean, glorious victory. It was a brutal slaughter, a whirlwind of steel and unleashed fury that left his opponents battered and humiliated.

There had been no elegance, no mastery in his movements, only the blind rage of a wounded animal seeking to unleash its pain.

And with each victory, the initial euphoria, the animal satisfaction, gave way to an even deeper void, a bitter echo that reminded him of the previous night, the humiliation, the betrayal.

“Lannister…” he hissed through his teeth, recalling the look of terror in the lionʼs eyes when he smashed his fist into his face.

It had been madness, yes, but also liberation. The accumulated rage of years, the frustration, the resentment… it had all exploded in that punch, in that strangled cry that echoed in the deathly silence of the great hall.

He had seen the fear in the eyes of those present, the tacit recognition that beneath the façade of a kind and docile prince lurked something darker, more dangerous. And for a moment, just a moment, he had felt alive, powerful.

And with that power came a memory, a vision so vivid he could almost smell the smoke and burning flesh. The warriorʼs sons, screaming in agony as flames consumed their bodies. Their faces contorted in pain, their pleading eyes fixed on him as life ebbed away…

The strangest part wasnʼt the clarity of these visions, but the absence of horror at them. Instead, he felt an electric current run through his body, a tingle of anticipation at the power he once held…that he could hold again.

A roar from the crowd snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see his squire approaching, a scroll in his hand and a fearful expression on his face.

“My prince,” the young man said uncertainly, “itʼs time to announce your next opponent.”

Maegor stared at him fixedly.

“And who is the unfortunate one?” he asked mockingly.

The squire swallowed nervously.

“Itʼs… Ser Olyver Bracken of Stone Hedge, my prince.”

The words hit him like a hammer blow to the chest, knocking the wind out of him. The world around him seemed to collapse, compressing into a narrow, suffocating tunnel.

The deafening roar of the crowd faded, replaced by a high-pitched buzzing that drilled into his ears. The sun, once blazing, transformed into a tiny, blurry point, as if all the worldʼs light had been absorbed by a black hole of terror and memory.

Bracken…

The name echoed in his mind, awakening memories he had fought to bury. He saw that bastard approaching again, felt the mortal cold piercing his flesh, the betrayal in Olyver Brackenʼs eyes, the Kingsguard who had sworn loyalty to him.

A strangled cry escaped his lips, a guttural sound lost in the crowdʼs clamor. The brutal, uncontrollable fury seized him, darkening his vision, clouding his judgment.

“Bracken…” he hissed again, this time with a visceral hatred that chilled his squireʼs blood.

He stood up in the saddle, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

This wasnʼt a coincidence. It couldnʼt be. The Brackens… those damn vultures had smelled blood, weakness. They had sent one of their own, with the same dark magic that placed him in this new body, to finish what they had started.

“My prince, are you all right?” asked the squire, alarmed by his sudden transformation.

Maegor ignored him. His gaze scanned the crowd, searching, scrutinizing every face, every shadow. Suddenly, everyone was suspect.

Every noble, every knight, every servant… all could be part of the conspiracy. Traitors hidden under a mask of courtesy, waiting for the opportune moment to stab him in the back.

“Bracken…” he repeated, savoring the name on his tongue like venom.

Time seemed to distort. Seconds, minutes, perhaps hours… Maegor lost all sense of its passage as he plunged deeper into the abyss of his paranoia. The outside world blurred, replaced by the shadows of his own inner demons.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm. The unexpected, alarming touch provoked an instinctive reaction. He turned sharply, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it and face the threat his disturbed mind had conjured.

“Aegon, whatʼs happening?”

It was Alicent, his ʼmotherʼ, with a pale face and a worried expression in her eyes. Her presence, normally comforting, now provoked a mixture of rage and frustration in him.

“Get away from me,” he growled, brushing her hand aside with a rough gesture.

Alicent looked at him in confusion.

“Whatʼs wrong with you, Aegon? Youʼre… different.”

“Different?” he repeated with a bitter laugh. “Of course, Iʼm different. Iʼm no longer the fool who lets himself be manipulated, the puppet dancing to the tune of your betrayals.”

Alicent frowned.

“Aegon,” she said softly, as if speaking to a wounded animal, “have you been drinking again?”

The question, seemingly innocent, unleashed a new wave of fury in Maegor.

How dare she insinuate that his state was due to alcohol?

“Drinking?” he spat the words with contempt. “Is that what you think? That Iʼm drunk? No, ʼmotherʼ. Iʼm more lucid than ever. I finally see things as they really are.”

Alicent took a step back, surprised by the vehemence in her sonʼs voice. However, she quickly recovered.

“Aegon, listen to me,” she tried again, her voice firm but laden with concern. “I know you drank too much last night. The hangover can play tricks on the mind. Perhaps we should postpone your participation in the joust. We can say you feel unwell…”

But her words only served to further fuel Maegorʼs paranoia. A bitter, almost hysterical laugh escaped his lips.

“Hangover?” he repeated incredulously. “You think this is because of a damn hangover? No, ʼmotherʼ. This goes much further.”

Alicent tried to speak, but someone interrupted her.

“And now, from the lands of Stone Hedge, the brave Ser Olyver Bracken, to face Prince Aegon Targaryen!”

