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Chapter Text

The convoy of ships was making good time on the high seas. They had departed from Astapor that morning and now it was close to the midnight hour with their ships sailing along the east of the Doom, far from the cursed mists. 

They had made good time by sailing down the western coast of the Isle of Cedars, rather than taking the longer route past the island's eastern coastline. 

It was an old sailor’s myth, that any who sailed from Slaver’s Bay to the Gulf of Grief should pass the Isle of Cedar on its eastern coast lest they tempt the Doom to bring calamity down upon them.

The evening was quiet and the winds were fair, but Captain Azmar was not in good spirits, not with the morale of his crew.  

They were stiff, quiet and those whose faces Azmar caught in the light of the lanterns around the ship he noticed to be in glower spirits. 

On their last voyage, they carried cargo from Astapor to Qarth, the crew was merry in the evenings, singing sea shanties with the crews on the other ships but not on this voyage. 

All the ships in their convoy were in a miserable and timid state.

It was no mystery why but that did not mean Azmar was happy about it.

The Captain stood at the quarterdeck near the helm and looked over the railing.

Among the quiet and sullen sailors, Azmar spotted his first mate, Rikin, who was making his rounds on the deck, checking on the quiet and sombre crewmen as they tended to their duties. 

“Rikin!” the captain called out, summoning the first mate to the quarterdeck.

Rikin left the side of the sailor he was checking on and climbed the steps, joining Azmar’s side.

“Is all well, Captain?” Rikin asked.

Azmar snorted in his reply

“Hardly. Look at them. As timid as nursemaids. How many voyages have we sailed? I’ve lost count. Yet now I look around and my hardy band of sailors seem as though they were in a graveyard rather than a ship's deck. What’s become of them?” the Captain grunted as he looked at the shy and pathetic sailors whom he knew to be normally such a jovial and motley string of mariners. 

Rikin looked to the Captain and sighed, a nervous look painted upon his face either sharing in the crew's anxieties or worried about speaking to the captain about the matter or maybe even a little of both.

“It is a… a matter the crew does not feel comfortable speaking of, Captain,” Rikin explained, trying in vain to keep the matter from going any further, lest Azmar be roused to anger, but Azmar already knew what the answer was and wished to hear it said aloud.

“And as first mate is it not your duty to know the thoughts of the crew? Speak plainly then, man,” he commanded, compelling Rikin to words.

Rikin shut his eyes and huffed before speaking.

“Many of the crew are… uneasy, sailing so close to the Doom,” Rikin admitted.

Azmar leaned over the railing as he allowed his frustration to fester in his mind before erecting himself and looking at his first mate. 

“Look out the starboard, Rikin. What do you see out there beyond our convoy?” Azmar asked. 

Rikin’s eyes lingered upon Azmar for a moment, seeming to wonder if his request was a trick or not. Eventually, Rikin swivelled his head and looked outwards over the sea past the other ships that sailed with them.

“Nothing. Just the darkness,” Rikin finally replied as he looked out to the night.

“Exactly. Not even the mists of the Valyria are in our sights. We are leagues from the Doom and yet you and the crew soil your breaches for even sailing the Gulf of Grief?” Azmar reprimanded, bringing a shamed look upon Rikin.

“Since I was a cabin boy, the rule always was to keep the mists of Valyria no closer than your horizon and the curse will not trouble you. We’ve sailed between the Free Cities and Slaver’s Bay many times and the curse of Valyria has never bothered us,” Azmar asserted.

Rikin shook his head.

“But that was before—”

“Before? Before what?” Azmar asked, losing patience. 

Rikin seemed to almost choke on his words in hesitation before speaking. 

“Before the Lost Empress and her Doomed Fleet,” the First Mate finally said.

Azmar threw his head back in exhaustion and disbelief that even Rikin who had often been the voice of reason to Azmar’s bluster was caught up in the fresh fairytales of sea curses.

Azmar was no fool, he knew better than to tread too closely to the Doom, but he did not abide by the fresh superstitions that had clouded the minds of sailors in recent years. 

Some years ago, the dragon king Viserys of Westeros passed and was naturally succeeded by his son even though the king had promised his throne of swords to his daughter for some lunacy. 

When the Princess Rhaenyra was denied the crown, she gathered up all those loyal to her and all her dragons and fled Westeros, sailing east towards the Doom, claiming prophetic dreams guided her. The Mad Empress gathered some hundred thousand fools and led them all to their deaths, as many other failed explorers and conquerors had done.

Since then, the number of ships that perished on the sea lanes that bordered the Doom had grown. The number of trade ship convoys that went missing on the route that circled Valyria grew so great that for a time, the Masters of Slaver’s Bay and Volantis began using the old roads near the painted mountains, but the raids from the Dothraki and crossing past the city of abominations made the sea route more preferable even if it had become more perilous. 

Everyone knew that the sea storms and probably pirates claimed the ships that went missing, but superstitions among sailors led to new wives' tales attributing the lost ships to the perished Targaryen fleet.

Some said that the Doom was a conscious curse like a demon or an evil god and that when the Doom swallowed Rhaenyra Targaryen and her fleet it awoke the curse like a sleeping dragon and now the Doom stretched out beyond Valyria to gobble up ships that neared its borders. 

Others said that the ghosts of Rhaenyra and her ships and dragons roamed the smoking sea and sought misery and torment upon other ships that neared them. 

Drivel, all of it. That was what Azmar had to say about such things. 

Sea storms often swirled near the Doom and ships had gone missing on those trade routes since the Doom of Valyria over two hundred years ago, nothing had changed, just a string of unlucky vessels over the past few years fanned into a ghost story by fools and mummers. 

Those damnable stories had turned the crews of the five cargo ships into wet fish, too scared to sail the routes they had ventured so many times before over their lives. 

Even some of the other captains wished to take the long route to Volantis but were outvoted three to two. 

With a bonus promised by the Volantene flesh merchants, if their cargo could be delivered swiftly, the promise of coin outweighed the sway of ghost stories.

Around the same time, the new myth about the Fool Empress began to rouse the slave trade and the Free Cities began to grow in demand. Partly due to the number of slave ships that went missing on the seas and the slave caravans looted by the Dothraki on the old roads near the painted mountains, but more importantly because of the developments in the west.

Before the Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon, perished in the Doom alongside his Mad Empress, he won a second war in the Stepstones, securing it for Princess Rhaenyra but gave up the islands when he followed her east.

After that, the Triarchy tried to reclaim the islands but was challenged by King Aegon’s two brothers, Aemond One-eye and Daeron the Daring, who pincered the Triarchy with their fleets and dragons and reclaimed the islands. 

The War of Brothers and Daughters it was now called by the singers, referring to the two Targaryen brothers and the Triarchy cities called the Three Daughters, a stupid name for a war. 

Regardless of the silly name, that was the war that finally broke the Triarchy as they pointed fingers at one another and turned to infighting. The three cities of Myr, Tyrosh and Lys then quickly devolved back into old habits, fighting over the disputed lands and fighting over which one got to fight for the Stepstones again.

That was why the slave trade had gone up in recent years, unpaid labour in times of war and fresh Unsullied slave soldiers. Azmar and the other captains would offload their cargo of slaves all huddled together below decks in chains and the Volantene would then resell them to buyers from the Free Cities. 

Azmar quietly laughed to himself as he thought of the former triarchy cities still warring amongst themselves when an opportunity to finally claim the Stepstones had floated over their heads a year past.

Everyone knew about the Winter Fever that had struck the Seven Kingdoms, an illness that ran rampant through the lands of the Targaryens and their Andal vassals only a few short years after the Mad Empress’s tragedy.

The disease had run its course and dissipated now, but not before thousands had been killed over the previous year. 

Had the Triarchy held together just a little longer, the Triarchy could have claimed the Stesptones while half the Seven Kingdoms were weak and sickly. 

Some said that the sickness was a curse upon Aegon for usurping his sister’s throne while others said that the Mad Empress Rhaenyra had found some form of evil spirit or devil in the Doom of Valyria and made a pact to curse Westeros in exchange for bearing the devil an evil child and that Rhaenyra’s followers still lived in the lands of Valyria as demons twisted and perverted by the Doom.

All of it was drivel. The sickness was a sickness, not everything was magic or a curse from the gods and Azmar had been around and seen enough of the world to know such things. 

“Well, whatever imaginary dangers the crew has been rendered paralysed by, make sure they understand that I still command this ship and unless they want to join the cargo below deck with fetters around their ankles, then they best follow orders, is that clear?” Azmar asked authority. 

“Yes, Captain,” Rikin replied, speaking with his back straight and his chest out. 

Rikin was then dismissed and returned to his duties on the ship.

Azmar stayed on deck for another hour yet, positioned beside the helmsman at the wheel as he looked over the crew, still quiet and sullen but at least more focused on their duties instead of dawdling like frightened children, now that Rikin had set them straight. 

With the night calm and the winds being favourable, Azmar decided to go down below for some rest. 

As Captain Azmar descended down the steps to the deck beneath, he headed for the Captain’s Cabin. 

As he walked through the small tight wooden corridor of the ship, he caught the sound of jingling metal in his ear, muffled by the floorboards beneath his feet and in time with the rocking of the ship over the tides. 

The sound of thousands of shackles on the wrists and ankles of Captain Azmar’s cargo, en route to Volantis to be divided up into labourers, Unsullied soldiers and sex slaves and carted off from there to the other Free Cities or sold to the highest bidder. 

Thousands more just like them were all clustered together on the other four ships of their fleet, tightly packed in a stinky sweaty hold as they whimpered and prayed to their gods for help.

Azmar thought nothing of it. Life was a gamble and to be born vulnerable and easily taken was to be dealt a bad hand and those slaves had no one to blame but their mama’s who released them into such a world that would be so cruel to them. 

Azmar on the other hand was dealt a good hand and had used it well and chosen good odds to gamble against. Even this journey he was on was a gamble. 

He could happen upon a storm, he could be caught by pirates, his superstitious crew could mutiny against him or their so-called ghosts could come after them or even something as simple as a leak and they could end up at the bottom of the ocean. 

But all were necessary risks to get ahead in life and when he slid into port in Volantis and offloaded the stinking sweaty lumps of living meat for the flesh markets to make a profit out of, Azmar and his crew would be handsomely paid for their journey.

At last, Azmar arrived at his quarters and entered his cabin. 

He uncorked a good bottle of wine and drank it straight, finding it easier to unwind and drift to sleep with the sway of the tides when he had a few good gulps of red in him.

Azmar then pulled his boots off, hung his coat over the spine of a chair at the desk in his cabin and crawled into his bed.

The Captain then closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift with the tides' sway against the ship's hull. 

Azmar nodded off, but how long it lasted he could not be sure. Perhaps a minute or perhaps an hour but one thing he was sure of was that he awoke when it was still in the middle of the night, being shaken awake by a crewman. 

“Captain. Captain,” he repeated as he shook Azmar’s shoulder.

“What is it,” Azmar snapped as he shoved the crewman’s arm away and got up from his bed.

“Rikin requests your presence on deck. There is a storm ahead of us and lights have been spotted off the starboard, we suspect from ships, sir,” the crewman explained.

Starboard? Captain Azmar thought. 

When travelling from Slaver’s Bay to Volantis and circling the Doom, starboard was the face of the ship that overlooked the Doom, but the lights of a ship couldn't come from that direction for nothing ever emerged from the mists beyond Valyria.

Azmar had half a mind to slap the crewman around and scold him for wasting his time but the words of a storm being sighted in their path greatly concerned Azmar as he put his boots on and collected his coat.

The captain and the crewmen then left the cabin and made long strides through the narrow corridor of the ship until they reached the stairs out to the top deck.

As Azmar climbed the steps out of the hold, his footing slipped and he nearly fell over, the effects of the red wine finally catching up with him. 

The falter only made him angrier, knowing that the crewman was behind him and saw his failing. 

He grunted and gritted his teeth as he climbed out of the hold and made his way to the quarterdeck where Rikin was standing. 

“Where is it?” Azmar asked, joining Rikin’s side. 

“ It , captain?” Rikin repeated, seeming to require clarification on what it Azmar was looking for.

“The Storm, you fool!” Azmar snapped.

Rikin was frantic and hesitant as he tried to answer but his unconfident stuttering was inane. As the first mate saw the impatience grow in the Captain’s eyes he simply resolved to point to the storm. 

Dark clouds in the distance cut off the stars and moonlight, flashes of light followed by the delayed rumble of far-off thunder.

Azmar grimaced as he looked at the storm. The refreshed superstitions about the Doom that swayed sailors to give a wider birth to the route around Valyria were also what enticed the slave mongers to pay more for their deliveries if ships were willing to take the shorter route through the old shipping lanes and deliver their cargo on time.

Feeling the wind on his face blowing from the west, the storm ahead seemed like it might add an egregious amount of time to their voyage as they would not be able to sail around it from the port side without the storm overtaking them. 

The only options that Azmar had were to sail through the storm or to sail around it by steering the ship starboard as the wind carried the storm eastward.

“Rikin, have the helmsman bring us towards starboard and signal the other ships to do the same,” Azmar commanded.

“Sir!” Rikin said with shock.

“Come now, Rikin. The mists of Valyria are still a little ways off, we can afford to get closer,” Azmar asserted.

“But Captain. We saw lights off the starboard bow. There are ships out there,” Rikin protested.

“Enough of this nonsense. No ships could be coming from the west. The Doom is west and nothing else is there. The next man aboard this ship to pester me with superstitions such as these will be cast overboard and into the Sea! Is the Captain heard?” Azmar snapped aloud.

Yes, Captain, the crew responded together.

Rikin then blew the horn, signalling the other ships to adjust their heading and the helmsman turned the ship’s wheel a few notches to correct their course. 

Azmar then leaned his hands over the railing and watched as the five ships sailed onwards, deciding not to return to his bed until he was sure that his lackwit crew could be trusted to continue on towards Volantis without fearing ghosts. 

With the storm still a fair distance ahead of them, the First Mate called to the Captain’s attention with worry in his voice.

“Captain look there!” Rikin yelped. 

Azmar looked out past Rikin who was pointing out over the dark sea beyond their starboard bow, but the Captain could see nothing but darkness. 

“What is it, man? More of your mystery lights. They’re probably just our own lantern lights reflecting off the glint of the sea,” Azmar declared dismissively. 

“I swear I saw something move out there,” Rikin declared. 

“This again? I swear Rikin you are testing my—”

At that moment a sound carried on the wind interrupted Azmar’s scolding.

A strange sound that was raspy, deep and echoey like a rockslide in a gorge but at the same time it also sounded like… like an animal’s roar.

A strong gust of wind, or a muffled echo of thunder from the storm, Azmar thought, desperate to think of a logical explanation for the noise they had heard.

“What was that?” the helmsman asked.

Azmar looked out over the darkness, hesitating to answer his sailor.

“N-Nothing,” Azmar said dismissively, yet unconfident in his assertion. 

Just then, the sound rang out again, the strange eerie howl of some kind of creature in the skies above. 

Azmar and the rest of the crew began to gawk into the heavens above trying to discern the origin of the sound they had heard.

As his eyes looked out into the night sky he caught a shape in the dark that moved over the stars and the moon, a black-winged creature like a bat flapping and growing bigger, getting closer.

An orange light like a candle flame then started to grow in the shadow and Azmar’s eyes widened with horror as his heart sunk to the deepest pits of his stomach. There was no denying what his eyes were beholding and before Azmar could even react he heard one of his crewmen cry out “DRAGON!”

The orange candle flame in the dark sky then grew to a roaring inferno as a dragon swooped over the ship and set their sails aflame with its burning breath.

It was Rikin who tackled Azmar to the ground as they took cover from the dragon’s burning breath as it swooped over them and disappeared into the dark again. 

As the two staggered to their feet trying to see where the dragon had gone, their ears drew their attention right around to look upon another ship in their convoy as another dragon set its sails ablaze. 

Two dragons , Azmar thought in horror. 

The second dragon did the same as its companion, burning the sails and disappearing into the dark as the first dragon reemerged and burned the sails of another ship in the convoy and the pair continued the routine until all five ships had their sails ablaze. 

Then the ships fell victim to a second wave of alternating attacks as the two winged serpents lunged at the masts of the ships and knocked them over like uprooted trees, sending them falling into sea with the sound of the endless crackling of splintering wood. 

Their convoy of five slave ships was now demasted and left dead in the water while the crews could do nothing but take cover and shudder in fear as the dragons ravaged their sails.

Impossible , Azmar declared to himself, Impossible, as though his insistence on rejecting the reality would make it no longer the case, but such was folly. 

“Captain! Look!” Rikin shouted, pointing once again to the starboard of the ship. 

Not more dragons, Azmar begged in his own mind before hobbling to his feet. 

Sailing towards them out of the dark, illuminated by the small fires left on the decks of the ships was a fleet of strange warships bearing red sails marked with valyrian patterns and glyphs on the borders and a black triskelion bearing three dragon heads in its centre. 

While Azmar did not recognise the banner flown upon the sails of the ship, he recognised the design of the vessels themselves. 

Triremes, great double-masted warships similarly designed to galleys that were constructed during the time of the Freehold.

What nightmare had Azmar awoken into? What were these ghosts of the Freehold that had come out of the Doom to snatch their ships? 

Azmar was terrified and confused as his crewmen pestered him for orders while he could do nothing but stand completely petrified as he saw the warships begin boarding the slave ships with soldiers bearing square shields and spears like the legionnaires of the Freehold’s Dragon Legion boarding the vessels under Azmar’s command. 

The dragons swooped down into the fray and snatched Azmar’s mariners from the deck and dropped them into the sea as these valyrian ghosts came onto their ships and did battle with them. 

Azmar was still petrified and confused as another warship pulled alongside them and the grapple hooks began to pull the two ships together.

“Fight!” Azmar said at last as he saw these ghosts of valyria prepare to board. 

“Fight for your lives!” Azmar shouted as he drew his sabre from its sheath. 

Azmar looked around for Rikin wishing for him to rally the men to repel the attackers, but the first mate was nowhere to be seen. 

As the legionnaires started laying gangplanks down to board Azmar’s flagship, he saw a strange figure leading the attackers.

A giant with a hooked nose, a purple-dyed beard braided with colourful ribbons, a segmented breastplate over what looked to be a colourful woman’s silk dress, more jewellery on his fingers, forearms and hanging around his neck than Azmar had ever seen on one person and two broad axes in either hand. 

The giant roared like a madman as he ran across the gangplank and started hacking his way through Azmar’s men with his legionnaires following. 

Whoever this strange giant demon was, Azmar would slay him before he was pulled to whatever hell these spirits came from. Azmar raised his sword and readied to descend down the steps of the quarterdeck to join the fight, but at that moment he heard a crewman shout out for him and when Azmar turned, he saw the talons of a swooping dragon coming right at him.

The impact sent him flying from the quarterdeck and Azmar fell into the sea.

He could not move, his body felt numb as he sunk into the dark of the water, his mind began to fade as the darkness took him and Azmar was consumed by the cold and lifeless sea.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra and Daemon lay as still as they could in their bed, hiding beneath the white linen sheet they had pulled over their heads in an effort to conceal themselves.

The light of the morning sun shone through their chamber’s windows, illuminating them as they hid beneath the sheet. Rhaenyra could see her beloved in every detail, his long silver hair and full-trimmed beard and running down from his neck was the old burn wound that ran down the right side of his neck after taking a flaming arrow to his shoulder many years ago in the Stepstones. 