Maegor felt a shiver run down his spine. Olyver Bracken. The ghost of the past had returned to haunt him.

His gaze met Criston Coleʼs, who observed the scene with a frown and an indecipherable expression in his eyes.

“Cole,” Maegor growled, in a tone that brooked no argument, “get out of my sight. And take this… viper with you.”

Alicent opened her mouth to protest, but Criston stopped her with a subtle gesture.

“Come, Your Grace,” he said softly but firmly. “Letʼs leave the prince to prepare for the joust.”

And as the crowd roared, hungry for blood and spectacle, Maegor was left alone in the center of the arena, his heart pounding wildly, his eyes fixed on the figure of Olyver Bracken, who approached him with his lance held high and a confident smile on his lips.

Revenge was best served cold, yes. And he, Maegor Targaryen, was thirsty for it.

​The roar of the crowd intensified into a deafening thunder as Maegor and Olyver Bracken faced each other from opposite ends of the jousting field. The midday sun beat down on them, making their armor shine like two miniature suns. The air, dense and hot, vibrated with contained expectation.

Maegor could barely see through the narrow slit of his helmet. The image of Bracken blurred before his eyes, distorted by the haze of wine and fury clouding his mind. But he didnʼt need to see clearly. He felt it in every cell of his being: the hatred, the fear, the guilt…

Olyver Bracken was the past returned to haunt him, the embodiment of his own weakness, of his failure as a king. And Maegor would not allow him to humiliate him again.

He adjusted the lance with a trembling hand, feeling the weight of the steel, the promise of violence. He was not a knight like the others. He didnʼt care about the glory of victory, the applause of the crowd, the favor of the ladies. The only thing he craved was the cold satisfaction of revenge, the bitter taste of blood.

A herald, dressed in garish robes, stood in the center of the lists. He raised his staff of office and the crowd fell silent, expectant.

“Noble lords and ladies! Brave knights!” he proclaimed in a stentorian voice. “Welcome to this tournament, in honor of Prince Aegon Targaryen, heir… prince of the Iron Throne.”

The last phrase resonated sweetly in Maegorʼs ears.

Prince? It was obvious he meant heir. His father was still alive, clinging to life with the tenacity of a fly trapped in honey. And yet, they already called him “heir,” ignoring Rhaenyraʼs right, the “true successor” .

Everyone knows who the true king should be.

But soon, very soon, everything would change. He, Maegor, would take what was rightfully his.

The herald continued with the ceremonial litany, listing the titles and feats of the contenders. Maegor ignored him completely. His attention was focused on Bracken, on the slight tremor in his arm, on the bead of sweat trickling down his temple.

Fear.

He smelled it like a hungry dog sniffing meat.

A cruel smile formed on his lips.

“Let him tremble,” Maegor thought, with a cold satisfaction running down his spine. “Let him feel fear coursing through his veins like poison.”

The herald, after an endless string of praises and reverences, finally raised his staff.

“En garde!”

The metallic sound of the armors clashing resonated like a death knell in the expectant silence. The two riders charged, each a whirlwind of steel and fury, driven by the thirst for blood and the promise of violence.

Maegor spurred his steed, feeling the wind whip his face, the adrenaline flood his veins. His peripheral vision narrowed to a blurry tunnel, where only Brackenʼs figure existed, approaching at terrifying speed.

“Die,” Maegor thought, with a cold fury chilling his blood. “Die as I once died, traitor.”

He remembered the blade piercing his flesh, the searing pain, the victorious look in Brackenʼs eyes before darkness engulfed him. In that moment of madness, he decided that defeating him was not enough. He had to pay for his betrayal, suffer as he had suffered.

He adjusted the trajectory of his lance at the last moment, aiming not at the chest, as the rules of the joust dictated, but at the head, the unprotected face of his enemy.

A strangled cry escaped his lips, a guttural sound lost in the thundering of the horsesʼ hooves pounding the ground.

The impact was brutal, dry, definitive.

Maegorʼs lance struck Brackenʼs helmet with the force of a battering ram.

The metal bent, yielded, and shattered like paper.

The lance, turned into a lethal dart, pierced through the helmetʼs visor, penetrated Brackenʼs right eye, and sank deep into his skull.

A bloodcurdling scream, an inhuman sound that froze the blood of the onlookers, echoed in the silence following the brutal impact. Olyver Bracken collapsed from his mount like a broken doll, the lance still embedded in his face, a ghastly banner of death.

The stunned silence lasted only a moment. Then, the crowd erupted into a cacophony of screams and exclamations.

“By the gods!”

“Heʼs dead!”

“Murder!”

Maegor, with his breath quickened and his heart pounding frantically, remained motionless on his horse, observing the scene with a strange mixture of curiosity and satisfaction.

Blood flowed from Brackenʼs pierced eye, staining the ground a deep red. His body convulsed spasmodically, as if struggling to free itself from the lance that had impaled him.

“Olyver!”

A heart-wrenching cry cut through the air, laden with pain and fury.

Lord Humfrey Bracken, his face contorted with horror, rushed toward his fallen nephew. He knelt beside the lifeless body, cradling the bloody head in his hands.

“Murderer!” Humfrey shouted, his voice hoarse with grief. His bloodshot eyes sought out Maegor with homicidal fury. “You have murdered my nephew! You will pay for this with blood!”

Maegor merely watched him with icy detachment. He felt no remorse, only a vague joy at seeing his enemyʼs pain reflected on his face.

“It was an accident,” Maegor said with a calm that surprised even himself. His voice, amplified by his helmet, sounded strangely distant. “A misstep, an unfortunate blow… The gods have been cruel.”

Humfrey glared at him.

“Liar!” roared the Lord of Stone Hedge. “I saw how you looked at him, how you aimed your lance… It was deliberate, cold-blooded murder!”

Maegor shrugged, feigning indifference.

“Jousts are dangerous, Lord Bracken,” he replied condescendingly. “Sometimes, the gods claim the best warriors.”

Blinded by fury, Humfrey tried to lunge at Maegor, but the onlookers held him back.

“Calm down, Lord Bracken!”

“This is neither the time nor the place!”

“The king will judge what has happened!”

Maegor removed his helmet, revealing a small smile.

“What a shame. I suppose we will have to let my father, the king, judge what has happened. Donʼt you think thatʼs the best solution? After all, he has always been known for his… impartiality.”

Maegorʼs smile widened as he saw Lord Brackenʼs face turn from red to purple, the veins in his neck swelling, threatening to burst.

In seconds, the clamor of the crowd transformed into a savage roar as Lord Humfrey Bracken, torn apart by fury and grief, broke free from his menʼs grasp and charged at Maegor with sword in hand.

“Dog! You will pay for your crime!” he bellowed, his voice dripping with visceral hatred.

Maegor reacted instinctively. He drew his sword swiftly, the steel gleaming under the sun like lightning. His heart pounded frantically, adrenaline pumping through his veins, but the haze of wine and hatred kept him in a state of unreality.

The rest of Brackenʼs men, inflamed by their lordʼs grief, stormed the lists, wielding swords and axes. The crowd, gripped by panic, scattered in a cacophony of screams and shoves. The festivity had turned into bloody chaos in the blink of an eye.

Viserys​

“How much longer will this last, Otto?” asked Viserys, turning to his Hand of the King with a tired expression on his pale, sweaty face.

Otto Hightower, always attentive and solicitous, leaned toward the king with a reassuring smile.

“Just a few more jousts, Your Grace. Soon we can celebrate your sonʼs victory.”

Viserys nodded, a proud smile lighting up his weary face. His eyes gleamed as he saw the black and red armor of his son, Prince Aegon, entering the lists.

“Ah, there is my champion,” exclaimed Viserys with evident satisfaction. “Aegon has won all the jousts so far, hasnʼt he, Otto?”

Otto exchanged a conspiratorial look with Alicent before responding.

“Indeed, Your Grace. Prince Aegon has proven to be invincible in the lists. A true display of the strength and skill of House Targaryen.”

Viserys straightened in his seat, the fatigue momentarily forgotten.

“I always knew Aegon would be an exceptional warrior. He has the blood of the dragon, after all.”

Alicent leaned toward him, her voice overflowing with maternal pride.

“And he has been trained by the best, my love. No knight in the Seven Kingdoms can match his prowess.”

The king nodded enthusiastically, easily swayed by the comforting words of others rather than facing his own fears and doubts.

“You are right, Aemm… Alicent. Aegon is the living image of what a Targaryen prince should be. Strong, skilled, feared, and respected.”

With a gesture of his hand, Viserys signaled for the joust to begin. The two knights, Aegon and a young man from House Bracken, spurred their mounts and charged at each other.

The clash was brutal and swift. The lances splintered with a crash that made Viserys flinch in his seat. When the dust settled, he saw with horror that the Bracken knight lay motionless on the ground, while Aegon remained upright on his mount.

“What happened?” asked Viserys, his voice trembling and high-pitched. “Is he… is he dead?”

Otto stood, his face a mask of concern.

“Allow me to investigate, Your Grace. Stay here, where you are safe.”

As Otto hurried toward the lists, Viserys sank into his seat, closing his eyes tightly.

He didnʼt want to see, didnʼt want to know. If he ignored what had happened, maybe it would disappear, like the nightmares that tormented him at night.

But the roar of fury that rose from the stands forced him to open his eyes. He saw a middle-aged man, dressed in the colors of House Bracken, leap into the arena, brandishing a sword and shouting accusations at Aegon.

“Murderer!” bellowed the man, whom Viserys vaguely recognized as Lord Humfrey Bracken. “You killed my nephew, Targaryen monster!”

Panic took hold of Viserys. His breathing became labored, and the pain in his head intensified until it was nearly unbearable.

He wanted to say something, to intervene somehow, but the words caught in his throat. What could he say to alleviate the pain of a man who had just lost a loved one?

“Otto!” he called out weakly. “Otto, do something!”

But Otto was already acting. In a voice that resonated throughout the arena, he shouted:

“Protect the prince!”

What followed was chaos that Viserys could barely comprehend. He saw Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, step between Aegon and the Bracken men. Swords flashed in the sunlight, and the sound of steel clashing filled the air.

“Stop!” Viserys cried, his voice barely audible amid the tumult. “In the name of the king, stop!”

But no one seemed to hear him. Viserys felt powerless, unable to control the situation unfolding before his eyes.