Between them they held their hands together, their valyrian steel dragon rings upon their fingers, Rhaenyra’s set with a red ruby and Daemon’s with a black sapphire. 

The Empress and her Emperor Consort, rulers of the hidden Empire of Valyria, wielders of Miliqelos and Anogarys, riders of Syrax and Caraxes, made to hide beneath the covers of their own bed as those who sought them lurked about their chamber.

They heard the voices and footsteps of those who sought them from down the hall and quickly pulled the sheet over their heads before they were set upon. 

As the Empress and Emperor held hands and remained still, they could hear their seekers skulking about their chamber, looking for them. 

“How long until they realise we’re here?” Daemon whispered as quietly as he possibly could, lest his voice expose them.

“Any second now. I fear we’re doomed,” Rhaenyra whispered back.

Daemon and Rhaenyra fought their giggles as they held their hands.

“Anogarys is hanging on the back of my chair by the hearth. If you distract them, I can reach it and fend them off,” Daemon whispered.

Rhaenyra knew him to be jesting but she squeezed his hand nonetheless, not approving of the joke. 

“Just a thought,” Daemon explained.

Just then Rhaenyra could feel something pressing against her legs over the covers of her bed. The feeling grew as more of the unseen creatures over the covers climbed onto her and Daemon’s bed and crawled towards them.

“It's too late,” Rhaenyra said, breaking her whispers as she began to laugh.

“We’re done for,” Daemon agreed as he smiled. 

The little creatures who had been hunting them finally reached them and pulled the sheet back from over their heads. 

Joff, Aegon, Gaemon, Viserys and Daenys all pulled back the sheet and roared playfully at their laughing parents. 

“We found you!” Viserys declared.

“Run Rhaenyra! I’ll get them!” Daemon declared jokingly as he scooped Joff, Aegon and Gaemon together and tickled them as they play-fought.

“Oh no! These two are all mine!” Rhaenyra added as she pulled Viserys and Daenys in and began rapidly kissing their cheeks as she held them close.

Daemon was able to hold ten-year-old Joff with one arm and the two eight-year-olds, Aegon and Gaemon with the other.

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra was able to hold six-year-old Viserys in one arm and three-year-old Daenys in the other. Rhaenyra’s precious girl, her greatest blessing since arriving in Valyria.

She carried the features of house Targaryen with beautiful silver hair and bright blue eyes. 

Her third nameday was a month ago and in her eyes was the innocence of all that the Empire held precious. She knew nothing of war, nor hardship, nor of being an outcast as the Targaryens after the Doom had been. All she knew was the Empire, yet even she was not yet old enough to understand it entirely. 

She was sweet and happy and she loved dragons, especially her own. 

A year and five months after her birth, her egg hatched in her crib bringing forth an Anne breed she-dragon with dark blue scales and magenta highlights and wing membranes.

They called the dragon Dreamlyte and Daenys loved her dearly.

Rhaenyra and Daemon tickled and played with the children until they were good and tired and then released them as they left the chamber with the nurses who had been watching over the children from the doorway and took them from the Emperor and Empress’s room.

That was the way it went most mornings, their youngest children would come racing into their chamber full of energy and wrestle around with them in their bed for a bit in their own chaotic manner of saying good morning and then race off to have breakfast. 

Rhaenyra lay back in her bed, staring at the canopy as she laughed and caught her breath, for as a wild and erratic a wakeup call it may have been she adored every morning they came racing into her chamber in such a manner. 

For Rhaenyra, it was a reminder of how blessed their lives had become in the time since they arrived upon the shores of Valyria three and a half years ago. 

Every morning that began with laughter and the bright sun shining down on their concealed golden age, hidden away from the world was a reminder of the splendour of what they had become and to be grateful for all they had gained.

Four years ago, when Rhaenyra’s father passed from the world and her half-brother usurped the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra felt nothing but a dark shadow cast over her, from which she felt she could not escape. Yet now, it was a distant memory from the past. 

“What good are our dragonknights if they cannot even guard us against rascal children when they come to our door,” Daemon japed as he sat up straight.

As usual, Daemon ever so quickly slunk back into his proud and stern guise, burying how much he enjoyed the children’s company behind a persona of indifference and strength. 

In truth, Daemon had somewhat mellowed with age over the past few years. He’d found contentment in the empire and enjoyed the luxuries of peace far more than he would ever admit. 

He had long since recanted his claims of detest towards Gaemon and now showed him the same fondness he did with their own Aegon and Viserys. When Rhaenyra pointed out Daemon’s change of heart, he would dance about it with excuses, saying he was grooming Gaemon as a dragon rider since he had hatched Iskar or that he only cared for Gaemon to spite his real father across the Narrow Sea.

Daemon had also been very present with his daughters and also with Rhaenyra’s boys. 

He spent much time with Rhaena, trying to compensate for the years he’d wasted neglecting her and he loved to adventure with Baela on dragonback across the peninsula. 

Jace was something of a protege to Daemon and Luke was often counseled with advice on manhood and strength from his step-father. Rhaenyra even saw Daemon play with Joff as they duelled with wooden swords in the courtyard.

Daenys was like a precious treasure to Daemon and when she was just a babe, Rhaenyra would spy him singing old valyrian dragon hymns to her as lullabies when he thought no one was watching.

As tamed as he had become, he had not abandoned his persona as the Rogue Prince and to those outside the family, that was all they saw of him.

The proud Warmaster and warrior emperor who presented himself as the most dangerous man in all of Valyria. 

To reaffirm the image of his strength to the people — and to hear his name cheered by the masses — Daemon often competed in the tournaments of the bōjurlion during special occasions like namedays and holidays. 

“It is no crime to admit you enjoy spending time with the children,” Rhaenyra reminded him once again.

Daemon seemed to ignore Rhaenyra’s statement as he got out of bed, appearing to wish neither to confirm nor deny how much he loved the young ones. 

Rhaenyra followed her husband, crawling out of her bed and slipping her dressing robe over her chemise. 

Daemon made his way over to the table between the three settees and the chamber’s hearth where Daemon’s previous sword Dark Sister hung on the mantle above, set upon a pair of iron hooks in its scabbard. 

On the table was a silver bowl with cherries within it, Daemon leaned over and plucked a cherry from the bowl and placed it in his mouth. 

“Not trying to spoil your appetite before breakfast, are you?” Rhaenyra chided as she walked barefoot along the cold stone floor of the chamber until her feet found their way to a rug draped in the imperial bedroom. 

“One cherry, Rhaenyra,” Daemon grumbled as he rolled his eyes. “Besides it's going to be a busy couple of weeks yet with the wedding.”

Rhaenyra had almost forgotten. The first imperial wedding in the empire’s history was to be a historic occasion—seven days of tournaments and pageants in the bōjurlion, feasting in the palace and other celebratory events.

Visitors from across the Empire had been arriving via the old roads through the mountain passes and ships sailing up the Trūmaqelbar into the Lēdanāvar.​​

Rhaenyra went to the window of her chamber and looked out over the city, beyond the walls, she could see new ships sailing into the harbour and anchoring in the Lēdanāvar as well as trails of visitors along the old roads like ants from such a distance as more and more came to the city. 

The city itself was beautiful with wyverns as common amidst the rooftops of the capital as pigeons had been over King’s Landing. The ancient stone of Valyria’s cityscape had been restored to its former glory making it hard to believe that it had been a dead ruin less than five years ago. 

The red banners bordered in black flame hung proudly from the walls and archways of the city, marked with the three-headed dragon triskelion and old valyrian runes. 

Once, the city had been called Old Valyria but no longer. Old Valyria was a name that it had carried since the time of the Freehold, but in the Empire, the term Old Valyria had begun to take shape as a colloquialism to refer to the Freehold itself, distinguishing it from the peninsula as it was under the Empire. 

Furthermore, while the Empire had been reviving and adapting much of the Freehold’s laws, traditions, and culture, it also made efforts to distinguish itself from its ancient progenitors and its more unsavoury vices .

To that end, Rhaenyra was swayed to discuss amending the name of the ancient heart of the peninsula’s domain and thus the city was renamed Valyria the Great.

A gaudy name of Daemon’s suggestion — of course — but most of the Imperial council favoured it above other suggestions and it was not the worst that had been presented.  

Rhaenyra still thought it a bit brazen and arrogant, yet Great was a much better-sounding title for the capital of an empire than Old.

A replica of the city was in Rhaenyra and Daemon’s chamber, a diorama of stone chiselled over the course of two decades by the stonemasons of King’s Landing at the dictation of Rhaenyra’s father, King Viserys the Peaceful. 

Gifted to Rhaenyra by Grand Maester Orwyle along with much of her father’s other books and meditations on Old Valyria before they embarked on their quest to reclaim their ancestral homeland.

After arriving at the capital, they used Viserys’s model to chart their plans to restore the city, marking the diorama with markers to prioritise resources and construction jobs and list what buildings needed to be repaired, left alone or torn down and replaced.

Now it sat in their chamber as a keepsake of Rhaenyra’s father, not updated to match the changes they had made to the city, instead, it was left just as Viserys had fashioned it and Rhaenyra would not have it any other way.

With the coming nuptials being the first royal wedding in the history of the new Valyria, half the empire had been invited to an event that would rival both the Golden Wedding and the wedding of Princess Rhaenys’s parents.

Jace and Baela had been patient for their long-awaited union and it was long overdue that the pair were finally wed, each nine and ten years of age. 

As Rhaenyra watched her subjects arrive in the city, she wondered if truly half the empire would arrive for the wedding which would not be much trouble since Valyria the Great was capable of sustaining a population equal to the number of Rhaenyra’s entire empire during the time of the Freehold. 

In the Empire’s third year, an old Valyrian tradition of holding a census was resurrected to gauge the ever-growing population. With six and ten being the markers for the age of majority, all citizens of the empire both men and women of age were counted with the census being set to repeat once every five years. 

The slave ledgers that were taken from the ships liberated by the Empire were also added with the hundreds and thousands that their additions made being too great to wait five years to count. 

By current reckoning, Grand Wisdom Gerardys estimated that the adult population of Valyria across the seven cities stood at a little over five hundred thousand.

A grandiose number, especially given Rhaenyra’s number stood at a hundred thousand when she arrived in Valyria, though in the years that followed she learned that the tally had forgone counting women and children. Between all those who had reached the age of majority and the emancipated slaves, they had been slowly liberating and adding to their number, five hundred thousand was a mighty sum and yet their empire was far from replete in regards to its populace.

For all the accretions that the imperial society had been blessed with, there was still more that was needed. In the days of the Freehold, the lands of Valyria were populated by millions of people on the peninsula alone. 

Rhaenyra did not covet overpopulation yet she knew that none of the seven cities, nor any village, town, farm or castle they had repaired or raised was at full capacity. 

As Warmaster, Daemon had raised three Legions, while the Dragonlords of old held one standard legion in each of the seven cities alone. 

In three and a half years, at the next census, Rhaenyra could not be sure how much their numbers would grow. 

They could not be greedy with the amount of slaves they liberated and the hundreds of thousands they had freed thus far had been spread out over years and using sea storms to disguise their liberation raids. 

They could not dwell in the bliss of their isolation from the outside world forever. While perhaps not fast approaching, a day would come when they could no longer live in seclusion and would need to make themselves known to the world beyond their empire. 

Their existence, their power, their dragons and their sorcery, all made them terrifying to behold by outsiders. 

To the foreign kingdoms and city-states, their empire would seem a natural threat. From Old Ghis to Braavos, the memory of the Freehold’s conquests carried strong and the same could be said across the Narrow Sea which had been unified by Aegon the Conqueror. 

All of them would see themselves as potential conquests for the empire and if prompted by the irrationality of fear, they might be swayed to attack without provocation.

Their best hope to better promote peace was to grow their empire and further entrench their dominion over the peninsula so that their empire might seem too intimidating for those who might oppose them to overpower or destroy. 

As Rhaenyra looked out over the city, the howl of a dragon caught her attention as two winged serpents flew into view from above, soaring over the palace. 

Two of the young dragons, a dark grey one that Rhaenyra recognised to be Stormcloud with the gorgeous pink Morning following behind.

The dragons that had been hatched and nesting within the cavernous chambers of Blenon Valyriōs had been growing swiftly over the past few years, unshackled and free to fly at their leisure as they should be.

Already Stormcloud was larger than a pony, meanwhile, Morning, Iskar and Skywing were the sizes of hounds. Even Tyraxes, Joff’s dragon, was almost as big as Arrax had been when they first left the Seven Kingdoms. 

Rhaenyra then left the window, having dallied enough in the relish of the life she and her people had made for themselves and got ready for the day. 

After their morning ablutions, the Empress and Emperor were dressed and ready for the day.

Daemon buckled Anogarys to his belt and wore a slim dark red toga marked with a border of valyrian glyphs over his black jerkin, held diagonally across his chest and back by the swordbelt.

Meanwhile, the Empress wore a black dress adorned with dragon scale patterns and a split cloak made of sheer red fabric. 

When they were ready, the Empress and Emperor left the chamber together.

Outside their double doors, Ser Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander of the Dragonknights was waiting for them.

The former commander of the Kingsguard for Rhaenyra’s father before his unjust decloaking after Aegon’s usurpation now commanded the fourteen sworn knights of Rhaenyra’s own guard.

He was dressed in a white gambeson with a full suit of valyrian steel armour over it with a long white cloak hanging from clasps between his shoulders and his neck and an open helm tucked under his arm as well as a valyrian steel blade sheathed at his hip.

“Good morrow, your Majesties,” Ser Harrold said with a respectful bow. 

“Good morrow indeed, especially with such a jovial awakening,” Rhaenyra remarked, referring to her children’s earlier visit to their chamber.

“Forgive me if you wished that I deny them entry, your Majesty. The young princes assured me you would not mind,” the old knight said with a gentle smile.

“Not at all. It was a lovely start to any day. From my eldest children, I have learned that a parent only has the first twelve or so years where their children seek their company and that it must be cherished. After that, they begin their aproach to adulthood and it becomes the parent who seeks the child’s attention as they shift their interests to hobbies, friends and dragon riding,” Rhaenyra explained. 

“I will take your word for it, Your Majesty. I have not sired any children of my own and I have not known childhood since I was one myself a very long time ago,” Ser Harrold joked, bringing a smile to Rhaenyra’s face.

“Will breakfast be held in the private dining chamber?” Rhaenyra asked, wondering where their family would convene for their first meal of the day.

“As I understand it, the Majordomo believed such a day was perfect for the garden courtyard to host your morning meal,” Ser Harrold explained.

Rhaenyra looked to Daemon with a smile, concurring with what the Majordomo had arranged given how nice and sunny it was outside.

“How lovely. Let us go then.”

As Rhaenyra and Daemon walked down the hall from their chamber, followed closely by Ser Harrold, Rhaenyra could hear the footsteps of two more men from the far end of the hall behind her moving in lockstep.

The footsteps did not trouble her for she knew who they belonged to, legionares of the Imperial Guard. 

Another pair of imperial guardsmen stood at the end of the hall that Rhaenyra was walking towards, dressed in the legionnaires' attire but with long red cloaks and finer suits of armour than a standard palace guard.

They were armed with spears and scutum shields with swords and ear daggers by their sides. Beneath the black paint of their armour was the valyrian steel material it was made of and on top of their open helms with plumes of red and black dyed horse hair. 

There were two battalions of legionnaires that made up the Palace Guard, but the Imperial Guard was a third battalion of the most elite soldiers.

While they manned their posts like common sentries most of them were noble knights or skilled and gallant soldiers worthy of knighthoods. 

The Imperial Guard was a battalion of one hundred and forty men, divided into fourteen formations. Each formation consisted of ten men hand-picked, trained, drilled and commanded by one of the fourteen Dragonknights. 

The criteria for the Imperial Guard was for the Dragonknights to each pick and command ten men they had complete confidence in and could trust to man their posts, follow their orders and guard the imperial family; and while no dragonknight had yet died it was expected that the imperial guard would be the prime candidates for their successors.

Through their trust in the Imperial Guard, the imperial house was always secure and the knights could rest, eat, sleep and train knowing that their most trusted could cover their shifts so that they would be ready and replenished for the next day.

By the time Rhaenyra turned the corner in the hallway, the two Imperial Guardsmen behind her had caught up and the two ahead had turned and moved ahead of her creating a four-pillared guard formation within which she, Daemon and Ser Harrold were enclosed.

Through the halls, Rhaenyra passed the servants, handmaidens, workers and courtiers of the palace who bowed as she and her husband passed by.

Down a few stairwells and through a few corridors, Rhaenyra and Daemon made their way to the private garden courtyard.

Amidst majestic flowers, small fruit trees, plants and shrubs was an open grass courtyard surrounded by columns and in the courtyard’s heart were a a number of blanketed couches spread out around and a large table filled with food in the centre. 

Rather than sitting on the couch, young Aegon, Gaemon and Viserys had opted to make a picnic rug out of one of the planets and sat cross-legged with their breakfast plates between them.

Rhaenyra’s faithful dragonrider Aerion Nestaar was sitting on a couch with Joff, sharing a bowl of grapes as they played a game of Cyvasse together against Princess Rhaena and the dragonrider Visenya on the opposing couch. The game board was set up on a small side table between the two couches with the two pairs whispering their strategies to one another over what moves to play.

On the other side of the breakfast table, Alyn, Addam, and Nettles were talking amongst themselves as they ate off their plates in their hands or placed on the couches. 

It was not as formal as sitting in chairs along a table, but it was a more intimate and personal way of sharing meals dating back to the Freehold.

Servants in Targaryen imperial livery stood along the outskirts of the gardens ready to attend to the lounging dragonlords, refilling their cups or bringing them fresh plates of food from the table. 

As Rhaenyra approached the garden doorway, her Imperial Guardsmen and Ser Harrold dispersed and struck up positions with the other dragonknights and guardsmen already patrolling and standing sentry around the garden courtyard.

The Empress noticed that of all the members of the Imperial household assembled in the garden three were still missing.

High Chancellor Corlys and Princess Rhaenys had not yet arrived and Princess Baela had not yet made an appearance either. 

Neither of Rhaenyra’s eldest sons Jace and Luke were there either but their absence was with reason for the two were away from the city on an errand but soon to return. 

“Your Majesty,” Addam was the first to greet, spotting Rhaenyra and Daemon enter the courtyard. The rest of the dragonriders responded in kind as they turned their attention to their sovereign. 

“Good morrow all,” Rhaenyra greeted as she sat on one of the vacant couches with Daemon sitting by her side.

A pair of servants came to Rhaenyra and Daemon, each of them asking what they would like to be served for breakfast. After placing their orders the servants went to the table in the middle of the garden filled with food and made up plates for the Emperor and Empress along with a pair of water goblets.

“So what is the morning’s topic of conversation,” Daemon asked as he began to dig into his breakfast. 

“The wedding mostly,” Nettles explained. 

“Not the wedding itself but rather the games after,” Addam added, taking a sip from his cup.

Seven days of celebratory games and pageants in the bōjurlion, Rhaenyra thought. 

Everything from gladiatorial melees, jousts, archery contests and beast fighting to horse and chariot races, circus performances and other fantastical spectacles.

In the Age of the Freehold, the games vial bloodsports where slaves would be forced to fight to the death against one another, but under the Empire, they had been reshaped for free men to test their mettle as warriors. 

They were still lethal, but no more or less lethal than the tourneys Rhaenyra used to attend back in King’s Landing and unlike the slave games, everyone was given the option to yield and death was not encouraged. 