He wanted to flee, to hide in his quarters and pretend none of this was happening.

“Otto,” he pleaded, turning to his Hand with eyes full of desperation. “Otto, stop this madness.”

Otto, who had returned to the kingʼs side, leaned towards him with a concerned expression.

“Your Grace, you must stay calm,” he said softly. “Your health is too fragile to bear this strain. Let me handle this matter.”

Viserys, grateful for the chance to avoid responsibility, nodded weakly.

“My head… my head hurts,” he murmured, bringing a trembling hand to his temple.

Otto placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Rest, Your Grace. Everything will be fine. Trust me.”

And as Viserys sank into his seat, closing his eyes and wishing it was all a nightmare from which he would soon awaken, Otto addressed the crowd with a voice that commanded silence.

“Enough!” Otto roared, with an authority Viserys had never been able to project. “Lord Bracken, control your men! You have insulted the prince and defied the kingʼs authority! You will answer for your actions before justice!”

Viserys cracked his eyes open, observing the scene with a mix of relief and guilt. Part of him knew he should be the one out there, calming his people, defending his son. But another part, the part that always shied away from conflict, was glad Otto was handling the situation.

Always so calm, so firm, so… indispensable.

Lord Humfrey Bracken, his face contorted with rage and his tunic stained with blood, glared at Otto with hatred.

“Justice?” he spat, with a tone of bitter sarcasm. “What justice can there be when a Targaryen coldly murders a man of my house?”

Viserys winced at Brackenʼs words.

Was it true? Had Aegon really killed young Bracken? No, it couldnʼt be. It must have been an accident, a terrible accident. Aegon wasnʼt a murderer, was he?

But a voice in the back of his mind, a voice Viserys always tried to silence, whispered:

“Are you sure? Do you really know your son?”

Shaking his head to clear those thoughts, Viserys focused on Ottoʼs words, who was trying to calm Lord Bracken.

“Lord Bracken, I understand your pain, but I assure you that what happened will be investigated. If Prince Aegon acted improperly, he will be punished.”

Viserys nodded weakly, grateful for Ottoʼs diplomacy.

Yes, an investigation. That was the right thing to do, wasnʼt it? Find out the truth before making any hasty decisions.

But Lord Bracken was not satisfied. With a roar of fury, he lunged again at Aegon, followed by his men.

“Stop this!” Viserys cried, his voice weak and trembling, barely audible over the din of battle. “I order you to cease hostilities! In the name of the gods, stop!”

But no one seemed to hear him. Viserys felt invisible, powerless, a paper king in a kingdom of steel and blood.

Otto, seeing the situation slipping out of control, turned to Cole.

“Double the guard!” he ordered firmly. “Restrain those savages! And arrest Lord Bracken! He is a traitor!”

Otto turned to him.

“Your Grace, we must get you out of here. Itʼs not safe.”

Viserys nodded weakly, grateful for Ottoʼs decision.

Yes, it was better to leave, to escape this nightmare.

He let Otto help him to his feet, leaning heavily on his Hand as they moved away from the battlefield.

As they led him to his quarters, Viserys felt the world spinning around him. Voices sounded distant, muffled, as if he were submerged in water.

How had it come to this? How had he let things get so out of control?

Once in the safety of his rooms, Viserys collapsed onto his bed, his head pounding.

“What happened?” Viserys asked weakly, confused. Remembering what had happened just moments ago was difficult. “Everything happened so fast…”

Alicent sat beside him, taking his hand in hers.

“A minor incident, my love,” she replied with a reassuring smile. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

Viserys frowned, struggling against the fog that seemed to envelop his mind.

“Incident? I heard shouting… I saw… I saw swords.”

Otto approached.

“Your Grace, Lord Humfrey Bracken behaved… inappropriately,” he explained respectfully. “His nephew, Ser Olyver Bracken, suffered an accident during the joust. An unfortunate blow…”

Viserys blinked, trying to process the information.

“Accident? What accident?”

“His lance… struck the boy's helmet,” Otto responded, carefully choosing his words. “The blow was… fatal.”

The reality of what had happened began to penetrate Viserysʼs fog of confusion.

“Dead… Heʼs dead?”

Otto nodded gravely.

“Yes, Your Grace. An unfortunate accident.”

Viserys closed his eyes, feeling the weight of guilt crush his chest.

A young knight had died in his tournament, under his watch. How could he call himself king if he couldnʼt protect even the participants of a simple tournament?

“And what happened next?” he asked in a trembling voice, though part of him didnʼt want to know the answer.

“Lord Humfrey, blinded by grief, tried to attack the prince,” Otto responded with studied calm. “But the Kingsguard intervened in time, and we managed to control the situation.”

“Attack… Aegon…?” Viserys frowned, a spark of indignation showing in his tired eyes. Despite his doubts and fears, Aegon was still his son.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Otto confirmed, carefully stoking his anger. “Lord Bracken behaved… intolerably. He defied your authority, the law of the realm. He insulted your son, your house.”

Viserys felt anger rising within him, a familiar emotion he often used to mask his fear and insecurity.

“What… what should we do?” he asked, his voice trembling with indignation.