“Thinking of partaking in the jousts again, little brother?” Alyn asked, looking at Addam.

The younger brother shrugged.

“Perhaps. I think I’ve gotten quite good at horse riding since last I jousted,” Addam said, looking rather confident in himself.

Aerion chortled and shook his head.

“You broke one lance against your opponent before you were unhorsed last time. I think you should stick to dragons and ships lest you wish to put Valena in mourning before she has a chance to wed you,” Aerion jested.

The others in the garden giggled at Aerion’s jape.

Lady Valena Celtigar was one of Lord Bartimos’s seven granddaughters who had been promised to Addam as his betrothed a few months ago after the two had spent months circling one another like courting swans.

She was a kind and comely girl and a good match for a dragonlord such as Addam. 

When Rhaenyra looked at her dragonlords it was hard to believe what they had been before fate had brought them to her. 

Gaemon, the orphan living in the slums of Flea Bottom; Alyn and Addam, young merchant sailors from the town of Hull; Nettles, the brothel-born thief taken in by Alyn and Addam’s mother; Aerion, the sellsword son of a disgraced Targaryen Princess; and Visenya, his orphaned niece who spent her youth painting and drawing in her grandmother’s palace that she so desperately wished to escape. 

Now they were revered dragonlords, knights and ladies of the realm, unrecognisable to whom they had been years before. 

Alyn with his hair styled in short swept-back dreadlocks and a trimmed beard, no longer hiding the valyrian features of his silver colourings. 

Both he and his dark-haired younger brother, Addam, now dressed and carried the comportment of noble dragonlords having gained a regalness in their mannerisms in recent years, yet never regarded themselves as superior to the smallfolk they had once counted as their peers.

Nettles, who had always been the scrappiest of the dragonriders was now regarded as a comely lady and the fancy of many young nobles in the empire. Her curly dark hair now extended down her back and she dressed in gowns and jewellery at court.

Aerion had always carried the bearing of nobility from his upbringing in Volantis, but when Rhaenyra first met him he appeared to be trying to hide from it, resenting his high status in a slave city, but in the empire as the Bronze Fury’s rider, he no longer seemed to be hiding.

His silver hair had grown down to his neck though he kept the upper half of it tied back into a small tail to keep his hair from falling into his eyes and his beard was perhaps an inch longer than it was before, barely noticeable to most.

Visenya on the other hand was much the same as she had always been, though now she was a woman grown, eighteen years of age. 

As Addam bickered with the others about his skills as a jouster — or lack thereof — Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys arrived. 

Lord Corlys dressed in a valyrian doublet of blue marked with fish scales and a dark blue toga over it carrying the silver Hand of the Empire, the mark of office for the Lord Chancellor. 

Over the past few years, Lord Corlys’s beard had grown a fair bit with a bushy mane coming down to his collarbone. 

Meanwhile, Princess Rhaenys looked much the same as she had a few years ago, dressed in a black and red dress.

“Prey forgive our lateness, your Majesty. Our old age is making us slow to rise in the mornings,” Lord Corlys jested as he and his wife joined them.

“Think nothing of it, my Lord. Please, come,” Rhaenyra welcomed merrily as she motioned her hand invitingly to the breakfast table.

“We were just discussing the coming games for the wedding celebrations,” Rhaena explained as her grandparents sat on one of the vacant settees together.

“Hmm… a great spectacle to be sure,” Princess Rhaenys stated.

“I’m sure thousands will be expected to enter the lists for the games, especially with the prizes that they are expecting,” Corlys explained.

Rhaenyra looked at Corlys and Rhaenys with a vexed expression.

She had not yet announced any reward for the competitions as of yet and was unsure what Lord Corlys could mean by expected prizes .

“I’m sure I do not know what you mean,” the Empress replied truthfully.

Corlys looked to his wife before addressing the Empress.

“I had intended to bring this up at the council meeting today, but I suppose now is as good a time as any. Apparently, some of the lords have manifested a rumour which has taken flight suggesting that the winners of the competitions in the wedding games will be awarded the lordships over the cities of Tyria and Oros,” Corlys explained. 

Rhaenyra scoffed at such a notion. 

Of the seven cities of the Freehold, Tyria and Oros were the most damaged by the Doom, being the closest to the Fourteen Flames. Over the course of the past three years, they had been in a constant state of repair with much still needing to be done but now they were in a fortifiable and livable state.

With Valyria the Great being the imperial seat and the other four cities being awarded to four of Rhaenyra’s most prominent vassal houses, she was not about to gamble the inheritance of the remaining two away to whichever house produced the best gladiator. 

“Well, we should do well to dissuade this rumour from spreading any further lest the victor of the games feel slighted when this ends up not being the case,” Rhaenyra stated, assuring the Lord Chancellor that she had no such intentions. 

“Who was it fed you this rumour? The Lady Mysaria?” Daemon asked.

“Actually it was Lord Bemio asking me for confirmation of the rumours after arriving from his keep yesterday,” Lord Corlys explained.

“Bemio?... Those are the Mootons right?” Daemon asked.

Princess Rhaenys scoffed.

“The Bēmios are the Bucklers, cousin. It is the Biadrons who are the Mootons,” she corrected. 

Over the past few years of the Empire’s development, Rhaenyra’s many subjects from across the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities had done much to shape their new shared valyrian culture, both independently and with guidance from the Empire. 

High Valyrian was spoken as a second tongue throughout the empire, sometimes interchangeably with the common tongue and the people had also taken to giving their children valyrian names at all levels of the citizenry from noble to commoner. 

An extension of this was the act of many of the Westerosi noble houses choosing to assimilate their house names into Valyrian to further separate themselves from their estranged branches back in the Seven Kingdoms and also to deepen their connection to Valyria.

House Buckler was now House Bemio; House Mooton was now Biadron; House Darklyn was now House Zobrilion; House Strong was now House Kostobar and so on.

Rhaenyra did not ask them to make such a change but she appreciated they had done so voluntarily. 

At last, Princess Baela, the bride-to-be, had arrived.

“Good Morrow, everyone,” Baela greeted as she joined the rest of them for breakfast.

“There you are. I was beginning to think we’d have to send out a search party. It wouldn’t be much of a wedding if the bride was missing,” Daemon japed as Baela joined the family.

“Lord Celtigar obstructed my path on my way here. He insisted on speaking to me about the ceremonies and the traditions by which Jace and I would be wed. Apparently, there has been some discourse amongst the faiths about which temple and which faith we shall be married under. Even when I told Lord Bartimos of Jace and my intent to be married in the valyrian tradition he insisted on lecturing me on the importance of keeping true to my valyrian roots and not being swayed by Lady Mesliandre or the Septons,” Baela explained in a huff as she sat down on one of the couches.

Rhaenyra empathised with Baela’s exhaustion at having to deal with the Lord Magistrate so early in the morning, having been nagged by Celtigar many times on a variety of issues over the past years.

Rhaenyra trusted and respected Lord Bartimos and all his merits, having awarded him and his house Lordship over the city of Rhylos, but still, Rhaenyra found him to be incessant to an irritable degree at certain times.

As for the struggles of the faith, that was a relatively trivial matter.

Under the Empire, there had been no wars of religion, no battles of faith and no great conflict.

Since the beginning, they had been a people united by their journey to the ancestral home of the dragonlords, building together, toiling together and exploring together. So long had they been united by a common cause that they had all but forgotten the differences between them that other cultures emphasised the importance of.

In the Seven Kingdoms, a Tyroshi might hear vile slanders against them for the blood feuds of the wars in the Stepstones or a worshiper of the Seven might have been decried as blasphemer by a worshiper of the Red God, but such was not the way in Rhaenyra’s empire.

In her dominion, the westerosi counted the tyroshi as their neighbours and the worshipers of the different gods were colleagues and equals in the guilds and trades.

Nonetheless, the different clergies within the empire had besought Rhaenyra and members of the Imperial house to partake in demonstrations of their selective faith due to the growing revival of the valyrian cult of the Fourteen Flames.

In recent years many of the Empire’s citizenry had converted to the Old Valyrian faith, taking the great Dragon Dream, the bleeding star and the empire itself as a sign of the fourteen’s divinity. Even many of those who had been swayed to the Lord of Light by Melisandre and her prophecies of the Prince that is Promised had since taken their portents and reshaped them to serve High Lord Arrax rather than R’hllor.

Rhaenyra herself had tried to show impartiality and respect for all the faiths under the wing of her empire, yet when Rhaenyra did pray or lit candles of vigil for those she had lost, she did so in the Jaesrion before the stone statues of the Fourteen and had forsaken attending the Sept all together.

Rhaenyra had never been overly religious, never bearing enough hubris to think herself wise enough to understand the ineffable nature of whatever unseen divinities watched and ruled from beyond the mortal world. She had prayed to the Seven and the Fourteen interchangeably, using their idols, scriptures and rituals as mere apparatuses for the same overarching force that she hoped guided her actions and protected the souls of her lost loved ones.

Her preference for Arrax over the Father or the Lord of Light was a matter of sentiment and adoration of the mythologies of her own people rather than any existential view of the theological.

Whatever concerns about the rituals of Jace and Baela’s wedding, they would be addressed in due time when the Imperial Council was next convened.

For the time being, Rhaenyra sat in the garden and enjoyed breakfast with her family and her trusted dragonriders.

Chapter Text

After their successful night raid and making sure that Racalio Ryndoon’s ships had secured the captured slave ships, landing their dragons on the decks of two of the vessels, Jace and Luke took to wing upon Vermax and Arrax and led the return to Aquos Dhaen, flying ahead of the ships. 

On their return, the morning sun rose upon their backs and illuminated the smoking sea as they sailed through the mists. 

As they flew westward back to the Empire, Jace looked down below to the sea that shimmered in the morning sun and spotted a cluster of amphitheres soaring low over the water and then rapidly diving and ascending out of the water like skipping stones which was how they hunted fish. 

Jace contemplated diving Vermax towards the amphitheres and scaring them off with a low swoop to prevent them from hassling Ryndoon’s ships, but given how fast they were moving and the direction they flew, Jace judged they would be long gone before the ships crossed their path. 

The two brothers continued on over the tides as the sun climbed higher and soon they arrived at the great port city of Aquos Dhaen.

As the two dragonriders arrived, Jace spotted the great coastal city of House Velaryon sitting proudly upon the shore of the bay that sparkled with the glinting light of the sun against the water.

The first of the great cities of Valyria to be gifted to one of the Empire’s vassals, Aquos Dhaen was now restored to its former state as the heart of shipbuilding and sea travel in Valyria, followed closely by the southern city of Draconys.

The city carried the same overarching layout as the other six cities of Valyria with the port — the Villinion — at the east of the city along the bay and anchored in the harbour of the bay were many fishing vessels, transports and great triremes of the Imperial Navy.

At the mouth of the bay, greeting Jace and Luke as they arrived, were a pair of twin stone peers, both wide and fortified and positioned to tighten the entrance into the bay. 

A pair of watchtowers near the edge of either pier had beacon fire on top of them to act as lighthouses and operated the chain boom that could be raised to block off the entrance into the bay.

But the seawall was not the jewel of the bay.

The most majestic part of it was the two great stone statues, nearly thirty feet tall. 

Like the Titan of Braavos, the two statues greeted those who travelled to Aquos Dhaen with the statue of Jace and Luke’s aunt Laena on the left and the statue of their father Laenor on the right with the two late Velaryon dragonriders outstretching their hands to one another with their fingers touching over the entrance creating an arch that ships sailed through to enter the bay.

Using ancient valyrian stonemasonry and with aid from the sorcerers, the two great statues were constructed over the course of a single year but would guard the entrance to Aquos Dhaen forever more, entrenching House Velaryon’s place in the empire.

The statue of Ser Laenor was well-fashioned in his likeness and those who knew Laena’s bearing assured that the same was true of her own.

The detail and accuracy of Ser Laenor’s portrayal was a provocation of great emotion from Jace, both good and bad. 

In part, the statue warmed him for it showed him the face of his father whom he loved and missed but at the same time, it cut him for it reminded him of what he had lost.

Jace had always loved Ser Laenor as his father and when Jace first began to hear the whisperers and discern his true origin, the revelation only strengthened their bond for Jace knew that he and his brothers were accepted by love alone without the obligation of blood, which made him even more of a father than most men.

The two brothers soared past the twin statues and continued onward towards the city, bringing the two winged serpents down towards the great stone harbour.

As Vermax and Arrax flapped to soften their descent they dropped down onto the port as sailors and shipwrights cleared out to avoid being trampled by the dragons. 

Jace descended down from Vermax’s saddle and planted his feet on the stone harbour of Aqous Dhaen breathing in the competing smells of sea salt from the water and the burning volcanic scent that was everywhere in Valyria but subtle enough not to bother people.

Vermax and Arrax did not tarry long in the harbour, flapping their wings and taking to the skies to find a more comfortable place in Aqous Dhaen to preach themselves. 

Jace and Luke met on foot in the middle of the harbour with all the people of Aquos Dhaen gawking at them and bowing respectfully.

Luke was clad in a valyrian segmented plate cuirass over his black leather doublet with leather riding gloves and a dark blue cloak fastened by a seahorse broach and his sword sheathed by his hip. 

“It was a good raid, brother,” Luke said, patting Jace on the shoulder.

“You and Arrax fought well,” Jace responded patting Luke on the back.

It sometimes amazed Jace how much Luke had grown in the past few years, eighteen years of age, a man grown and he carried himself like one too.

Luke had become far more confident, steadfast and willful in recent years, nothing like the timid and nervous boy full of self-doubt at the time of their exile.

In truth, Luke had become more spirited than Baela in recent years and as adventurous and ambitious as their grandsire, the Sea Snake.

Last year he’d earned his spurs after entering the lists of the mélee during the gladiatorial games at their mother’s nameday celebration. 

He entered the lists as a mystery knight as their great-grandfather Baelon did before he was knighted and after beating seven fighters, including three knights, he was finally defeated and yielded to Alyn. 

Daemon did the dubbing ceremony himself, laying the flat of Anograrys on his shoulders to make a knight out of Luke.

A knight, a mariner, the rider of a now-grown dragon and the future lord of Aquos Dhaen, all of which made Jace overwhelmed with pride.

“Look, the ships are coming in,” Luke noted as he gazed out over the bay.

Jace followed his brother’s eyeline to the passage between the two piers as valyrian triremes sailed beneath the arch made by the statues of their late father and aunt.

Luke turned his attention to the harbour workers and began issuing commands.

“Alright, the ships are returning. You all know what to do. Get blankets, food and water for the liberated. Ready the physicians to tend to injuries and illnesses,” Luke commanded as the people around the harbour scattered like startled chickens to attend to their duties.

Jace looked at his brother with amusement, never able to get used to Luke’s commanding presence. As their grandsire’s heir, Luke was to be the next lord of Aquos Dhaen and over the years he had gotten more and more used to acting like their lord under the Sea Snake’s guidance.

With Lord Corlys back at the capital, Luke was effectively the Lord of the city at present, superseding the majordomo Lord Corlys had left to govern Aquos Dhaen in his stead. 

As the ships drew nearer to the port, the harbour workers set up their stations along the docks, fresh bread and barrels of water as well as many physicians having already been assembled in preparation to receive the liberated upon their arrival. 

Behind the returning triremes, the demasted and battered slave ships were being toed behind by long heavy chains.

As the ships drew into port, Jace spotted a tall figure standing at the quarterdeck of one of the liberated slave ships waving his hand frantically followed by a high-pitched yoohoo as he called out to the two princes. 

Racallio Ryndoon, the mad giant. 

Once an enemy of the Seven Kingdoms and their grandfather Lord Corlys yet now a loyal servant of the Empire and a banner of House Velaryon, as was Lord Sallandros Saan, the former pirate king from Lys.

Racallio Ryndoon was a long-serving adversary of the Sea Snake in their wars of the Stepstones and Sallandros Saan was often regarded as Lord Corlys’s primary antagonist across the many fables of the first nine of his ten great voyages.

When Ryndoon and Saan requested Lord Corlys to take them in as his vassal lords, many questioned whether it was madder for them to request such a thing or for Corlys to accept. 

Now both of them had restored coastal fortresses a few leagues north and south of Aquos Dhaen to serve as the hereditary palaces of their houses. 

Luke awkwardly waved back, equally unsure as Jace of how to respond to Ryndoon’s strange yet amusing mannerisms. 

The Mad Giant then descended into a dingy that was rowed out from the port where he stepped off the small boat and onto the port, making the dingy rock and almost capsize with his great size.

“Well fought, my Lovely Princes. Your Vermax and Arrax were gorgeous as they dismantled the sails of those pesky slave ships. Like ghostly bats of shadow in the dark,” Racailio complimented as he clapped his hands together. 

“You and your men fought bravely on the decks, Racailio. We couldn’t have done it without you,” Jace complimented in response as he patted the giant on the shoulder, clad in his armour over a blood-stained silk dress that he had worn into battle. 

“Tell us. How fare the liberated slaves?” Luke asked. 

Ryndoon huffed out a deep breath.

“As best as can be expected, all things considered. They’ve been told they are property for many years; their spirits broken into tiny pieces. The slaver cunts of the Bay put much effort and cruelty into teaching them they are lesser than animals and it will take time to unlearn those lessons,” Ryndoon explained, showing a glimmer of seriousness in his otherwise merry demeanour. 

“Well, then we must not delay in breaking their conditioning. Let us start bringing them off the ships so they can begin their new lives,” Jace commanded. 

“Of course, my prince,” Racailio said with a bow before turning and whistling out to his crewmen on the ships.

Ryndoon then began calling the names of his crewmen across the water and ordering them to begin bringing the freed slaves ashore.  

Scores of longboats then began rowing out to the slave ships as the emancipated prisoners were brought up from below deck and then in groups taken down the longboats and ferried to the the ports.

Jace, Luke and Racailio watched as the slaves were helped up out of the boats and brought to the port in small groups and gathered up together.  

The emancipated masses bore such an innocent look in their eyes as they were gently welcomed off the longboats by the dockworkers, their ankles and wrists bruised and bloodied from the chaffing of their shackles. 

They looked around the city of Aquos Dhaen with a gentle and timid sense of wonder, as though they felt their newfound liberty was some form of trap.

As the huddled masses of the freed shuffled down the pier of the port, sailors, dock workers and volunteers came to greet them bringing jugs of water, platters of food and blankets to wrap them in as they were welcomed to the city to begin their new lives as liberated citizens of the Empire. 

Jace had seen such mannerisms of fear and apprehensiveness in the face of liberation many times before among the other slaves who had been freed from their bonds and welcomed into the empire over the years. 

Their bondage had made them weary of the world and it made them question the good and merciful things in life that could so easily turn out to be a trap and take them back into servitude at the expense of their hope, thus they remained weary of those who had brought them freedom and would remain so until their trust was earned and their safety ensured.

As the freed slaves shuffled down the pier towards the food, drink and blankets, a few of them cast their eyes over to Jace seemingly trying to discern if he was truly a liberator or merely a manipulator.

Jace did his best to kindly smile at them and reassure them that they were safe. 

Safe now under his mother’s rule and safe forevermore under Jace’s rule when he ascended the Dragonglass Throne. 

Soon the two princes and the oversized tyroshi were drawn to the city entrance of the port where a group of four Velaryon guardsmen arrived, escorting Ser Haegelor Emberyon, a sworn sword of Lord Coryls’s from driftmark, hailing from Valyrian descent and the majordomo of the city of Aquos Dhaen.