Otto leaned towards him, whispering in his ear as if sharing a state secret:

“Your Grace, Lord Bracken is a threat to the peace of the realm. His thirst for vengeance could spark a war. You must… act firmly, show everyone that you will not tolerate insubordination.”

Viserys, his mind clouded by pain and manipulation, nodded weakly.

“Yes… yes, youʼre right. We canʼt… allow them… to challenge us.”

Otto smiled, an expression that didnʼt reach his eyes.

“Your Grace, order the arrest of Lord Humfrey Bracken and his men,” he suggested in a soft but relentless voice. “Lock them in the dungeons until they calm down and recognize their mistake.”

Viserys, unable to think clearly, nodded again.

Part of him knew that decision was hasty, that he should consider the consequences, listen to both sides. But that part was buried under layers of pain, fear, and the desire to please those he trusted.

“Yes… do it. Locked up until they retract… let no one… no one dare challenge… the crown.”

Otto stroked his Hand of the King insignia.

“Your wish is my command, Your Grace.”

Chapter 31: The Flowers of Deceit

Rhaena

Year 130 after the conquest​

The sun crashed against the cobblestones of the square, an unrelenting hammer that crushed joy and made even the statues sweat. Rhaena lowered her gaze and focused on the long row of white flowers lining the path: lilies, she thought, though she wasnʼt entirely sure.

Flowers of the dead. A sweet and heavy aroma floated in the air, mixing with the stench of horses and commoners.

There were people, many people, crowded on either side of the path. Sweaty, expectant faces watched her with curious eyes as she walked slowly towards the sept. Smiling maidens and ladies with fans, dressed in colorful silks with their hair adorned with flowers and precious stones. Portly merchants in their finest clothes, feeble nobles in their best attire, children with their mouths open. They looked, whispered, pointed fingers. Some smiled at her, others lowered their gaze instantly. Her grandfather, beside her, didnʼt seem to notice them.

“Keep your head high, Rhaena,” he whispered, barely moving his lips under his long white beard. “Smile and greet. They are the people, and one day you will be their queen.”

Rhaena forced herself to smile. She found no joy in smiling at these strangers. She didnʼt know them, and they didnʼt know her.

Why should she care about them? They only looked at her because she was a princess.

Her dress, a blue fabric with silver inlays that weighed more than armor, tightened her chest, making it hard to breathe freely. The embroidery, flowers, and interwoven dragons scratched her skin with their gold threads. The white silk shoes, designed to inspire admiration and envy, painfully rubbed her heels. And the tiara, a golden band studded with precious stones, squeezed her forehead like the claws of a crab.

Rhaena wondered if all these things served any purpose other than to cause her pain and discomfort.

Smile and greet. One day you will be their queen.

Her grandfatherʼs words echoed in her mind, like the echo of a promise and a threat at the same time.

She didnʼt want to be queen. She didnʼt want to rule over anyone. She would rather be in Driftmark, at home, far from that sea of people and the relentless sun. By the sea. With her grandmother. Dreaming and flying with dragons.

But fate, capricious and cruel, laughed at her dreams and dragged her towards a future she hadnʼt chosen. Less than a day had passed since the events of Aegonʼs tournament, the ʼaccidentalʼ death of young Bracken, and Lord Humfreyʼs disgraceful conduct. And the kingʼs response, or rather, the Hand of the Kingʼs response, had been as swift as it was forceful: the arrest of Lord Bracken and all his men. A display of strength and authority.

“King Viserys is no longer the same,” her grandmother had whispered after receiving the news. “Something has changed in him. He no longer dares to contradict Queen Alicent or Otto Hightower. Itʼs as if theyʼve… replaced his soul.”

Despite the lessons from the maester and the queen, Rhaena didnʼt understand much about politics or power games, but she had noticed a change in the kingʼs demeanor. Viserys, once cordial and affable, now seemed cold and distant. His eyes, always darkened by a veil of sadness, seemed to seek answers in a place only he could see. His voice, once firm and powerful, had become a faint murmur. And his body, once vigorous, now bent under the weight of the crown.

It was as if the illness consuming him was also devouring his spirit.

Rhaena had noticed a similar sadness in Aegonʼs eyes, her betrothed. Or what was supposed to be her betrothed. The prince, with his angular face and defiant gaze, bore a strong resemblance to the portraits of the Conqueror hanging on the walls of the Red Keep. He was tall and muscular, with a presence that commanded respect. And despite winning the tournament, a shadow of melancholy hung over him.

She wasnʼt exactly thrilled either.

The news that the wedding was being moved up didnʼt surprise her. She expected it. She imagined it. Since Queen Alicent had taken her under her wing, her life had been a series of preparations for an event that brought her no joy. Dresses, jewels, lessons in protocol and etiquette, religious ceremonies… all aimed at making her the ideal wife for a man she barely knew despite seeing him every day.

And although Aegon had been kind to her, even amusing at times, Rhaena couldnʼt help but feel a knot in her throat every time she saw him. His gaze, lost in the distance, made her think of the men she saw in the harbor: men who had seen too much death and too much darkness.Men who had lost their joy. Men who would never return.

The sept doors opened with a resonant creak that silenced the crowd. The interior, plunged into a cool gloom perfumed by incense, was a balm for the senses. Rhaena blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the new environment.