In Westeros they had stewards but in the Empire, majordomo was the title attributed to the deputies who ran the noble households in the stead of their lieges.

Ser Haegelor made his way down the stone peer and joined the two Princes and Ryndoon.

He was an older man, one who had sailed with Lord Corlys for many years and whose family had dwelled on Driftmark for centuries, first settling there with the Velaryons as their vassals. 

“My Princes, Admiral Ryndoon. I see your liberation raid was a success,” Ser Haegelor surmised as he watched the freed slaves being ferried from the ships and walking down the piers. 

“Indeed. We took the ships and hauled them into the mists before any were the wiser. Once again, the foresight of the sorcerers has not failed us,” Jace declared.

The majordomo nodded his head and smiled.

“A feast is to be held to celebrate the welcome of the new citizens into the city. I should hope the Heir to the Empire and the heir to this fair city will be the guests of honour,” Ser Haegelor said.

Ryndoon tsked and wagged his finger in the majordomo’s face. 

“Nonsense. These lovely boys have a wedding to get to, and I will not suffer them wasting another night here when the Crown Prince’s big day is but a few nights away,” Racailio declared. 

The Mad Giant spoke the truth. Now that the slaves had been liberated and delivered safely to the city, it was time to return home to Valyria the Great.

The Crown Prince hid his eagerness to be off, but he was excited about the coming wedding, only a mere couple of weeks away, but with there still being much to do and thus Jace was needed back in the capital.

It was Jace’s fear that to express his desire to leave might offend Ryndoon and the majordomo, but Jace had been waiting years to marry Baela, but it had never been the right time.

Most on the Imperial council wanted to make the first great wedding in Valyria’s Empire, especially the union between the future Emperor and Empress into a grandiose and lavish event fit for the history books but with all the work to do in the empire, they were always far too preoccupied to focus on such luxuries.

With the restoration of the cities, ports, fortresses and towns across the Empire and all the beasts and chimeras that needed to be quelled as well as their raids on the slave convoys, there was always something to distract them from even broaching the subject of a wedding. 

It finally got to the point that Jace and Baela went before the Emperor and Empress and declared they would be married within the fortnight or they’d go down to the Jaesarion and be wed that night.

Rhaenyra and Daemon yielded to them but managed to talk them into extending the deadline to a month and a half so that they had enough time to bring in visitors from all the imperial cities and prepare the festivities. 

In truth they could have probably forced the Emperor and the Empress into allowing them to wed years earlier, but Grand Wisdom Gerardys was at Baela’s disposal for the provision of moon tea and there were secret passageways throughout the Imperial Palace put there by the Freehold Dragonlords, not unlike Maegor’s tunnels, so Jace and Baela could spend their nights together whenever they so wished. 

It was not like Jace and Baela were in a hurry to have children the past three years so a wedding was but a ceremony.

Its not like anyone was fooled into believing that Jace and Baela were celibate, nor Luke and Rhaena for that matter, it was an unspoken truth, like Jace’s mother and Ser Harwin.

Jace and Baela’s sudden push for marriage was their desire to express their love publicly, officially share their bed in one chamber and begin their efforts to build a family of their own.

It was Daemon’s suggestion to send Jace out on a slave ship raid, jokingly calling it his last flight as a free man but Jace could never be convinced to see his bond with Baela as a shackle.

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider joining us for the wedding, Lord Racailio? We’d love to have you,” Luke said, looking to the purple-bearded pirate.

Racailio made a strange snort and squeal.

“My dearest darling Prince Luky. I love the dear Prince Jacaerys and the dear Princess Baela, but I’m afraid I’m far too vain to appear at any wedding I’m not the groom of, hence me having nine wives. However, after the ceremony, there will be seven days of games and feasts and I know my darling Mushroom would be livid if I didn’t arrive to rustle up some mischief and orgies with him,” Ryndoon explained. 

Jace and Luke couldn’t help but chortle, having grown accustomed to Racailio’s foul tongue over the past few years.

“We should go, brother. The Empress’s commands were clear that we return to the capital once the freed slaves were secured and clearly they have been. Let us be off,” Luke declared, nudging Jace’s shoulder.

“Too true. Ryndoon, a pleasure hunting with you as always. I look forward to seeing you at the festivities of my wedding,” Jace declared, embracing the mad giant respectfully, with Luke doing the same after him.

Jace then went and shook hands with Ser Haegelor. 

“Thank you for hosting us, Ser Haegelor. I leave these newly liberated citizens in your trusted hands and I shall pass along your good work to Lord Corlys,” Jace assured the majordomo.

“Always appreciated, my Prince and congratulations on you and Princess Baela’s imminent nuptials,” Ser Haegelor responded with a bow in his head as he shook Jace’s hand.

Next Luke went to bid Ser Haegelor farewell.

“I shall not depart from you for very long, Ser Haegelor. My betrothed, Lady Rhaena and I plan to return here to Aquos Dhaen and rule here in our grandsire’s stead for a short while after the wedding,” Luke explained, shaking Ser Haegelor’s hand.

“I will be most pleased to see you return, my Prince,” Ser Haegelor said with a bow. 

With that, Jace and Luke made their way down the stone pier to find Vermax and Arrax.

The two dragons returned to their riders and landed along the open stone platform of the docks, thankfully designed by the dragonlords of old to be big enough to accommodate adult dragons to land upon. 

The freed slaves squeezed and shuddered in fear of the dragons, not yet used to seeing such creatures as their benevolent protectors, but that would change in time.

“You're a bit eager to be off so quickly, usually you love to linger here in Aquos Dhaen. One might think you were the one with the upcoming wedding,” Jace japed, noting how equally impatient Luke was to return home to Valyria the Great. 

“Well, the sooner you and Baela get wedded, the sooner Rhaena and I can get a move on with our own union. Elders going first and all that,” the younger prince retorted.

“That’s part of why Baela and I dallied so long. Trying to give Rhaena a few more years of reprieve before she was forced to wed you.”
Luke shoved his older brother in retaliation for his joke and the two brothers raised their first to one another and laughed. 

Rather than mess about in front of the liberated slaves and the dock workers the two brothers made their way over to their dragons.

Both their mounts were now adults, Arrax being equal to the size of Sunfyre when they last saw him in the dragonpit and Vermax being even larger, both dragons growing rapidly in the years since arriving in Valyria.

“Race you back to Dragonmount,” Luke declared patting Jace’s shoulder and racing off towards Arrax’s saddle with Jace doing the same as he charged for Vermax.

Many of the citizens gathered around the dock cheered as they saw the two princes mount their dragons.

“Sōvēs, Vermaks!” Jace commanded in High Valyrian as he cracked the reins of his dragon, trying to catch up with Arrax as he took to the sky.

Soon, Vermax began to rise up into the air, flapping his wings out and the two brothers flew towards the capital city of Valyria.

Chapter Text

The Empress sat in one of the upper garden courtyards of the Imperial Palace with her beloved daughter Daenys sitting comfortably on her knee.

Despite how busy and distracting Rhaenyra’s days could get with habitual politicking, she always found time in her days to spend on her children and make sure she was present in their lives and her darling Daenys, known to the people as the dream of Valyria, was the most cherished treasure that she had received since arriving in Valyria.

At the heart of the garden were three statues stood proud bearing the visage of Aegon the Conqueror and his two sister wives. 

Since reclaiming the lands of Valyria for the Empire, they updated much of the murals, frescos, and statues that decorated the palace and the city, adding the history of House Targaryen to the city.

While the infrastructure of the city remained resilient in the face of the Doom, there was still that which was lost in the calamity as well as iconography that deified the slavery and barbarism of the Freehold which Rhaenyra ordered removed.

Now that which had been lost or stricken was replaced with the immortalisation of Aenar the Exile, Gaemon the Glorious, Aegon the Conqueror, Jaehaerys the Consiliator, Viserys the Peaceful and many more. 

Even beyond the Imperial Palace, there were statues of the Targaryens of old and their dragons in the city squares and carved into the archways.

“Do you know who that is?” Rhaenyra asked looking up at the statue of the Conquerer as she held her daughter in her lap. 

“Aegon, but not my brother Aegon. Visenya but not our Viseyna and Rhaenys but not the nice Rhaenys we know,” Daenys replied, only three years old and already so sharp. 

“That’s right. These are the Conquerors, the ones our Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys are all named after. They were born a long time ago before any of us were born. They are our ancestors, which means their children’s children and were our parents’ parents,” Rhaenyra explained, simplifying the connection between their lineage.

“Was Aegon the Emprerer, like father?” Daenys asked, adorably unable to pronounce the word Emperor.

Rhaenyra giggled.

“No, sweetling. Aegon was a King, the first of the great kings of Westeros… You see, a long time ago, Valyria was ruled by forty families, do you know how many forty is?” Rhaenyra asked.

Daenys looked at her hands and then held them out with her fingers outstretched, closed her fingers up into fists and flashed them open four times to simulate four groups of ten fingers.

“That’s right. You’re such a smart little girl,” Rhaenyra said kissing Daenys cheek and making her giggle.

“These forty families were all dragonriders like us and one of these forty families was us, the Targaryens, but our ancestors — long before Aegon — had to leave Valyria and go west,” Rhaenyra explained.

“Why did we have to leave?” Daenys asked. 

Rhaenyra thought for a moment about how she would best explain the Doom to someone so young.

“When we visit the dragons in Blenon Valyriōs, you know the red glowing light that comes from deep below in the dark caves at the bottom of the mountain?” Rhaenyra asked.

Daenys nodded her head.

“The Dragonkeepers say that it's a very dangerous fire from deep underground and that we have to stay away. They say it only comes from mountains called vocaynos,” the Princess replied.

“Volcanos yes. You see, you remember that time you got sick and you couldn’t keep your food in your stomach and you had to vomit it out? Well sometimes the special underground fire in the volcanos builds up so much that it needs to come flying out the top through the hole at the peak,” Rhaenyra explained pointing to the the lightly smoking summit of Blenon Valyriōs behind the Imperial Palace.

“And long ago, the fourteen volcanos north of here, the Fourteen Flames, all erupted at the same time, destroying all this land and it took over a hundred years for all the trees and plants to grow back and the animals changed over these years too while the dragons and the people… some changed into other things while most died,” Rhaenyra explained, trying to be honest with her daughter.

“But our family didn’t die,” Daenys protested.

“No. No, they didn’t because of a very special girl… a girl called Daenys,” Rhaenyra explained.

“That’s my name,” the Princess replied as her face lit up with joy.

“Yes. That’s who you are named after. She was a special girl with special dreams that told her the future and she saw the fourteen flames erupting in her dreams so she, her brother and her father travelled far far away to the west and found an island called Dragonstone where they and all their dragons could be safe. For many years they were and then their descendant, Aegon, changed things,” Rhaenyra explained pointing to the statue.

“Next to the island of Dragonstone was a big, big continent called Westeros and in that land, there were seven kingdoms. Using his dragons, Aegon went to those kingdoms and killed all the bad kings and joined forces with all the good kings so that the Seven Kingdoms would never fight amongst each other ever again, then Aegon became their king and sat on a throne made of swords that he called the Iron Throne,” Rhaenyra explained.

Daenys looked at the Conqeuror’s statue with wonder in her beautiful little eyes.

“My father, who our Viserys was named after, was the fifth Targaryen to sit on the Iron Throne and he wanted me to be his successor and sit the throne after him as Westeros’s first ruling queen,” Rhaenyra explained.

“Are you Queen of Westroast and Valyria?” Daenys asked.

Rhaenyra shook her head and glanced up to one of the towers of the Imperial palace, a specific tower where the imperial hostage was retained. 

An unexpected visitor who had ended up in Valyria by chance and after much commotion was placed in indefinite custody but was respectfully treated.

Rhaenyra visited this particular prisoner many times, playing games of chess with her, reading books on Valyrian history and discussing their philosophies, ideologies and the nature of power and leadership. Rhaenyra had even let Daenys meet her and join Rhaenyra on her visits every once in a while.

Rhaenyra did not wish to trouble Daenys with explanations of aggression and spite, explaining the nature of the conflict between the Blacks and the Greens. 

Daenys had a child’s innocence, the heavy weight of conflict was not a burden she needed to bear and would not be for years to come until she was old enough to understand and face such matters.

For now, Rhaenyra would simplify the matter so that her daughter only understood what she needed for now.

“When my father died and I was meant to be his successor… some very stubborn men from the Seven Kingdoms thought that I wouldn’t make a good Queen, so they convinced my younger brother — also named Aegon — to take the throne as king. To avoid a war, I chose to leave Westeros forever and let Aegon become King, but all was not lost for I, your father, all your brothers and sisters, all the dragonriders and Rhaenys all shared a special dream like the one your namesake Daenys had and it told us that Valyria was now safe and convinced us to come here and make the empire,” Rhaenyra explained.

Daenys looked up at the statues of the Conquerors with a gleam of wonder in her eyes.

Perhaps the look in her eye was a sense of wonder at how all she had ever known, the Empire, her entire world was less than a year older than she was with the young and growing empire being everything to her.

“Mother, can we go see Dreamlyte? Please?” Daenys asked, tugging upon the Empress’s sleeve.

Rhaenyra glanced to Blenon Valyriōs where the dragons dwelt. 

Daenys was a very attentive dragon bond, as were all Rhaenyra’s children, each of them always taking time out of their day to visit their dragons. 

As Rhaenyra thought about it she recalled that Joff, Aegon, Gaemon and Viserys would be in the middle of their training at present. 

“Alright. Let’s go see the dragons and we can check on your brothers while we’re there,” Rhaenyra declared, scooping her precious girl into her arms and standing upright. 

The Empress then carried Princess Daenys from the garden where they were joined by Ser Harrold and Ser Erryk of the Dragonknights with men of the imperial guard standing vigil outside the entrance to the garden courtyard.

With their entourage of guardsmen accompanying them, Rhaenyra and Daenys made their way through the palace.

At the back of the Imperial Palace was a long outstretched stone bridge that reached across from the citadel of the Dragonlords to the Volcano upon which it was built like a fin or a wall that blocked the gap between the two with a walkway over it and at the far end of that bridge was the entrance into the hollow mountain where the great dragons of Valyria nested. 

Rhaenyra walked the entire length of the bridge with Visenya sitting comfortably in her arms, the Empress would not pass her daughter off to Ser Harrold when he offered even when Rhaenyra’s arms ached and burned. 

To hold her daughter close was worth any form of minor discomfort. 

Since the tragic stillbirth of her beloved daughter Visenya four years ago, her untimely death coinciding with the passing of her father, Rhaenyra had been sobered to the fragility of life and endeavoured to be eternally present for all her children, Daenys especially.

At the far end of the bridge was an ancient stone doorway carved into the volcano’s face which led into Blenon Valyriōs.

Rhaenyra, Daenys and the knights and guards entered the doorway following the torchlit corridors through the mountain until they came along an observatory balcony that overlooked the volcanic shaft of the Volcano, like a great open cave, wide and tall with an open skylight in the form of the volcanic vent at the peak along with smaller offshooting caves where the dragons nested or where they could fly in and out of the mountain through the sides.

Compared to three years ago when they first settled in the capital city of the Empire, Blenon Valyriōs seemed far more lively with more dragons that flew about the cavernous open shaft of the volcano. 

As Rhaenyra walked along the observation balcony she was on a pair of small juvenile dragons swooped by, making Daenys giggle and clap her hands. 

One of the two was red and gold and the other was white and blue. From their colours, Rhaenyra deduced the red one to be Gaelithox and the white one to be Starchaser.

A pair of young dragons hatched a few months before Daenys’s Dreamlyte. 

Across the cavernous shaft, Rhaenyra saw Vermithor resting upon a rock in the open with four little dragon hatchlings buzzing about the Bronze Fury’s head like flies. 

Other dragons were nesting or coming and going as they pleased, Seasmoke, Meleys, Sheepstealer, Moondancer, Caraxes and all the rest along with more young hatchlings they had brought forth in the past three years. 

As they walked towards the monastery where the Dragonkeepers dwelled and maintained the hatcheries, Daenys spotted her brothers down below and pointed them out.

Aegon and Viserys were lined up with Gaemon as the dragonkeepers instructed them on how to command their dragons in front of them.

Stormcloud was the largest, a bit bigger than a pony, while Iskar and Skywing were about the size of dogs.

Rhaenyra glanced out and saw Joff mounted atop his dragon, Tyraxes as he flew her around the volcano. 

Tyraxes had grown greatly in size over the past few years, now nearly as big as Arrax had been four years ago, but as big as she was, Joff was still just a boy of ten. 

He’d only been flying for half a year and the first time he took to wing, he was only meant to fly a lap around the shaft of the volcano but instead did a lap of the entire city which he would later describe as the greatest day of his life even though he was sent to bed without supper that night for such reckless disobedience.

When Rhaenyra first saw Joff fly off out of the volcano that day she felt like her heart would give out, but she knew that her boys were growing up and that she could not keep them sheltered and protected forever but she yearned to do so for a few years more. 

As Rhaenyra and Daenys arrived at the monastery, the dragonkeepers came out to greet them, an Elder accompanied by a few acolytes. 

The monastic protectors of the dragons bowed low as the Empress and her guards came to the foyer of their monastery.

“Rystas Dāriorys Rhaenyra. I see you are in the company of the precious Dārilaros Daenys,” the Elder noted, speaking in High Valyrian.

“Rystas Urnerys. My little Dārilaros desires to check upon her dear Ēdrurōños, is she about?” Rhaenyra asked as she looked around the volcano for her daughter’s dragon.

The Elder nodded his head.

“Little Ēdrurōños was fluttering about nearby, I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see the Dārilaros. One of my Acolytes will take you to her,” the Elder declared, ushering one of the dragonkeepers behind him to come forward.

After thanking the Elder, Rhaenyra told her dragonknights and the Imperial guardsmen under them to wait by the monastery while Rhaenyra and Daenys went to see if they could find Dreamlyte.

The Dragonkeeper led them down a side path that ran along the cliffs under the monastery as it overlooked the volcano shaft.

As they walked down the steps, Rhaenyra let Daenys down and held her by the hand as they made their way down the path. 

The acolyte then led them along a rocky area of uneven ground and as they walked they saw some of the young dragons lurking about like Ezmer, Aegarax and Parthilgar, but no Dreamlyte yet.

Eventually, as they walked, a high-pitched howl filled the air which made Daenys all excited, for she recognised the sound.

Then a small dragon the size of a dog came flapping over the rocky pillars and boulders around them and settled down on the ground in front of Daenys.

A Zolka breed dragon with dark blue scales and magenta colourings for her highlights and wing membranes as well as a small but growing crest of pearl horns growing like a crown similar to Meleys’s own. 

“Dreamlyte,” Daenys said with joy as she ran up and hugged her dragon, her joy seeming like she had not seen the dragon in years despite visiting her almost every day.

“Daenys, remember. Valyrian,” Rhaenyra reminded her daughter.

It was an important part of training for the dragons to learn their commands in High Valyrian, as was tradition.

“Ēdrurōños,” Daenys said, correcting herself and referring to her dragon by her valyrian name. 

Rhaenyra smiled as she watched Daenys play with Dreamlyte until another high-pitched dragon how caught Rhaenyra’s attention.

Rhaenyra turned her head and saw the gilded anne breed dragon Syrax flapping her great wings as she approached Rhaenyra and lowered down onto the rocky surface near Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra’s dragon had grown a great deal in the past four years since leaving Westeros despite the Dragonkeepers saying her growth had slowed a concerning amount over the past twenty years but now she was fast approaching the size of Meleys.

As Syrax lowered her head down towards Rhaenyra, she reached out and began stroking her old friend’s snout. 

“Rystas you. I’ve missed you. I’m sorry we haven’t been flying together in the past few months. Rulin g a dārior is busier than I thought,” Rhaenyra confided in her dear dragon as she rested her forehead upon Syrax’s lip.

“I promise I shall carve out some time for us soon, would you like that old girl?” Rhaenyra asked as she ran her hands upon and down Syrax’s snout with her yellow dragon leaning in deeper as a show of affection. 

Rhaenyra and Daenys lingered there in the depths of Blenon Valyriōs, spending some time with their dragons as the acolyte watched over them.

Eventually, it was time to head back and Rhaenyra scooped Daenys up in her arms and carried her back towards the steps after bidding farewell to Syrax and Dreamlyte.

After climbing the steps back to the monastery, Rhaenyra found the dragonkeepers being approached by visitors she did not expect, sorcerers.

A pair of men clad in hooded grey robes with ornately decorated chasubles and their faces and hands covered with iron face masks and gauntlets heavily embossed with scripts valyrian glyphs and patterns.

Based on the markings on their masks and chasiables, Rhaenyra could distinguish to the pair as Masters Vazieris and Corsigar.

Two of the twelve sorcerers awoken from their spellbound hibernation beneath the Grand Anogrion a few years ago. 

The twelve sorcerers were the last surviving members of the Freehold, protected from the Doom and preserved for over two centuries by the magical concealment and now they served the Empire as Rhaenyra’s loyal servants.

Behind the two sorcerers were a pair of their acolytes, young men of the empire recruited to learn the ways of ancient valyrian pyromancing, blood magic and shadowbinding. 

Two hundred acolytes now studied alongside the loremasters in the Anogrion, but while the loremasters studied science, technology and history from the times of the Freehold, the acolytes of the sorcerers concerned themselves with the study of the higher mysteries. 

The two acolytes behind the sorcerers were hooded in similar grey robes to their masters but without the decorative chasubles or the gauntlets and masks. 

Between the two acolytes, a wooden box was carried by the handles on either side, held by the two.

As Rhaenyra, Daenys and the Acolyte emerged from the stairway along the cliffside, the dragonkeepers, dragonknights and sorcerers all turned their attention to the Empress, all of them bowing respectfully as their Empress emerged.

“ Dāriorys,” Master Vazieris greeted, the sorcerers equally as committed to speaking the valyrian language as the Dragonkeepers and the Old Valyrian Priests.

“Master Vazieris, Master Corsigar. What brings you here to Blenon Valyriōs?” the Empress inquired.

“The dragon eggs, Dāriorys. We came to deliver the five stone eggs that came in two weeks ago from the Lands of the Long Summer,” Vazieris explained motioning to the box behind him.

Rhaenyra recalled the matter being discussed in a previous council meeting. The Dragonlords of old had plenty of summer palaces throughout the lands of the Long Summer and in recent years, Rhaenyra had been distributing the remains of those palaces to be repurposed as the ancestral dwellings of her vassals.

Recently one of Rhaenyra’s vassal houses had found a clutch of five fosilised dragon eggs in their palace, probably left there by the dragonlords who once owned the palace. 

When the eggs were discovered, they were brought to the capital and handed over to the sorcerers so that they might try to revive them.

If dragon eggs were not regularly incubated and kept warm, the eggs would grow cold, harden and fossilise, turning to stone, however, there were spells developed by the sorcerers of the Anogrion to reawaken petrified dragon eggs.

Rhaenyra frowned.

“I take it your attempts were not successful,” Rhaenyra surmised.

The masters Vazieris and Corsigar looked at one another before facing the Empress once again. Rhaenyra could tell from the silence that they were sullen beneath their emotionless steel facemasks. 

“I’m afraid the enchantments brought forth only another failure,” Vazieris explained as he and his colleague parted from one another showing the chest being carried by the two masked acolytes behind them.

One of the acolytes lifted the lid and revealed the five dead stone dragon eggs, lifeless and fossilised, and unable to be revived. 

Rhaenyra was not pleased but nor was she surprised. In the years since they had reclaimed Valyria the Great, they had gathered all the fossilised dragon eggs from every hatchery in the seven cities of the Freehold and the sorcerers had worked their craft using the ancient spells, alchemic practices and rituals to try and awaken them.

They had gathered together more than fifty stone eggs from across the Freehold and the sorcerers would take them in clutches of three or seven or fourteen and try to revive them but in all their toiling, only three such attempts proved successful and even less than half of each clutch bore a revived dragon resulting in seven dragons awoken from fossilised eggs in the past three years. 

Three of them came from the clutch presented to Rhaenyra by the red priests in Volantis, the ones believed to have originally been Dreamfyre’s eggs stolen by Elissa Farman. Three young Darys breed dragons named Tycorax, Venris and Thenghar.

“We shall take the eggs and enshrine them with the other stone eggs,” the Dragonkeeper Elder explained.

Two of the dragonkeepers went over and relieved the sorcerer acolytes of the box.

“Well, in success or failure. Your efforts are always appreciated,” Rhaenyra said, bowing her head in respect and recognition.

Vazieris and Corsigar bowed back in response and then took their leave with their acolytes following behind them. 

“Now then,” Rhaenyra said, switching back to the common tongue and looking down at her daughter. “It's nearly lunchtime. How about we fetch your brothers from their dragon lessons and find something yummy to eat,” Rhaenyra suggested.

“Yes please!” Daenys said joyfully.

Rhaenyra laughed at her daughter’s giddy excitement but was then distracted by the sound of dragon howls.

Rhaenyra turned to the sky and saw two dragons flying into the shaft of Blenon Valyriōs through one of the vent tunnels. 

Two adult dragons, one bigger than the other and when the light caught them, Rhaenyra recognised who it was and smiled. 

The larger green one was Vermax and the smaller yet still very big white one was Arrax and mounted upon the two dragons' backs were Rhaenyra’s sons Jace and Luke, who returned from their venture to Aquos Dhaen.

As the two dragons landed, Rhaenyra saw her younger boys being held at bay by the dragonkeepers as they were jumping up and down with joy at Jace and Luke’s return and trying to abandon their lessons.

Rhaenyra then scooped Daenys up so she could see over the railing of the cliff and watch as her two eldest brothers dismounted their dragons which only made her more excited.

“It seems we’ll have two more seats at the table for lunch,” Rhaenyra said as she carried Daenys off to find the staircase down so that they might greet Jace and Luke and welcome them home.

Chapter Text

Today is the day, Adreq thought to himself.

Over a year of being dismissed, laughed at, called mad, naive, foolish or jestful, but now they would see, they would all see.

The living witness — the first mate who had been brought to him — would be the crowning piece in Adreq’s evidence. 

He was no fool; he knew that there would still be some who rejected his findings and called them forgeries and bribed witnesses, but there were still some families, old and powerful, who had shown interest in his claims and were willing to entertain his proposition if more evidence were found. 

Adreq had also been currying favour through his cousins and old friends in Yunkai and Astapor, using favours and debts to rally voices willing to support him among the Wise Masters and the Good Masters, but he would need to secure a majority vote among his own people, the Great Masters for his expedition to go underway.

The time of glory was close at hand. Soon, the world would change forever when the secret to the West was uncovered and the power claimed by the hidden empire was claimed by the Ghiscari for themselves. 

It all started with rumours, whisperings of dragons cast against the shadows of the sky during lightning flashes as sailors passed the storms around the Doom. 

Such whispers first reached Adreq’s ear over two years ago when he spoke to the captain of a silk trader ship under Adreq’s employ when his old friend Gamdar zo Ullhor lost four slave ships on the crossing from Astapor to Volantis.

Adreq’s trader ship was following the same route on the same night, and Adreq wished to know if his captain saw anything.

What the captain gave him was a ghost story about seeing Gadmar’s slave ships in the distance during a night storm and then losing sight of them. The captain never saw the ships again but did spy the shadows of dragons imprinted upon the clouds in flashes of lightning.

When Adreq was moved to anger, thinking the captain was mocking him, Adreq went to the crew of the trader ship and demanded testimonials from several of them.

Each man swore upon his own mother that they saw the flashes of dragons in the storm, one even deigning to claim he saw a glimpse of light in the distance like a flame believing it to be the far-off spray of a dragon’s breath and thus unless it was a well-rehearsed lie, Adreq had no cause to doubt that all men would come to such madness. 

From there, Adreq found intrigue and curiosity and began to delve deeper.

He spoke with the harbour masters and the archivists at the halls of lore to discover that since the mad Empress Rhaenyra vanished into the Doom, there had been a steady spike of ships going missing on the trade route that navigated around the Doom, beginning in the months following the Targaryen exiles going to Valyria.

Ships had always gone missing at sea either from storms or from pirates, and sailors had already spun the growth in lost ships off as a ghost story of Rhaenyra Targaryen’s vengeful spirit. 

However, Adreq had found what others had overlooked, a small detail he discovered while combing through the records in the Astapor Hall of Lore. 

Almost the entirety of the ships that had gone missing around the Doom since the increase in lost vessels were all slave ships. A variable that probably went undetected because slave ships were by far the most popular cargo between Slaver’s Bay and the Free Cities, yet still there were plenty of merchant vessels selling other materials and goods, yet their record of lost ships was as it had been in the years before the lost fleet of the Targaryen Empress.

As he continued, the more Adreq looked, the more he found. 

Many different ships had been passing through the trade route at the time of the slave vessel disappearances, many of them claiming to have seen dragons in the storms, always in the dark night of a storm. 

Adreq’s findings even went beyond such testimonials with him speaking to sailors who had claimed to have sailed into the mists of the Doom after being driven off course and seeing the shores of Valyria with their own living eyes, though not seeing any signs of life beyond the misty shores of the Freehold’s lands. Some such sailors even boasted such claims from the time before Rhaenyra’s fleet set off into the Doom and some claimed to see great sea serpents and flying dragon-like sea creatures. 

Yet for those who claimed to have seen Valyria, there were few and all were dismissed as liars and fools by all who heard their tales, but not by Adreq. 

Adreq’s first physical piece of evidence to the theory he had been formulating was a ragged cloth flag one of his informants purchased from the markets in Astapor and brought back to him in his palace in Meereen. 

A red flag, the colours darkened from an unknown period of time in the sea, marked with a black triskelion with three dragon heads at the end of each spiral. 

Not a single kingdom, city, or dominion in the known world bore such a flag, nor did any pirate crew or sea-fairing guild, yet the flag had been discovered by a passing ship that fished it out of the waters south of the Doom.

While unique and original in design, the imagery was similar to the heraldry of the Targaryen kings in Westeros.

After discovering the flag, in his hubris and zeal, Adreq went before the council of the Great Masters of Meereen, where he presented all his evidence.

The records of lost slave ships, the salvaged flag, the testimonies of the dragons and then Adreq concluded that Rhaenyra Targaryen and her people were alive and thriving in Valyria as they had claimed they would and had been poaching the slaves of the Ghis as they had done to the Volantene, Tyroshi, Myrish and Lyseni, but while the slaves from the Free Cities were bought and emancipated, the slaves from Slaver’s Bay were raided and stolen. 

And when all had been said, how did half the Great Masters of Meereen respond to him? How did they treat him for seeing what they had not? They laughed at him, they mocked him, and in the days that came, his name became a name of foolishness.

His name — Adreq zo Loraq —was laughed at.

It was enraging, disgusting, and infuriating. It made Adreq want to kill all those sceptics who had spoken ill of him and dismissed his claims. His name meant too much to be mocked by the likes of them. His name was supposed to mean something.

The name of Loraq was a blessed gift to be bestowed with at birth but also a heavy burden when one of such lineage possessed ambition in their hearts. 

Since childhood, when Adreq dreamt of carving an immortal name for himself to be remembered through the ages, he had been haunted by the shadow of his scions cast over him and keeping him buried in the dark. Mazdhan the Magnificent, Hazrak the Handsome and Zharaq the Liberator. 

What was he to the likes of them? Not but an inheritor of their legacy, but Adreq craved to be far more than a mere carrier of the Loraq name and blood. 

Adreq had always been a hungry man, one who aspired to be seen and respected by those around him, his name preceding him for its own merits and not just the weight that his family name provided, and so Adreq spent his life shaping himself.

Through the years, Adreq had grown up in Meereen and visited all the facets of Slaver’s Bay and the ruins of Old Ghis as well as visited Volantis and his relatives in Tolos and Elyria to truly understand the culture of his people and all that constructed their way of life from the lowliest slave to the highest master.

Adreq had studied, trained — and when needed, even killed — to become the man he was. And in time, just as he shaped himself into his greatest form, so too did he shape his house. 

Ye,t when he tried to stick his head out from beneath the sand and make his mark, half his peerage turned on him and dismissed him.

So readily the other houses mocked his name, the Pahls, the Merreqs, the Zhaks, Naqqans and Reznaks. Foolish Adreq, Adreq and his fairytales, gullible Adreq.

They penalised him for seeing more than they did, for looking beyond the truths they clung to because they were more obvious and perhaps more comforting. 

What Adreq knew to be true about the Hidden Empire was more terrifying to them than preposterous. A year is a long time, let alone three. 

Who was to say how much power the Targaryen Exiles had scrounged from the ashes of the Freehold?

Now was the time to act, and so they would know that he spoke truly. Not all of them, maybe not even half of them, but at least enough of them. Enough to raise a fleet and challenge the Doom’s existence. 

It was time to see if Rhaenyra Targaryen was not the Fool Empress she had been slandered as but rather a wise trickster who had conned the world into thinking her dead as she accumulated the greatest power in the known world in secret.

Before leaving his palace that morning, Adreq had his slaves drape him in his most luxurious tokar, one of burgundy, with a golden stripe and a fringe of golden beads.

The design of the tokar was derived by the ancient Ghiscari from the styles of the valyrian togas that their overlords impressed upon them during the age of the Freehold. 

Ghiscari fashion had always been about displaying prominence and glory, to show how much greater the masters were compared to the commoners and slaves beneath them so it was only natural that they would adapt to Valyrian styles, recognising through their crushing defeats under the dragonlords that they were the superior masters and thus the masters of Slaver’s Bay wished to take the trappings of supremacy as their own, grasping at power greater than what they could attain.

Yet, that might not be the case for much longer.

If Adreq was successful, then the powers of Valyria, their sorcery, riches and quite possibly their dragons, if they could uncover the secrets of how the silver-haired inbreeders mastered the winged beasts in the first place — it could all belong to Ghis if Adreq was successful.

Perhaps when all this was over when Adreq had won and taken all the power of Valyria for himself, both Valyria and Ghis would be his.

But such were speculations for another day, for now, he needed to focus on the first steps rather than the final destination on this road of power he tread along.

All the while Adreq had been contemplating these matters of power and prospects for the future, he had been sitting patiently and quietly, a face in the crowd of the Audience Chamber of the Great Pyramid of Meereen. 

One of the hundreds of masters sitting in the bleachers as his peers argued and debated on various matters.

Trade deals with the Free Cities, Dothraki raiders, farmer crop yields, exchange rates, the public games in the fighting pits and weekly reports of developments in their sister cities of Yunkai and Astapor. 

Mundane trivialities of the administrative senate of the Masters of Meereen. 

Sitting atop his stone throne as he presided over the senate meeting was Master Alkas zo Naqqans, who was voted as the Presiding Master for the next three years, adjudicating and overseeing the democratic management of the city of Meereen.

Alkas was old, fat and grey-bearded and was among the many who laughed at Adreq and his claims about Valyria and the Hidden Empire that Adreq knew to be real.

Eventually, the prattling of minuscule administrative matters was passed along the agenda until finally, it was Adreq’s turn to present himself and his case. 

Master Alkas then cracked the stone palm gavel against the arm of his chair three times, filling the chamber with loud attention-seizing bangs as the two debating Masters who had been talking before returned to their seats.

“Silence! Silence! Next on the agenda, we have… Master Adreq zo Loraq, speaking on matters unspecified,” Alkas announced, speaking Adreq’s name and the matters he wished to discuss with such contempt in his voice that made his sycophants and the other naysayers in the Audience Hall chortle and giggle, yet little did Alkas know, he was a key piece in Adreq’s presentation.

As Adreq rose from his seat, shuffled down his aisle and walked down the steps towards the open centre of the chamber, he was heckled by the snide comments of his opponents who garnered cheap laughs from the others.

“More ghost stories about dragons for us, Loraq?” one said.

“Or perhaps you wish to raise an army to fight the mermaids this time?” another added.

Adreq chose to ignore such childish comments, knowing that at least a handful of those Masters who sneered at him would be moved to the fence of his argument, contemplating if it were true or not and perhaps one or two might be won over.

But whatever the result, if Adreq were finally able to convince at least a handful of those who showed intrigue in his propositions but required more evidence, he would have all he needed to lead a fleet to investigate Valyrria. 

Not a big enough fleet to take the continent, perhaps, especially if the Empress had gained power, but enough to prove that Valyria was alive and report back to the Masters of Slaver’s Bay so that the full power and force of Old Ghis could be brought down on the Targaryen’s infantile empire.

On that day, those who mocked and doubted Adreq would return to him, contrite and seeking absolution for their transgressions against him, bowing before him and kissing his feet.

At the bottom of the bleachers, Adreq took up a position at a stone podium, placing him in the view of all the Masters of Meereen.

Master Loraq then glanced back to the entrance of the Audience Chamber and nodded to his majordomo, who stood by one of the smaller side doors and then exited the Audience Hall to fetch the testimonies and the evidence that Adreq planned to present.

Adreq then turned and faced the Masters that surrounded him and cleared his throat.

“Great Masters of Meereen. Honoured Adjudicator Master Alkas zo Naqqens. I come before you to resurrect a claim I have presented before this council of Masters before. The matter of the prospect of Valyria,” Adreq announced, followed by immediate groans, bloats and laughs by the Masters until Alkas silenced them with his gavel, but not until the noises were clear enough for Adreq to hear the scorn.

“This is a place of politics and reason, yet you wish to waste our time with more of your damnable fairy tales,” one of them Masters interjected, standing to his feet.

“Let him talk!” One of Adreq’s few supporters interjected from the opposing side of the bleachers. 

“Hear him out!” another master who was still undecided on Adreq’s claims added.

Alkas reclaimed control of the room and brought silence to the chamber with his demands and with his gavel, and once again, Adreq was free to speak. 

“Yes. I understand that my gathered testimonies from over thirty witnesses and my records from our very own halls of lore were less than substantiating to the satisfaction of this council, but a year has passed, and I believe now my case has all it needs to show stronger merit,” Adreq announced.

With everything he said, he received more heckling laughs and taunts from his peers.

“I have… new records from this past year which show a continued depletion of our slave ships that travel between Astapor and Volantis while our other ships remain undamaged in their voyage. I have twelve witnesses who claimed to see or hear traces of dragons or sea battles along the same routes upon which our ships were lost. I have three material items to present to this council and one… very special and very unique witness to show you,” Adreq explained.

Master Alkas sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly already dismissing all evidence that Adreq would present as mere falsehoods and fabrication, but the presiding master was obligated to review all evidence regardless. 

“Proceed,” Alkas responded.

Adreq’s majordomo then began bringing the witnesses in one at a time to give their testimony and answer questions, denying having been bribed to give false claims by Adreq and then left and thus the cycle went on until all witnesses had said their piece.