The stained-glass windows adorning the high windows filtered the sunlight, creating a mosaic of reddish, bluish, and greenish tones. In the central nave, a long row of white candles flanked the path to the altar.

Her grandfather offered his arm, and she accepted.

A father was supposed to walk his daughter to the altar, but Daemon was too busy gritting his teeth, glaring at anyone who dared cross his path. Rhaena was sure he had been offered, that King Viserys himself had tried to convince him to fulfill his paternal duty. But Daemonʼs pride, that fierce and stubborn pride that characterized him, must have prevented it.

He had always been against this marriage. From the moment the engagement was announced, Daemon had publicly voiced his disapproval. He had argued, threatened, even pleaded with the king to reconsider the union. To him, his precious daughter deserved better than a mere son of a Hightower, no matter how noble his lineage. In his mind, only another Targaryen of pure blood was worthy of marrying her.

Now, seeing her father so close and yet so distant, Rhaena felt a pang of pain in her chest.

Despite everything, despite his volatile temper and questionable decisions, Daemon was her father. A part of her longed for his approval, his blessing on this important day. Something to say, “Iʼm here. Despite everything, Iʼm proud of you.” Something to ease the weight she felt in her chest, to calm the nerves that made her hands tremble.

Rhaena couldnʼt help but let her eyes linger once more on her fatherʼs tense figure. For a moment, their gazes met across the sea of guests. Rhaenaʼs heart skipped a beat, hoping against all hope to see a change in Daemonʼs expression, a glimpse of paternal pride, a fleeting smile, anything.

For an instant, she thought she saw a softness in her fatherʼs eyes, a slight relaxation in the tension of his shoulders.

Was he about to relent, to show some sign of approval?

But as quickly as it appeared, the moment vanished. Daemon looked away, his face returning to its mask of cold indifference. Rhaena felt something break inside her, a hope she didnʼt even know she harbored.

“Everything will be fine,” she told herself, trying to convince herself. “With or without his approval, everything will be fine.” But the words sounded hollow even in her own mind.

“Smile, Rhaena,” her grandfather whispered again. “Smile. Itʼs the most important day of your life.”

Rhaena, disgusted, forced herself to smile.

The bards began to play a solemn melody that filled the sept, resonating in the arches and vaults of the ceiling. Rhaena walked, following the rhythm of the music, fixing her gaze on the long row of white candles while the music pounded in her ears like an army of little drums.

On either side extended the benches where people sat: nobles and courtiers dressed in their finest, knights and ladies in their most colorful garments. The men were bareheaded, the women wore their best jewels and most extravagant headpieces. There were also members of the faith, clad in their white and gold robes. Their faces conveyed a mix of respect and curiosity, longing and fascination. Everyone watched her intently. Everyone awaited the arrival of the future wife of Prince Aegon Targaryen.

Rhaena, however, looked at no one.

She felt like just another piece in a chess game, moved by forces she didnʼt control. A puppet forced to dance to the music. A lamb led to slaughter.

Upon reaching the altar, she stopped and turned. There was Aegon, waiting for her in a black and red robe trimmed with gold threads. His face, illuminated by the beams of light filtering through a stained-glass window, was a mask of solemnity.

Rhaena felt a lump in her throat, a chill down her spine, and an impulse to run away overwhelmed her. But her grandfatherʼs hand held her more firmly, forcing her to stay.

The septon began to recite the prayers. Rhaena barely understood the words, only perceiving the murmur of his voice. Aegon stood beside her, as still and silent as a statue, but she could feel the tension in his body, the slight tremor of his hands. Their eyes met for an instant. Rhaena saw in his eyes a reflection of the sadness that consumed his soul, and for a moment, she felt compassion for him.

The septon asked them to exchange their vows, and Rhaena repeated the words without conviction. Aegonʼs voice, however, was strong and clear.

“I, Aegon Targaryen, take you, Rhaena Targaryen, as my wife, to love and honor you, in wealth and poverty, in sickness and in health…” He paused for a moment, as if hesitating, then with a determination that surprised Rhaena, he continued, “… until death do us part.”

The ceremony continued. The Valyrian blood was exchanged. The blessings were pronounced. And finally, the septon declared them husband and wife.

The crowd erupted in applause. The bardsʼ music resumed with greater force. And amidst all that clamor, Rhaena felt her soul slowly fading.

​Seconds passed, then minutes, and finally hours. Rhaena sat beside Aegon at the head table, elevated on a platform so that all present could admire the new couple. Aegon barely spoke to her. He limited himself to smiling and distractedly greeting the guests who came to congratulate them. His gaze, lost in the distance, reflected neither the joy nor enthusiasm typical of a newlywed. Rhaena felt his coldness like an invisible wall.

The banquet proceeded, dish after dish, toast after toast, conversation after conversation. The food was exquisite, the wines exceptional, the company unbearable. Rhaena felt trapped in a farce, forced to play a role that did not suit her. A future queen of lies in a kingdom of appearances.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaena saw Lord Corlys, her grandfather, conversing animatedly with Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. She wondered what they were plotting. Her grandmother, Rhaenys, stood somewhat apart, observing the scene with an inscrutable expression. In her eyes, Rhaena saw neither the joy nor pride one would expect from a grandmother on her granddaughterʼs wedding Day. Rather, what Rhaena sensed in her eyes was deep concern.