A great deal of testimony spread out all through the year but still just sailors' claims of shadows, noises and distant sightings, but those who Adreq hoped to convince seemed invested in their words, many of them stroking their beards and leaning forward.

Next, it came time for the material evidence. 

First, a pair of Adreq’s slaves came in and presented the gathered masters with the red flag of the three-headed dragon spiral marked with valyrian script.

“Behold, Great Masters of Meereen. Once again I present to you the flag fished by sailors from the waters along the shipping lanes we have discussed so comprehensively. When I first showed this flag to this council, I asked them to note the iconography of a three-headed dragon in the colours of red and black, mirroring that of the crest of House Targaryen. Furthermore, note the Valyrian scripting here and here on the flag. After much study, I have concluded that this is the standard of the Valyrian Empire.”

The flag was perhaps the strongest piece of evidence in Adreq's first case, but it wasn't enough to convince them a year ago and it wouldn't be enough now.

“We've already been over this! It's a fabrication! A ploy! Anyone could hire a seamster to make such a flag and then scrub it with sea water until it looked tattered and murky,” one of the opposers declared. 

Adreq shook his head but then smirked and faced his challenger.

“A fabrication, you say? Why would I need or want a fabrication? Do you think me suicidal? That this entire ploy is my intent to sail into the Doom and bring myself and the rest of us to our deaths? If this is a fabrication, as you say, then that would mean I do not believe in the words that I have been telling you all this time. So, which am I? A misguided fool, as you have claimed? Or a manipulator who wishes to kill himself elaborately? Or perhaps I am neither, in which case, this flag had to have come from somewhere,” Adreq pointed out, silencing the master who challenged him.

“Next item!” Adreq called as his two slaves took the flag away, and then four more brought in a piece of driftwood.

“A floating hunk of wood found in the sea, similar to the flag though a few months earlier. The sailors brought it aboard their vessel because they noted it looked to be part of the railing of a ship, near the bow, to be exact. They found no sign of the ship in question, so they took the wood to the harbour masters in Astapor to find out if the ship came from any of their dockworkers. Not only did the harbour masters not recognise the ship’s make, but they also had the wood itself appraised and identified it as valyrian cedar. Strong and as light and used to make Valyrian triremes and quinquiremes,” Adreq announced. 

The men began to murmur again, more seeming swayed to second-guess their assumptions.

“Any here who doubt me, I permit to visit me in my palace and bring whatever loremasters and archivists they wish to appraise the wood and identify its material,” Adreq invited. 

The wood was then carried away, and the next and last item was brought in.

“Lastly. The most impressive piece of evidence. Found by sailors, identified by my informants, bought and brought to me and at last, examined, embalmed and preserved,” Adreq announced as the masters turned to shock and awe and rose from their seats as they saw more of Adreq’s slaves bring the item in.

The body of some form of beast, like a strange cross between a sothyrosi crocodile and a dragon, with wings, no neck, a long snout and a longer finned tail, covered in scales. 

The beast was half decomposed in certain areas of its body when Adreq found it and had it preserved with bone and underlying flesh showing in certain parts.

“A seabeast… both draconic and aquatic in nature. Found thirteen leagues east of the mists of Valyria with two harpoons in its gut. We have surmised that this creature is indigenous to Valyria, perhaps some form of draconic sub-breed or mutation and Rhaenyra’s people were hunting it for sport or for food. Whatever the truth, the crew sold the creature’s carcass to me and has been waiting for my call to testify to how they found it,” Adreq explained.

Next, the crew of the ship that captured the carcass came in and told how they found it floating southward from the mists of Valyria and hauled it ashore before being dismissed and the preserved carcass being taken out.

“Of course, I will welcome any of you Great masters to visit my palace with whatever experts you wish to bring and examine the creature up close,” Adreq explained.

As the creature was carried out, not a single voice was left laughing or mocking Adreq; at least half the Masters had been swayed to his side, and those who had most staunchly opposed him were now contemplating and measuring the value in his claims.

Even the adjudicator, Master Alkas, looked puzzled and uncomfortable, seeming to weigh the severity of Adreq’s claims.

But Adreq was not yet finished; now that the case had been made, it was time for the final blow, to knock Alkas off his seat — at least metaphorically — and rally his supporters.

“If it would please the council, I have one last witness I wish to present to you,” Adreq declared.

Alkas, who seemed a bit more respectful to Adreq’s words now that he had seen all his evidence, timidly nodded his head.

Adreq signalled his majordomo, who brought in another witness, a weak and sickly looking man dressed in finaries gifted to him by Adreq as he had been healing in Adreq’s palace for the past two nights.

The man was a sailor with his skin blistered from his time adrift at sea a little over a week and a half ago.

The poor sailor was guided by Adreq’s majordomo to the centre of the chamber.

As the man approached, Alkas stood up with a surprised look on his face.

“Do you recongise this man, Master Alkas?” Adreq prompted, trying to hide his smile.
Alkas was slow to talk, but eventually, he spoke up.

“This— This man is the first mate aboard one of my Slave Trade vessels. I personally went to Astapor two weeks ago to see the ships off. I met all five captains and their first mates. What is he doing here? He should be in Volantis by now.” Master Alkas declared, enraged.

Now, Adreq had Alkas.

Adreq had acquired all the testimonials, witnesses, records and the material evidence months ago, but he was waiting for one final piece, something big to drive home his case, and it arrived to him in the form of the first mate, Rikkin.

“I’m afraid those ships never reached Volanits,” Adreq explained, much to the distress of Alkas.

“Go on, Rikkin, tell your story,” Adreq invited him.

The haggard sailor looked around the chamber, stuttered his words and finally spoke up.

“I— I am — my name is Rikkin, and I was the first mate to Captain Azmar, who commanded a fleet of five slave vessels in the employ of Master Alkas zo Naqqens,” Rikkin said as he pointed to the master presiding over the council.

“As I understand it, Rikkin, you were sent off from Astapor with your fleet to deliver a batch of slaves to our friends in Volantis who would then be spread around the Free Cities, why is it that four days into your journey, you were found drifting in the sea by a passing trader ship heading back to Astapor?” asked Adreq.

Rikkin’s lip quivered before he spoke.

“The — the captain… he did not believe the stories. Everyone knew that the Doom had only become more dangerous since the Targaryen fleet tempted fate. But the captain used the old outdated route anyway… we crossed paths with a storm on our horizon… and that’s when it happened,” he said in distress.

“When what happened?” Adreq asked, urigng the story forward for the Great Masters to hear.

“The dragons attacked! Two of them! They took our masts to leave us stranded and then warships, Old Valyrian triremes marked with black three-headed dragons spiralling on blood-red sails,” Rikkin announced. 

The chamber filled up with murmurs, and Rikkin was dismissed and taken away by Adreq’s people.

Alkas went pale, finally hearing corroboration from a man in his own employ that he knew to have nothing to do with Adreq before that day.

What luck it was that Adreq’s informants in Astapor found Rikkin and brought him back to Meereen where he was treated the two days for his injuries.

“And there you have it! I tell you now in public without fear of your mockery and dismissal, Rhaenyra Targaryen and her Empire yet live! They dwell in the lands of Valyria as they claimed they would and have played the world for fools as they have feigned their deaths! All the while under the cloak of their non-existence, this empire has stolen from us! Seizing our slave vessels, taking our cargo of living flesh and liberating it, probably to fill their own meager citizenry.”

Adreq left his podium and began to pace around the chamber.

“What happens when this dragon empress is no longer a beggar, surviving on the scraps of stolen slaves? When she has enough followers to raise legions against us? Will she then stop stealing from us and killing our sailors? I do not think so! The Freehold will begin anew! Stealing our lands and our trades and reducing the proud people of Ghis to vassals once again,” Adreq declared.

“Have we forgotten that the lands of Ghis were not always a desert wasteland? Once, our homeland flourished with life before the dragonlords unleashed their forbidden weapons upon us. The stave of Pestilence and the Warhorn of Shattering Dispair! Weapons that this trickster empress may well now possess and mean to wield against us. I say we defend ourselves and challenge these Dragonlords while they are weak. They would not hide from us if they were strong enough to challenge us, so let us take Valyria, and this time Ghis will rule supreme!” Adreq announced.

More than half the audience hall erupted into cheers as the Great Masters of Meereen praised Adreq, now ready to follow him to Valyria and lead him to what he sought.

Power and Glory.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra drummed her fingers upon the table as she thought for a moment, contemplating how best to counter her opponents’ acquisition of her king. 

In a traditional game of chess, the taking of the King would mean the game was over, but in the games they played, they amended the rules to suit their sensibilities, making Kings move like Queens and Queens move like Kings and switching the value of the two pieces as well.

As two women, two Queens — or rather a Dowager Queen Consort and an Empress — what better avatar could Rhaenyra and Alicent have?

After all that was how a king worked, not as a traditional chess piece but as an avatar, a place holder, for the player themselves. 

When Rhaenyra was a child, she asked her father why a king was not the most powerful piece in the game. He explained to her that Jaehaerys told him that the king is powerful in other ways — the King commands his subjects and tells them where to move, but the king himself can only move as far as his feet can take him — therefore, the king’s piece is merely a representation of the players body on the board and when the king dies the player dies in the game as well. But, despite the king seeming weak by the limited places he can move, the power of the King to command his subjects lets him be in sixteen places at once and move like a rook, a septon or a knight twice at a time, move like a pawn eight times over, move like a Queen and move like a King.

Therefore, Rhaenyra and Alicent made the Queens their avatars on the field, for that was what they were and Rhaenyra had duplicated the process when she played chess with Princess Rhaenys as well. 

Alicent sat across from Rhaenyra at a small round table in Alicent’s tower chamber, her well-furnished prison cell while she remained a political prisoner in the Empire of Valyria. 

A gilded cage in truth, but Rhaenyra had done her best to make sure she was content. 

Her needs were met when she requested things, she was aloud to leave her chamber but was restricted to where she could go and always followed by armed guard and Rhaenyra regularly visited her and sometimes brought Daenys whom she adored or Gaemon who she had become very attached to, but Rhaenyra forbid her from ever revealing anything to Gaemon about his lineage. 

Three years ago, when Rhaenyra, Daemon and Rhaenys were shown the Conqueror’s Dream and enlightened to how inescapable the Song of Ice and Fire was and how one day, the coming darkness in the North would bind together the fate of all Targaryens, both Black and Green, Valyrian and Westerosi. 

To mend the bonds between her and her brothers and break down the barriers, it was Rhaenyra’s hope — though perhaps a vain hope — that Alicent might prove a vital tool to repairing their bonds, if used properly. 

Given all the bad blood between them, sometimes Rhaenyra wondered if the kindness she showed Alicent was genuine and if she was truly finding reconciliation with her friend or if in the depths of her heart where she dared not look she deep down believed there was true ending the strife between them and what Rhaenyra was presenting was merely a farce, a deception necessary to steering Alicent to aid the healing between the children of Viserys.

Rhaenyra hoped such was not true, for she did not wish to carry such hate in her heart without hope of closure and peace.

“Your move, Rhaenyra,” Alicent reminded the Empress as she rested her elbows on the table and interlocked her fingers, a confident glint in her eyes.

“Don’t rush me. Unless you’ve seen something you're worried I’ll spot,” Rhaenyra suggested.

“Or perhaps you're just stalling. You only have a limited amount of time with me before you must tend to your Imperial Council,” Alicent teased.

Rhaenyra smirked and reexamined the board. 

Finally, she settled on a move and took the septon piece and moved it diagonally on the board to take Alicent’s knight and put her in check. 

“Well, I’m afraid my hands are tied in such matters. It will be a busy week with the wedding tomorrow,” Rhaenyra explained. 

“Yes, I’ve heard a great deal of chatter about it all on my visits to the palace gardens and the sept. I hear it is going to be a grandiose spectacle, one to far surpass the Golden Wedding itself,” Alicent replied, quickly moving her ruling queen piece to rook two, removing herself from check.

“If you wish, I could still put you in the attendance in the Jaesrion for the ceremony… and find you seatings at some of the feasts and games,” Rhaenyra suggested.

Rook to queen’s rook three. Check again.

Alicent released a gentle laugh.

“Come now, Rhaenyra. Do not patronise my understanding of politics after all these years. You may keep your generous offer of attendance, as much as it is only a formality. To put me in any of the wedding festivities is to put yourself in a great deal of aggravation and exhaustion. Everytime I leave this chamber, no matter how closely stalked I am by my guards, I feel the damning glares of your vassals and your household upon me, the unwelcome interloper from the court of the Greens. I know to be anywhere near your children’s wedding is to invite spite and scorn and any who I would be seated amongst would surly take insult at my presence which you would have to deal with. Therefore I shall formally decline your offer if only to spare you your sanity, Rhaenyra,” Alicent declared.

Septon to rook three. Check escaped once more on Alicent’s part, blocking her queen from Rhaenyra’s rook with her septon.

“Well, you’ll be able to see plenty of the festivities from your chamber. The streets will be filled with music and celebration,” Rhaenyra declared, glancing past Alicent’s shoulder to the open doors of her balcony-like terrace overlooking the city and the whole of the valley of the Dragonlords.

Rhaenyra then took Alicent’s blocking septon with one of her own, but Alicent countered, moving her rook to septon four. 

“I take no pleasure in making you a pariah of my empire, Alicent. Though I shall admit that there was a certain sweet vindictiveness that came from you receiving such disdain after so many years spreading insults of bastardry against my sons and I, yet that little vengeful pleasure lost its flavour a while ago,” Rhaenyra admitted as she took Alicent’s rook with her own.

“Hmm… I know the feeling well. In previous years, I was too high and mighty to admit it, but I did take pleasure in shaming you and your sons in my resentments towards you. Even the desecration of Targaryen heraldry and valyrian tapestries and frescos in the Red Keep was meant to spite you upon your inevitable return in a form of small and subtle vengeance for Aemond’s eye. It was my intent to damn you by making you feel an outsider in your own home when you saw it styled to Oldtown rather than to its natural state,” Alicent replied, taking Rhaenyra’s attacking rook with one of her pawns.

Septon to septon seven. 

King takes knight pawn, putting Rhaenyra’s Queen in check, but she quickly slid it into the corner of the board at rook one.

“I like to think we’ve since outgrown our old fueds. Perhaps all the ugliness of those twenty years we spent warring amongst ourselves with allies, marriages, rumors and slights could have easier been resolved had we simply just waged our war on a board such as this,” Rhaenyra suggested.

Alicent smirked at such a notion.

“The fate of the Iron Throne to be decided not by lines of succession, great councils or a king’s assertions but instead by a game of chess. A far more civilised idea I agree, though I fear that might have all but guaranteed your own loss of the throne,” Alicent gloated as she moved her king forward five squares, taking one of Rhaenyra’s defending pawns and leaving her queen trapped beneath two pawns. 

Mate in one, or so Alicent believed.
“I’m afraid you’d be wrong on that account,” Rhaenyra declared, moving another piece.

Septon to septon seven, checkmate.

Alicent was so focused on the tantalising notion of putting Rhaenyra’s queen in checkmate that she removed her king from being able to protect her queen and forgot that it was Rhaenyra’s septon that was blocking her rook from the queen. 

After realising her error, Alicent smirked and turned away, shaking her head with a smile on her face.

“Good game,” Rhaenyra asserted as she leaned back in her chair smuggly. 

Alicent softly threw her hands in the air in surrender.

“It appears your skills as a chess player have sharpened equally to your skills as a swordswoman,” Alicent complimented, making light of Rhaenyra’s other vocation.

Since becoming Empress, Rhaenyra had long felt that she needed to project more strength as a leader, not just as a ratifier of laws but also as a commander of legions and to that end, she had given herself to a great deal of study in military history and taken up the pursuit of learning arms.

An hour in the morning and an hour at night almost every day for the past three years.

Shortly before Daenys’s birth, Rhaenyra had her cousin, Maekar of the Smithing Guild, craft a pair of fresh-forged valyrian steel swords as heirlooms of authority for the future Emperors and Empresses of Valyria. 

Anogarys, the bastard sword, was granted to Daemon as the sword of the Emperors, meanwhile, Miliqelos, the arming sword, was taken up by Rhaenyra as the sword of the Empresses. 

After recovering from the birth of Daenys, Rhaenyra began training in swordcraft under her Dragonknights and learning the skills necessary to wield her blade. 

She would never be a great swordswoman, she might not even be a good swordswoman, but she would be adept at least, and she would not be helpless if danger lurked her way.

None could say of Rhaenyra that she carried Miliqelos around like a decorative sceptre as her father did with Blackfyre. In Rhaenyra’s hands, her sword would be a tool of war just as it would if it were grasped by any man.

Sometimes, Rhaenyra would look up to the tallest towers of the palace and see Alicent spying from her balcony as the Empress trained with her knights in the arts of warfare. 

“If you wish to test your own skill, then perhaps I could have you brought down to the courtyards and grant you a wooden sword if you would fancy it?” Rhaenyra suggested.

Alicent scoffed, seeming to think Rhaenyra was jesting of such matters and perhaps she was a bit.

“Forgive me, but while you seem to have taken a liking to combat, my view on clanging swords about remains a tasteless and barbaric affair,” the hostage Queen dismissed.

“I dismissed it with such simplicity myself when I first began my practices, and Ser Harrold took my legs out from under me for my hubris. In truth, swordcraft is much the same as chess; anticipation and misdirection, though with the added exhilarance of agility and danger,” Rhaenyra replied. 

“Well, after seeing my brothers Arland and Garth run about in circles chasing each other with wooden swords as Gwayne tried to settle them, all swordsmanship just looked like needless violence to me,” Alicent responded.

Rhaenyra recalled being there with Alicent as a child, watching her brother spar in the bailey of the Red Keep with the Master-at-Arms.

That would have been shortly before Alicent’s brothers were sent back to Oldtown to squire and page for their uncles and cousins.

In Rhaenyra’s recollections, during the years since Alicent’s brothers departed for Oldtown, their visits to King’s Landing and her own visits to Oldtown were few and far between.

Rhaenyra recalled that the last time she had seen any of Alicent’s brothers was when Arland and Garth visited King’s Landing for Aemond’s second nameday, and Rhaenyra also remembered Alicent visiting Oldtown to attend the funeral of her uncle, Lord Hobert Hightower.

If Alicent saw her brothers again after that, during the years when Rhaenyra and Daemon dwelled on Dragonstone, she could not say.

Alicent had told Rhaenyra that her eldest brother Gwayne was in King’s Landing serving as Commander of the City Watch, but as far as Rhaenyra knew, Alicent had not seen her other brothers in years.

“I… imagine you miss them quite deeply,” Rhaenyra said hesitantly, trying to offer comfort to Alicent if it was needed.

Alicent paused for a moment with a melancholic look upon her face. 

“I miss them all. My brothers. My father. My children… yet I cannot leave,” Alicent declared as she looked sharply at Rhaenyra, for it was the Empress who kept Alicent reluctantly concealed in her hidden empire, far from her family. 

It was true; Rhaenyra was the source of the ire Alicent felt in her imprisonment. It was by Rhaenyra’s will alone that Alicent was kept from her family while they were left to think her dead, and while she did not take pleasure in Alicent’s situation, she did not regret it.

Rhaenyra’s Empire was still a fledgling yet to take flight, she needed more time.

Rhaenyra had once told Alicent to expect ten years before she might see home again, but in recent revision, Rhaenyra believed that should the productivity and growth of their Empire were to maintain its current course of the past three years, then in the next two to four years, she might be released.

Yet if not, then that was what fate would have for them, as Rhaenyra was unwilling to compromise the safety and prosperity of the empire for Alicent’s sake alone, nor would she be expected to make such a sacrifice.

“Yes well… some things can’t be helped,” Rhaenyra stated, arresting Alicent’s contemptuous commentary of her confinement. 

Before their friendly game of chess could devolve into argument — which they had had plenty of over the past three years — a sharp knock on Alicent’s chamber door came.

“Come,” Rhaenyra called out before Alicent had a chance to speak, reminding the hostage who was in charge between the two of them.

Rhaenyra turned her head to see Ser Harrold Westerling emerging through the door. 

“Your Majesty. Your Grace,” the old knight greeted.

“What is it Ser Harrold?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Forgive my intrusion, but we are expected at the council soon, Your Majesty,” Ser Harrold explained.

Rhaenyra sighed and nodded her head.

“Forgive me, Alicent, but it seems I must be off,” Rhaenyra declared, rising to her feet, but Alicent would not even look at her in acknowledgement, once again pouting in misery at her condition. 

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes and departed but stopped in her tracks a few paces from the door. 

The Empress was easily flustered by Alicent’s arbitrary bitterness at her imprisonment, which came and went whenever she pleased over the past three years, but if Rhaenyra were kept from her own children for so long against her will, she might be the very same.

“How about I bring Gaemon to see you tomorrow?” Rhaenyra asked, offering an olive branch. 

Alicent turned to meet Rhaenyra’s gaze with gentle vulnerability in her eyes.

“Your Majesty,” Alicent said respectfully as she bowed her head, and in those two words was both a thank you and a good day but also an apology for her impertenence. 

Gaemon may have been a lowborn bastard, unrecongised by Aegon with the lustful drunkard probably not even remembering Gaemon’s mother’s name let alone knowing of his existence, but Alicent — who had expressed to Rhaenyra and her children her disgust for bastards — had grown to treasure Gaemon more deeply than anything else in Valyria.

Daemon suggested that perhaps Gaemon’s dragon made him more appealing to Alicent, but Rhaenyra knew that she was merely clinging to the only family she had in the entirety of the Empire. 

With Alicent left contented, Rhaenyra departed the chamber and descended the many flights of stairs in the tower.

After leaving the tower where Alicent was being kept, they continued on through the palace to the chamber of the Imperial Council. 

On her way to the chamber, she was joined along the walk by Grand Wisdom Gerardys, dressed in grey robes with a stole of heavy fabric marked with valyrian glyphs and his old maester’s chain around his neck, now repurposed as a loremaster’s chain. 

Under his arms were several scrolls and books bundled together.

“Good day, Grand Wisdom,” Rhaenyra greeted. 

“Your Majesty. Ser Harrold,” Gerardys greeted in reply as he joined them on their approach towards the council chamber.

“Can I offer to lighten your burden?” Rhaenyra offered with her hands outstretched, seeing the books and scrolls in her advisor's arms.

“Oh, no, it’s quite alright,” Gerardys replied, reshuffling his scrolls and books to a more comfortable position in his arms.

“So what prey tell will the topics for today's council meeting be?” Rhaenyra asked as she walked with Grand Wisdom Gerardys, who gently laughed in reponse.

“Mostly just finalising the finishing touches for the wedding tomorrow. We’ve taken care of most everything else to free up time so that we might put all our focus on the festivites,” the old wisdom explained.

The long expected wedding was near at hand and tomorrow Jace and Baela would take their vows in the Jaesrion before the priests of the Gods of Valyria.

It was because of the wedding that Baela would be absent from the council meeting, observing the rituals and blessings of a dragonlady at the Jaesarion.

The Valyrian Cult had been growing in followers and clergy since their arrival in Valyria, but the priests were yet to resurrect every single faset of the multiple sects and divisions of the Valyrian faith.

In the time of the Freehold, the matremonials ceremonies of the women of the forty dragonlording houses would be handled by a sect of priestesses called the sisters of Meleys, acolytes of the goddess of love. 

But there was not yet any sisters of Meleys, so the Shrykosi Maidens imitated their duties for Baela’s prenuptial ceremonies.

The Shrykosi Maidens were an collegium of six virgin priestesses in service to the Goddess Shrykos. They practiced rites, prayers and rituals and were regarded as the six most prominent preistesses in Valyria. 

They were a cultural fixture in the Faith of the Freehold, spiritual figureheads, idols of purity and prosperity. 

It was said that their virtue and their spirituality were the pillars upon which Valyria’s glory rested and so long as they remained faithful and resplendent, year after year Shrykos, the Goddess of change, transition and the turning of the years, would give her favour to Valyria with every year that passed. 

After the Doom, the Shrykosi Maidens were among the many attributed for the calamity with baseless claims of them failing in their duties as priestesses and falling to corruption — of course — but such stories were not but baseless scapegoats.

In any event, the order of priestesses had been reformed from six fair and youthful maidens who had fallen in love with the Faith of the Fourteen Flames. Three of them were silver-haired descendants of Valyria born commoners on Dragonstone and Driftmark, while the others were converts from the Faith of the Seven in Westeros.

Empress Rhaenyra, Ser Harrold and Grand Wisdom Gerardys arrived at the Imperial Council Chamber, where a pair of onyx black valyrian sphinxes sat sejant upon pillars.

Inside the chamber was a long stone crescent table consisting of two parallel long arms stretched out on either side, similar to a horseshoe. 

The table was styled the same as the old council table they used when they held council in Telos at the Empire’s infancy. 

In the alcoves around the chamber were statues of the great valyrians of old, as well as examples of leadership watching over them as the council deliberated, both legendary leaders of the Freehold and Targaryen Dragonlords and Kings. 

Valyrion the Founder, Perganon the Great, Matavar the Wise, Rahaegarys the Mighty, Aenar the Exile, Gaemon the Glorious, Aegon the Conqueror and Jaehaerys the Conciliator, to name a few.

Lord Lysandro Rogare, the Imperial Treasurer and Lord of Draconys, as well as Princess Rhaenys, were already in the chamber waiting for them, though not yet seated.

Princess Rhaena was there too as the Imperial cupbearer, pouring wine for twelve members of the council — their thirteenth and fourteenth being Ser Harold and the sorcerer Raegoth, neither of whom drank for very different reasons and their absent fifteenth being Baela.

“Your Majesty,” Lord Lysandro greeted in High Valyrian as he turned and bowed to Rhaenyra upon her entry with Rhaenys and Rhaena mimicking his greeting by bowing their heads. 

It was by Rhaenyra’s own choice to make it mandatory that whenever they held council meetings, they spoke in High Valyrian. 

The next to arrive in the chamber soon after Rhaenyra was Lord Gunthor Zobrilion, Imperial Conservator and Lord of Telos. 

When he first came to Valyria as one of Rhaenyra’s vassals, his family name was Darklyn, but like many other houses, they took new valyrian names.

When Rhaenyra first named Lord Gunthor as Lord of Telos, there was a bit of unease amongst her essosi vassals with stronger valyrian ties who questioned an Andal house being made lords of one of the seven cities. But in truth, the Darklyns had their own roots in Valyria in their annals.

Gunthor’s mother’s grandmother was a Targaryen and Gunthor’s nephew and heir, Robert Zobrilion, was married to one of Bartimos Celtigar’s granddaughters in recent years and the Zobrilions would hopefully become a pure-blooded valyrian house in the generations to come, possibly of dragon riders. 

After Lord Gunthor, the next to arrive was the Imperial Ambassador, the elderly Lord Simon Doronton — his house name formerly being Staunton in Westeros. 

Then came Lord Gormon Massey, the Imperial Jusitcar, accompanied by Bartimos Celtigar, the Imperial Magistrate and Lord of the city of Rhylos.

The last members of the council all came in one after another in a small cluster.

Lady Mysaria, the White Worm, the Imperial Spymistress; Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Imperial Chancellor, Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy and Lord of Aquos Dhaen; Master Raegoth, the Imperial sorcerer; Crown Prince Jacaerys, the Heir to the Empire; and lastly Rhaenyra’s husband, Emperor Consort Daemon, Warmaster of the Imperial Legion.

Once the entire council was assembled, they took their seats around the table with Rhaenyra sitting in the tallest spined chair at the head.

“Good day, my lords and ladies. Shall we begin today's proceedings?” Rhaenyra suggested as she pulled in her chair and Rhaena brought over her cup of wine.

All the councilors nodded in agreement, and the council meeting began.

“Now, we all know what the primary focus of this meeting will be; tomorrow’s wedding between our Dārilaros Jakaerys and Dārilaros Baela ,” Rhaenyra announced.

The councils banged their hands on the table in applause for Jace as he smiled gleefully about tomorrow’s ceremony.

“Tomorrow, almost all the lords and ladies from all the palaces, towns and cities of the peninsula will be gathered in the Jaesrion for the ceremony. Is everything prepared?” Rhaenyra asked.

“It is, Dairorys. I went to the Jaesrion myself earlier today. All arrangements have been made,” Lord Gunthor assured them.

“And the prizes for the games?” Rhaenyra asked, looking to her treasurer.

“Everything has been collected from the vaults and ready for the winner. Competitions in jousting, chariot racing, horseback racing, melee, gladiatorial games, wargames and beast fighting. For each event, the winner will be awarded one hundred āeksiaposse, and the runner-up will be awarded fifty āeksiaposse,” Lord Lysandro recounted. 

Aeksiaposse were one of the three main coinages in the Empire. An āeksiapos was a gold coin, a gēliapos was a silver coin, and a brāediapos was a bronze coin. One āeksiapos was worth thirty gēliaposse and one thousand four hundred and seventy brāediaposse, while one gēliapos was worth forty-nine brāediaposse. 

A simplistic economic system of Lord Lysandro’s design and a good start for the Empire’s monetary developments.

“If I may, Your Majesty. There seems to be an issue in regards to the seating arrangements for tomorrow night’s wedding feast. It seems the Vezojenys and the Pendaerys families refuse to sit together. Apparently, back when the Vezojenys were still called House Sunglass, members of their house slew kinsmen of the Pendaerys in the Stepstones when they were still a lyseni house,” Lord Celtigar interjected. 

“There is also the matter of the members of four other lesser faiths brought to the Empire from the Free Cities requesting that representatives of their clergies be seated equally with the representatives from the Faith of the Seven and the Worshipers of the Red God,” Grand Wisdom Gerardys added.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes and rubbed her temple at the childish pettiness her nobles and clergymen were subjecting the council’s time too, but nonetheless, it was her duty to handle such matters as Empress.

The council continued to discuss the small matters for hours more as they prepared for tomorrow’s wondrous occasion of the Imperial Wedding.

Chapter Text

Baela floated on her back in the pool, treading the waters softly as she looked at the mural on the ceiling above her. 

The imagery of the mural showed Meleys, the immortal goddess of Love and Fertility, illustrated with shining silver hair and amethyst eyes in her depictions.

An interesting figure in the mythologies of the Freehold, Meleys was the mistress of matrimony and yet she herself was never married, having loved all the gods of Valyria and sired children by them. Of the many minor gods of Valyria, Meleys had sired the second most of all behind the Lady Meraxes herself.

As Baela locked eyes with the goddess of love, she felt vulnerable as the Princess floated naked in the pool. 

While Baela adored the Red Queen, who bore the goddess’s name, she had never shown much favour to the Mistress of Love beyond generalised and impersonal prayers and blessing to the Fourteen.

Everyone knew that Baela counted Vhagar, the war goddess, as her patron deity, yet even so, Baela had shown homage to other goddesses when it suited her.

In her practices of marksmanship with her crossbow, Baela honoured Terrax, Goddess of hunting and the wilderness and daughter of Aegarax and Vhagar. 

In her studies to become a great Empress Consort,she prayed for guidance to Tyraxes, the goddess of Wisdom, knowledge, peace and skill.

But Baela had never shown direct homage to Meleys, for she never felt she needed it. Her love with Jace was theirs alone and the last thing Balea wanted was some god meddling in the matters of their hearts.

Now as Baela floated there in Meleys’s sanctuary, she felt unsettled, for Meleys was the patron of matrimony and in their beliefs, she had the powers to curse or bless any union.

In that moment, Baela closed her eyes and asked Meleys's forgiveness for her neglect and prayed for her blessings, for today was the first day of the rest of her life.

It was the day she and Jace would be bound in hearts, names and blood in the sight of gods and men as husband and wife.

While Baela was praying with her eyes closed, she heard a sudden plop in the water like something similar to a stone had been dropped into it near her.

The princess opened her eyes and leaned her head up out of the water.

Sitting on the edge of the pool, holding a cooled steaming rock in her hand and gently tossing it in the air and catching it was Nettles.

Nearby, standing on the edge of the pool were Rhaena, Visenya and Lady Valena Celtigar, Addam’s betrothed.

The four women were dressed in the traditional wedding robes of Valyria.

Long tan robes with trimmed with gold borders and red dye blended in from the cuffs, the fringes and the shoulders along with girdles around the waist.

Baela’s parents — her father and stepmother — wore such robes on their wedding, though such was a very small affair with barely a ceremony at all.

Rhaena, Visenya, Nettles and Valena would be Baela’s witnesses, an entourage of trusted companions who would accompany her to the alter and bear witness to her union with Jace.

Jace’s four who would mirror Baela’s were of course, Luke, Addam, Alyn and Aerion.

“Did you throw a steaming rock at me, Nettles?” Baela asked.

“ Near you. Now stop paddling about. We’ve got a wedding to ready you for,” Nettles declared, standing up from her seat.

Baela smirked, rolled her eyes and began swimming towards the edge of the pool.

At the water’s edge, as she stood up and climbed the steps that led up out of the pool from beneath the water, two of the Shrykosi Maidens approached her with a plain white robe to dry herself with and a towel to dab her face and hair with.

“We have a few hours for you to dry off and get ready before the ceremony begins,” Visenya declared. 

“The long wait is finally over. By tonight, you will be wedded and the official heir-consort to the empire,” Rhaena reminded her sister with a gleeful smile as she rested a hand on Baela’s shoulder.

“Which means this is your last chance to escape, Baely. Say the word and we’ll get out of these ridiculous robes, make for the dragonmount and by nightfall, we’ll be on the backs of Moondancer, Silverwing and Sheepstealer, flying for Darkest Asshai. Free women ready to carve out our own dragon empire,” Nettles teased, bringing laughter to the four other laides.

“Oh, shut up, Netty,” said Baela as she ran her fingers through her wet hair and used them to playfully flick water into Nettles’s eyes.

“You may joke, but we all know you’d never go through with escaping to the far east. You’d miss Aerion too much,” Rhaena teased, nudging Netty’s ribs as the rest of them giggled.

“Oy! Do you want to be the first Targaryen Princess to be drowned in a sacred pool?” Nettles bit back.

Everyone knew that Aerion and Nettles had been circling one another like courting swans, the way they looked at each other, the way he was the only one she permitted to use her valyrian name she had not used since childhood.

From what Jace had told Baela, him being close in the counsel and confidence of both Aerion and Netty’s foster brothers — Alyn and Addam — Aerion’s feelings for her were profound and deep and both the brothers from Hull judged Aerion a good man and a close friend, worthy of their foster sister.

The five of them were then escorted from the pool to a chamber where Baela was readied by the Shrykosi priestesses dressed in grey stolas and red shawls marked with valyrian glyphs.

They sat Baela in a cushioned chair; dried, combed and braided her hair; applied her makeup; and then washed her feet in rose petals.

After her body was dry, they dressed her in her ceremonial robes, the same as her witnesses, but this particular robe was gifted to her by her stepmother, the same one she wore on her wedding. 

Then on top of her head was placed a traditional valyrian matrimonial headdress.

When she was ready, Baela stood before a dressing mirror and looked upon herself with her ladies crowded around her, smiling adoringly.

Even the six priestesses were gleeful. 

“Well, how do I look?” Baela asked nervously. 

Rhaena came in behind Balea, holding her hands and wrapping her in an embrace as she rested her chin on her big sister’s shoulder.

“A lot like mother, actually,” Rhaena said softly.

Baela gently rested her head against Rhaena’s, embracing her dear sister.

After being fully dressed, Rhaenyra and her four observed a few final small rituals of fertility, long life and happy marriage from the Shrykosi maidens.

Eventually, the hour drew near and one of the male priests came to fetch them.

“It is time, Princess,” the priest declared in High Valyrian.

Much like the Dragonkeeper Elders and the sorcerers, the priests of the Valyrian Cult preferred to converse in the empire’s high tongue.

Fuck, Baela thought to herself overwhelmed that the moment was finally here.

Jace and Baela have always had an indescribable gravity between them.

When they first met at Driftmark during her mother’s funeral, he stood by her side even though he was struggling with his own father and grandfather’s death yet forbidden from mourning them. Baela could feel his pain, so close to her own and she took his hand and held it and together, their pain seemed to ease.

Later, when that ambitious twat Aemond stole Vhagar away from their family, Baela went to Jace for help and when Aemond struck her, Jace fought for her, he protected her.

In the years after that, as they dwelled on Dragonstone, their bond only got stronger and they wrote to one another constantly when Baela was living at High Tide.

In truth, Baela wasn’t surprised when her grandmother stated to the court of the Red Keep that they were to be betrothed; it was the smartest choice and it was something they had long wanted.

Yet, despite the four years of betrothal and the months of planning and weeks of preparation, Baela was both petrified and excited at the same time.

It seemed irrational to be so nervous, the wedding wouldn’t change anything practical other than their sleeping arrangements. Baela would still be Baela and Jace would still be Jace and yet somehow, this was perhaps the most nervous moment in her life, even more so than her first flight on Moondancer or the discovery of Valyria.

Despite the anxiousness inside her, Baela gripped her nerve and held her head high. 

The princess then nodded to the priest and her procession left the sanctuary of Meleys with the six Shrykosi priestesses ahead of her in three rows of two and her witnesses in two rows of two behind her.

They went through the corridors of the Jaesrion until they reached the narthex of the basilica through a side passage. 

As the priest opened the door and stepped out of the way, Baela took one final deep breath before following the priestesses into the narthex of the basilica from the right side.

The isles and bleachers of the Jaesrion were filled with thousands of the Empire’s people.

Commoners, guildsmen and nobles all gathered together, the higher the rank the further down the basilica they were placed. 

Down the centre of the temple was a long blood-red carpet leading up to the altar and lining either side of the aisle were the Dragonkeepers and the priests, singing old valyrian hymns of prosperity and unity.

Baela followed the Shrykosi maidens down the red carpet, passing countless people when she glanced to either side as she walked slowly and gracefully down the very long isle and up the steps to the raised alter. 

Seated closest to the altar was Baela’s father, step-mother, grandsires, the Imperial Council and the high lords of the Empire, all dressed in the traditional wedding robes.

Even little Daenys was sitting on Rhaenyra’s lap while Joff, Aegon and Viserys were sitting nearby. 

Each of them smiled encouragingly at her, filling Baela with courage and reassurance as she climbed the steps of the altar. 

The Priestesses did not follow Baela and her witnesses up the steps of the altar, having fulfilled their duty to escort her to the ceremony.

On the altar’s platform, there were five seats on either side; on the right side, Jace, Luke, Addam, Alyn and Aerion sat there, dressed in the traditional valyrian wedding robes; on the left side, the five seats were vacant for Baela and her witnesses to take.