Suddenly, the music stopped and the hubbub died down. Viserys, the king, stood up with difficulty, leaning on the arm of Grand Maester Orwyle.

“Ladies and lords,” Viserys announced with a weak but emotional voice, “before continuing with this magnificent celebration, I have an announcement to make. An announcement that will undoubtedly fill you with joy, as it has filled me.”

Orwyle smiled, pleased with the anticipation his words had generated.

“As you all know, tonight we celebrate the union of two great houses: the Targaryens and the Velaryons,” said the Grand Maester, taking the floor. “A union that strengthens the dynasty and secures the future of the realm. But tonight, we also have… another special guest. A guest who, in times past, made a mistake. A mistake we all regret. But a mistake that, in his infinite mercy, Your Grace the King has decided to forgive.”

The maester paused, as if searching for the right words. His eyes briefly rested on Otto Hightower, who returned his gaze with approval. Then, he turned towards the great doors of the hall.

“Lord Humfrey Bracken, you have permission to enter.”

A murmur of surprise rippled through the hall. Queen Alicent straightened in her seat, her eyes shining with curiosity. Rhaena felt a shiver as she recalled the events of the tournament. Lord Bracken, the man who had defied the crown, who had dared to call Aegon a “murderer,” who had unleashed chaos.

What was he doing there, at her wedding? What did he intend?

The doors creaked open, and Lord Bracken entered the hall. He was not chained nor dressed in rags. What Rhaena saw was a man impeccably dressed in a dark tunic trimmed with silver. He was accompanied by Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, in his gleaming white armor.

Lord Bracken walked slowly towards them. His eyes, red and tired, sought the kingʼs face. Upon reaching Viserys, he knelt and bowed his head.

“Your Grace,” murmured Lord Bracken in a hoarse voice, “I come before you to implore your forgiveness. I have acted wrongly. I have let anger and pain blind me. I am but a fool, and I regret my actions.”

Rhaena watched Lord Bracken closely, looking for any sign of falsehood in his face. But all she saw was the bitterness of a defeated man. His words, however, sounded empty and insincere. A mere performance to save his skin. Rhaena knew his heart still burned with a thirst for vengeance.

But Viserys, moved, leaned towards him.

“Rise, Lord Bracken,” said Viserys with a smile. “In my heart, there is no room for resentment. We all make mistakes. What matters is recognizing them and learning from them. I forgive you.”

Lord Bracken stood up slowly, his face still haggard.

“I thank you for your clemency, Your Grace. I do not deserve it.”

“Nonsense,” responded Viserys jovially. “These are difficult times, and we must stand united.”

The entire hall erupted in applause, an ovation that drowned out Lord Brackenʼs words, forcing him to bow.

Rhaena, however, did not applaud. She did not believe in that manʼs sincerity. She knew that a wolf, no matter how much it dressed in sheepʼs clothing, never ceased to be a wolf.

A tense silence fell over the hall after the ovation. Lord Bracken, still standing before them, licked his lips nervously. His gaze, full of barely concealed resentment, briefly rested on Aegon, then shifted to the crowd. Rhaena, watching him closely, saw his hand clench into a fist.

Viserys, oblivious to the tension, smiled with satisfaction.

“Well, well,” murmured the king jovially. “Now that peace has been restored, we can continue the celebration. Bring the food!”

Rhaena forced a smile, trying to appear as if she shared the kingʼs joy. Suddenly, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, coughed loudly. The dry, harsh noise silenced the room again. Rhaena, observing him closely, noticed that he leaned in and whispered something to Viserys.

The king, who was about to lift a wine cup to his lips, set it down and frowned.

“What?” murmured Viserys.

Otto Hightower repeated his words in a louder tone.

“It is the opportune moment, Your Grace.”

Viserys nodded slowly, as if just comprehending something.

“Yes, yes, youʼre right,” responded the king, then, with a firmer tone, addressed Aegon, who sat with his gaze lost in the distance. “Aegon, my son, come here.”

Aegon, surprised, looked up.

“Father, did you call me?” he asked, his voice uncertain.

“Yes, Aegon. Come here.”

Aegon stood up and approached his father, stopping beside him. Viserys patted his arm affectionately. In that gesture, Rhaena saw something that made her shiver. A shadow of pride and ambition that did not match the kingʼs frailty.

Otto Hightower cleared his throat.

“Bring it!” he ordered loudly.

Two servants entered the hall, carefully carrying a long dark wooden box lined with red velvet. Rhaena, intrigued, watched it approach. The box was of considerable size and seemed heavy, judging by the effort the servants made in carrying it.

Upon reaching the head table, the servants knelt and gently set the box down. The silence was absolute. Rhaena could hear her own heartbeat.

With a gesture, Otto Hightower opened the box. Inside, resting on a bed of red velvet, lay a sword, but not just any sword. Rhaena recognized it instantly.

It was Blackfyre, the Conquerorʼs sword.

“Aegon,” said Viserys, his voice sounding stronger than before, “you have proven your worth as a warrior. You have defeated all your opponents in the tournament. And now, the time has come for Blackfyre to shine again.”

The king took the sword and handed it to Aegon.

“My son, I bestow this sword upon you as a symbol of my trust and pride. Use it with wisdom and honor.”

Aegon accepted the sword with trembling hands. His eyes, for a moment, shone with an intensity Rhaena had not seen before. It was as if the possession of that sword had awakened something in him, a dormant power now beginning to manifest.

Rhaena observed the scene with a mixture of fear and fascination. Blackfyre. The Conquerorʼs sword. A legendary weapon that had forged an empire. A weapon now in the hands of Aegon, the son who so resembled his ancestor.

What would that mean for her? For her future? For the future of the realm?

The crowd erupted in another ovation, a torrent of cheers that filled the hall. Aegon, with the sword held high, greeted his subjects with a proud smile. Rhaena, however, remained silent, her heart as cold as the steel of Blackfyre.

​The celebration continued, though Rhaena could not clearly recall the details. She drank wine. Sampled some delicacies. Gave evasive responses to the guestsʼ congratulations. But it all felt like a dream, a farce. In her mind, there was only one image: Aegon, with Blackfyre held high, greeting the crowd.

Later, in her chambers, Rhaena removed her heavy bridal gown with a sigh of relief. She approached the window and looked at the city stretching out beneath a blanket of stars. The night was cold, and the wind howled fiercely.

Rhaena hugged herself, seeking warmth in vain. Her body trembled, but it was her soul that felt the coldest.

As she stared into the darkness, her grandmother Rhaenysʼs words echoed in her mind. Hours before the wedding, the Queen Who Never Was had called her to her chambers for a private conversation.

“Rhaena, dear,” Rhaenys had said, her eyes filled with a mix of compassion and sternness. “We must talk about your wedding night.”

Rhaena remembered feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment, but Rhaenys continued unfazed.

“Your husband… he may be gentle or he may not. Men are unpredictable creatures in the marriage bed, especially with wine running through their veins. Some are tender, others… not so much.”

Her grandmotherʼs voice had softened then.

“If he is gentle, be grateful. If he is not… endure it. Remember who you are. You are dragonʼs blood. You can withstand pain, fear, humiliation if necessary. And in time, you will learn to take control.”

Rhaena shuddered at the memory.

Would her husband be gentle? Or would she have to “endure it,” as Rhaenys had said? Queen Alicent had sworn she had spoken to Aegon and that he would be gentle, but the uncertainty tormented her.

A knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. It was time. Her husband was going to claim his marital rights. Rhaena closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and prepared to face whatever came.

“I am dragonʼs blood,” she repeated to herself. “I can endure this. I can endure anything.”

With one last look at the sleeping city, Rhaena turned to face her fate.

Gentle or not, she would survive this night. And all the ones that followed. Because she was a Targaryen, and Targaryens do not break easily.

The door slowly opened, revealing the imposing and handsome figure of Aegon Targaryen. The young prince entered the room with measured steps. The candlelight danced on his silver hair, creating the illusion of a crown of fire around his head.

Rhaena held her breath as Aegon closed the door behind him. For a moment, neither spoke. Rhaena felt her heart beating so hard she feared Aegon might hear it. Finally, gathering all her courage, she broke the silence with a voice that sounded firmer than she felt:

“Husband.”

The word hung in the air between them. It was the first time she called him that, and the reality of her new situation seemed to hit them both with renewed force.

Aegon did not respond immediately. His eyes roamed the room: the bed, the bridal gown tossed over a chair, the jewelry scattered on a table. Rhaena felt naked under his gaze, vulnerable, exposed.

The prince lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if seeking answers in the shadows. Rhaena couldnʼt help but shiver.

What was he thinking? What was going through his mind?

“I will not hurt you,” Aegon said finally, his voice so low Rhaena barely heard it.

The words surprised her.

Rhaena had been preparing for brutality, for pain, for humiliation. Her grandmotherʼs words echoed in her mind: “Endure.” But Aegon was promising something different. Could it be true?

“You will not hurt me?” Rhaena repeated, unable to fully dispel the shadow of doubt that gripped her.

Aegon lowered his gaze and fixed it on her. His eyes traveled from head to toe, as if assessing, weighing, measuring her. Then, he slowly moved toward her. He stopped in front of Rhaena and, with a hesitant gesture, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Rhaena held her breath at the touch of his fingers.

They were rough, calloused. The hands of a warrior.

“You are very beautiful,” Aegon said, his voice barely a whisper.

Rhaena was surprised again.

She did not expect compliments. Not from him.

Aegon leaned in and kissed her. His lips were soft, warm. Rhaena closed her eyes and let herself be carried away by the sensation.

It was a kiss unlike any she had imagined. It was not a possessive kiss, nor a brutal one. It was a kiss… sad. A kiss that sought solace in the midst of the storm.

They parted slowly, their gazes still intertwined.

“Come,” Aegon said, and then, taking her hand, he led her to the bed.

Rhaena followed without a word. Her body trembled, but it was no longer from fear. It was a new sensation, a mixture of anticipation and curiosity, of hope and resignation.

She did not regret it. But neither could she say she was happy. What she felt was a strange mix of relief and unease, of satisfaction and emptiness. She was ceasing to be a girl. She had crossed the threshold into adulthood. And the price was her innocence.

She was no longer a dreaming girl, but a future queen, and for the rest of that night, the future queen did not sleep.