The stone alter stood in the middle of the table with hundreds of lit candles mounted on the stone surface and the High Priest standing over it with his arms raised as he was illumianted in the golden light of the fire.

In front of the altar were fourteen grand stone statues towering above them, looking down on the mere mortals. Stone carvings of the Fourteen Flames who ruled over Valyria with High Lord Arrax standing chief amongst them in the middle of the crescent of great statues. 

As mighty as the statues were, Baela’s attention was focused only on Jace, her betrothed for the next few minutes but her husband for the rest of her life after. 

It was like when their eyes were locked and the rest of the world disappeared around them.

Baela and her witnesses sat in their chairs across from Jace and his witnesses.

It was then that the ceremony began.

First, the High Priest led the clergy in a religious hymn to the Fourteen Flames.

The hymn lasted a few minutes and then the temple fell silent.

“We gather here on this day two bare witness to the binding of anogar and honour between man and woman. May it be witnessed in the eyes of gods and men!” the Priest chanted in High Valyrian.

“Which man comes here to be wedded on this day?” the priest asked.

The Crown Prince of the Empire then stood up from his seat and looked directly at Baela rather than at the priest.

“I, Jakaerys hen Targario, trēsy Laenor hen Velario, do come,” Jace declared.

Baela couldn’t help but smile like a fool from then on.

“And who witnesses him?”  the Priest asked.

Luke then stood up and began to speak.

“I, Lukaerys hen Velario, trēsy Laenor hen Velario, do bare witness,” Luke declared before sitting back down.

Next, Addam stood up and repeated the process, and Alyn after him, and finally Aerion.

“Come then and be bound in anogar,” the Priest invited as he outstretched his hand to Jace.

Jace then stood before the Priest on the right and awaited the ceremony to continue.
“Which woman comes here to be wedded on this day?” the priest then asked

Baela then took that as her cue to stand from her seat and speak.

“I, Baela hen Targario, tala Daemon hen Targario, do come,” she said proudly.

“And who witnesses her?” the Priest asked.

Rhaena, Velana, Nettles and Visenya then took turns swearing witness for Balea. Nettles was reluctant to use her given Valyrian name Naelys for her witness, but still said it nonetheless.

The priest then outstretched his hand and welcomed Balea to join him and Jace.

“Come then and be bound in anogar,” he invited.

The pair stared into one another’s eyes, hopelessly in love with one another and uncaring of who knew it.

“Jakaerys Targarien, this woman asks to be bound to you in anogar and name. Do you consent and gladly give your anogar, your name and your heart?” the Priest asked.

“I consent and gladly give,” Jace replied with all the confidence and resoluteness befitting an Emperor. 

“Baela Targarien, this man asks to be bound to you in anogar and name. Do you consent and gladly give your anogar, your name and your heart?” the Priest repeated.

“I consent and gladly give,” said Baela, meaning every word of it as her heart raced within her.

Next came the binding ritual as the High Priest presented a black chalice and a dragonglass dagger and handed the blade to Jace.

The Crown Prince took the dagger and used it to cut Baela’s lower lip and draw blood from it, he then moved his thumb to the blood pooling in the middle of her lower lip and then used it to draw the valyrian glyph for fire on her forehead.

He then handed the blade to her and she cut his lip and used the blood to draw the glyph of blood on his forehead with her thumb.

Next, Jace took the blade back and cut his palm open and handed the dagger back to Baela, who repeated the process with her own palm. 

Once they’d drawn deep blood from both their hands, Jace handed the dagger back to the priest, who set it aside and picked up a red and golden cord and used it to fasten their bleeding hands together.

Once the handfasting was tied, the priest held the black chalice beneath their bound hands as their shared blood drizzled into the chalice of wine. 

The High Priest then took the chalice and gave it to Baela with her free hand who drank from it first. The mix of blood and wine gave a strange metallic taste to the flavour and added a certain thickness to the liquid. 

Next, Jace drank from the chalice, and their bloodlines were officially bound together. 

The chalice was then handed off to the High Priest, who took it away and then raised his hands and spoke one final chant.

“Hen Latoti ānogar. Va syndroti vāedroma. Mēro perzot gīhoti. Elēdroma iārza sīr. Izulī ampā perzī. Prūmī lanti sēteksi. Hen jeny māzīlarion. Qēlossa ozūndesi. Syndroro ōnō jēdo. Ry kīvia mazvestraksi.”

With the words spoken, Jace and Baela were wedded and they leaned in and kissed one another as the Jaesrion erupted into cheers and thunderous applause. 

The next Emperor and Empress of Valyria, bound in blood and fate before the eyes of gods and men.

Chapter Text

Five days of games and feasts had passed since Jace and Baela’s wedding ceremony. 

On the first night, there were mummers, bards, dancers and acrobats in the streets. Nobles from every corner of the Empire were assorted to a number of extravagant feasts spread out across the many courtyards and dining halls of the Imperial Palace with the Imperial house dining in the palace basilica where the Dragonglass throne stood proud atop its dias.

For the opening feast, Daemon and enlisted Aerion and Alyn with their dragons to hunt and slay a great wyrm in the foothills beyond the mountains that enclosed the city.

After slaying the beast, they had a convoy of men bring together a great centaur-drawn litter and used the dragons to mount the great serpent on the wheeled platform.

The beast was then wheeled back to the palace, and its meat harvested in large chunks by the kitchen workers. It took the kitchen staff three days to cook all the wyrm’s meat and serve it at the feasts. 

On the first night, they had a lavish celebration with speeches, feasts and dances. 

The bride and groom performed the old valyrian dragon dance at their wedding, which Daemon had not seen performed since Laenor and Rhaenyra’s wedding many years ago.

Later that evening, Jace and Baela vanished from the dining table in the middle of all the dancing before the desserts could be served, off to their bedchamber to eagerly consummate their marriage, or so Mushroom suggested to the crowd.

In the days that followed, the great games began as crowds poured into the Bōjurlion.

The great colosseum was filled with the masses of Valyria the Great, including all the Lords and citizens who had made the journey from the other cities of the Empire to witness the wedding games. 

The opening of the games began with a royal dragon display, with the dragons flying about over the skies above the arena as they danced and dived through the air and spouted flames from their maws. 

After the dance of the dragons, next came the first games as the chariot racers took to the Bōjurlion. Four chariot factions in the city — resurrected from the Freehold — the Red Faction, the Black Faction, the Grey Faction and the Orange Faction.

Blood, shadow, smoke and fire.

Just like in the time of Old Valyria, the four factions were built on share-keepers made up of whichever freeholders were interested in investing in one of the factions.

Everyone else just placed bets on which racer would win.

Daemon believed that in years to come, when the other gaming leagues from the other cities were large enough, they would have inter-city games where competitors from across the empire would race for the chance to compete against the best of each city and come to the capital for grand games, but such machinations were out of reach for the time being.

Given the bōjurlions were purely for recreational purposes — or political paisification of the masses — they were not the priority for restoration in any of the cities, and with other cities not having populations as large as Valyria the Great, their public gaming leagues were much smaller. 

The charioters lined up in their faction colours and circled the arena for three laps, drawn about by a line of four horses hooked to each of the four chariots.

In the end, the Orange Faction took the day, costing Daemon the thirty gēliaposse that he had bet on the Grey Faction.

Next was the horseback racing, with seventy riders circling the arena three times.

During the intermissions between games, the mummers and the circus performers would take to the arena, reinacting old valyrian comedies and tragedies or having tamed chimeras taken from the wilds of Valyria perform tricks or have the acrobats swing and flip like monkeys.

For Daemon, the best part of the games was not the races or the circuses, it was the fighting. 

War games where they would reinact battles narrated by a group of masked orators who stood on the battlements overlooking the arena and chanted their words in unison for all to hear.

One of the games even depicted the Battle of Bloodstone to honour both Daemon and Laenor as the bride and groom’s fathers. 

It was an enjoyable war game, though both Daemon and Corlys had some notes on the inaccuracies, mainly the circling chariot with large greyish blue wings on the sides and a rider throwing streaming bolts of red cloth at the enactors being used to represent Seasmoke in the battle. 

When it came time for the real fighting, they had jousts, melees, archery competitions and gladiatorial matches. 

Daemon had lost his taste for jousting in his older years, but never grew sick of fighting, showing off his skills with Anogarys on the second, third and fourth days of the games before retiring. 

Jace, Luke, Addam, Alyn and Aerion all broke lances against other knights and each other in the jousts, with Jace making it the furthest of the young dragonriders. 

One of the most astonishing matches Jace had was when he broke lances against a mystery knight who had knocked both Luke and Alyn off their horses in their matches.

The mystery knight was a very small and skinny chap that Daemon and others surmised to have been very young and possibly even a squire trying to earn their spurs. 

When Jace unhorsed the mystery knight, the small knight insisted on continuing, so Jace took up his sword, dismounted, and the two dueled. Once again, Jace won, and when he defeated the mystery knight, he pulled the knight helm off and revealed to everyone’s shock that it was none other than his new wife, Balea, herself.

The Princess had ducked out of attending the games that day, claiming food poisoning, but seemed to have entered the lists of her own games.

Many in the crowd cheered and clapped.

Rhaenyra, Rhaenys, Rhaena, Nettles and Visenya clapped louder than most, but none clapped louder than Daemon himself. 

The two newlyweds, dressed in armor and carrying their swords, then kissed for all the people of the Empire to see and cheer on.

Jace made it three more rounds before finally being unhorsed by a young knight from House Sōluknaejon. 

The great novelty of the wedding games was in the beast fighting competitions.

Brave and daring knights and gladiators entered the arena in small groups and challenged freshly caught chimeras and dragonkin, untamed and deadly.

Drakes, minotaurs, cockatrices, sphinxes, smaller lindwyrms and wyrms, monoceroses, basilisks, griffins and traditional chimeras. 

Those of the beasts with wings have them cut so that the creatures could not fly into the crowd and start laying waste to the audience. 

The beast fights were by far the bloodiest to the point Daemon had to talk Rhaenyra out of banning them on seven different occasions over the years, but every man who entered the arena knew the risk and was willing to fight and die for gold and glory.

After five days, all the princes and dragonriders had all retired from their various competitions and left the games to the eager knights and lowborn gladiators wishing to make names for themselves while the royal house watched on.

Daemon was in the Imperial box of the Bōjurlion, watching the games from his comfortable throne with Rhaenyra by his side, with Jace and Baela’s thrones lined up next to theirs with everyone else in comfortable chairs around the rows. Both the Emperor and the Empress were wearing their crowns so that all the people in the Arena could see them.

Much of the Imperial Council and the Imperial household was in the box with them.  

Rhaenyra had even given out a personal invitation to their cousin, Hugh the Smith — known formally as Maekar Galreon, Master of the Smithing guild and future Lord of Oros - once the city had been restored. 

One of the eldest bastard sons of Saera Targaryen, sired by some unknown father in the pleasure gardens of Lys before she started whoring her womb to the Tigers of Volantis.

More than that, he was a man who had rejected nobility altogether, leaving Volantis and travelling all the way to King’s Landing to live his days as a humble blacksmith named Hugh, hiding from the world in the one place they’d never think to look for him.

If Rhaenyra had suggested making him a lord of one of the seven cities three years ago when they first landed in Valyria, he would have protested, but now Daemon had grown quite fond of Hugh.

Not only was he a fine man and a good friend to their house, but also the greatest of Valyrian smiths, responsible for crafting the Imperial heirlooms of status, including their crowns and swords. 

With the guidance and aid of the sorcerers, Hugh had become perhaps the greatest craftsman in the known world in such a short time and once when a group of common thieves tried to steal valyrian steel from his forge and forced Hugh to defend himself, the blacksmith fought them off with a hammer and defeated them all, showing great strength.

Daemon had even invited Hugh to spar with him a few times and clearly, he’d been taught the basics of combat and had true talent.

Now Daemon was proud to call Hugh his cousin and would be glad to see him rule the city of Oros while his brother Aerion ruled the city of Tyria across the smoking sea from him.

If they had another adult dragon, Daemon would gladly offer it up to Hugh, but alas, there were none, and it would be several years yet before there was a juvenile big enough to carry Hugh. Yet still, the Imperial house had made gifts of dragon eggs for Hugh and Kat’s two children, his daughter Ella and his year-old silver-haired son, Valarr. 

As Lord Maekar and his wife watched the games from their seats, their daughter Ella stood at the edge of the Imperial box with Joff, Larra Rogare, Aegon, Gaemon, Viserys and Daenys. Ella even held Daenys up so she could properly see.

The little children and the old Lords and Imperials seemed to be the only ones interested in the games. 

Alyn was sitting with Lady Mysaria and his mother, Lady Marilda of Hull, the Mistress of Mariner’s Guild who was visiting from Aquos Dhaen.

Jace and Baela, the happy couple, were snuggled into each other’s arms, sharing a single throne, leaving one empty between theirs and Rhaenyra’s, too busy staring into each other’s eyes. Addam was in similar spirits with his Celtigar betrothed, meanwhile, Luke and Rhaena had presumably found a dark corner somewhere to kiss and fondle in privacy.

Even Aerion and Nettles were off to the side, leaning over the railing of the arena but more focused on one another than what was going on below and while they were out of Daemon’s earshot, he could tell by the smile on Netty’s face that the two were flirting.

How long ago had all that started? Daemon wondered. Perhaps back when Daemon took the two of them to seek the lost fleet of King Tommen Lannister, if so then Daemon was the unwitting author of their romance. 

It all made Daemon frustrated… not with Aerion or with Nettles but rather with himself and how concerned he was with Nettles’s relations . Daemon shouldn’t care; he wasn’t her father. He’d made that choice years ago.

The horns of the arena blared as a new match was about to commence. 

“And for the next match in the gladiatorial contest! Hailing from Doroniagon in the lands of the Long Summer, Ser Garth Massey!” the orators chanted out as the crowd applauded. 

Out from one of the entrances beneath came the Massey knight — Lord Gormon’s grandson — dressed in his suit of steel armor, styled in the composite style of Old Valyria and Westeros.

The place from where the knight hailed, Doroniagon — or Standing-sone in the common tongue — was the house’s new seat, a palace in the empire to replace their old home of Stonedance, the castle they abandoned back in Westeros.

As the knight raised his sword, he relished in the cheers of the crowd around him. 

“And the challenger! Hailing from the southern city of Draconys! The champion of the House of Rogare! Sandoq the Shadow!” the orators announced. 

Lord Lysandro and two of his sons present in the Imperial box applauded happily for their shadow as little Larra Rogare who was standing next to Joff jumped up and down and squealed her cheers. 

Sandoq was a great behemoth of a man — taller than Racilio Ryndoon — and he was a sight to behold as he entered the arena, dwarfing the Massey knight by comparison.

A hulking brute with scarred dark arms and his face was always hidden behind a chainmail veil connected to his helmet that kept his scarred face hidden.

He wielded a very long, curved blade made of valyrian steel that he was gifted by the House of Rogare long before they ever reached Valyria. 

The Shadow was a powerful and deadly warrior but also very disciplined. 

In the jousts, the melees and the gladitorial games, it weas not uncommon for someone to wind up dead, either by accident or the fighters getting carried away by their bloodlust, but no opponent of Sandoq had to fear such things for the Shadow was a skilled and precise warrior who had never killed a man in a tourney match

The man was prideless and only entered the games to honour the house of Rogare to which he was eternally devoted.

But while Sandoq was restrained when needed, Daemon pittied the man who met Sandoq on a genuine battlefield, for he was ferocious when turned loose against enemies.

As the two gladiators fought, the crowds cheered as with every clash of their blades.

“Come on, Garth!” Lord Gormon shouted out as he stood to his feet and clapped his hands together, zealously supporting his grandson. 

“Lord Massey seems confident in his grandson’s skills,” Rhaenyra noticed as she leaned in towards Daemon.

The Emperor Consort smirked, “Doubltess it will only make the poor lad’s defeat more bitter for our Gormon to taste.”
Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows.
“You count this match as a moot point, Daemon?” Rhaenyra asked, glancing over to the fight. 

Daemon could only scoff at his wife in retort.

“Sandoq is twice the size of that shitling,” he rejoined.

“And twice as quick because of it.”

Rhaenyra was quick and intelligent in her replies.

“Yet he’s too young and brash to know how to use his speed. Trust me, I’ve been fighting men with a sword since before that boy was an itch in his father’s trousers,” said Daemon.

Rhaenyra chortled at Daemon’s words and smiled to herself.

“What?” the Emperor asked.

“Oh, nothing — I was just recalling a tourney when Alicent and I were young girls and we were gossiping about how Garth’s mother and father were betrothed and set to marry once the Tarly knight Garrrick squired for dubbed him, yet Garth was already growing inside Elinor’s stomach,” Rhaenyra revealed.

Daemon giggled to himself, enjoying the gossiping.

“Which tourney was this?” Daemon asked.

Rhaenyra thought for a moment before speaking.

“The Heir’s Tournement… the one for my brother Baelon when Criston Cole knocked you off your horse. That was the first time I met Cole, before I figured out what he really was… and It was when my mother—”

The Empress went silent and sullen and Daemon took her hand.

After a moment, Rhaenyra bounced back and smiled again.

“Never mind,” she said, dismissing the matter.

The Emperor and Empress then turned their attentions back towards the gladiator match and after a decent fight, Sandoq overpowered and disarmed young Ser Garth, bringing him to an honourable yield. 

Rhaenyra and Daemon applauded respectfully as Lord Gormon sank back into his seat and huffed. As the knight and the giant shook hands and left the arena, Daemon noticed Lord Gormon reluctantly handing a coin purse over to Lord Lysandro Rogare.

It seemed to Daemon that two of the Imperial councilors had been using their respective grandson and champion to wager their coin against one another.

As the two fighters left the arena, Dameon took another sip from his goblet of wine, curious who the next two contenders would be.

Before the two fighters had even left the arena, Rhaenyra’s handmaiden, Dyana, poked her head between the two seats of the Empress and Emperor and began whispering in Rhaenyra’s ear.

A look of surprise appeared on Rhaenyra’s face as she looked at Dyana and then to Daemon, motioning with her head for Daemon to follow her out of the imperial viewing box.

The Emperor then set his goblet to the side and got up from his seat, following Rhaenyra out, followed only by the dragonknights standing vigil in the box.

“What is it?” Daemon asked as he followed his wife through the Bōjurlion. 

“We must go to the Anogrion at the summons of the sorcerers. Apparently, there is something of crucial importance that we must hear,” Rhaenyra explained.

Daemon found Rhaenyra’s statement to be deeply alarming, for if the twelve sorcerers requested urgency, it was anything but an idle matter. 

The Emperor and Empress left the arena and took the imperial coach through the city towards the Anogrion. 

The streets of Valyria the Great seemed as deserted as when Daemon first arrived in the city with Jace and Baela three years ago. But while the citizens were nowhere in sight in the city streets, Daemon could still hear them as they cheered from the seats of Bōjurlion as they watched the gladiators fight.

Through the empty streets of the city and up the slopes of Blenon Valyriōs where the Oktio Izultion was built, the Anogrion stood to the left of the Imperial Palace, opposite to the Jaesrion where Jace and Baela had been wedded.

Upon arriving at the gates of the Anogrion, the Empress and Emperor were greeted by a loremaster who approached and bowed his head.

“Your Majesties. Forgive us for pulling you away from your children’s celebrations, but Grand Master Raegoth insisted this matter could not be delayed,” the loremaster announced, bowing his head.
“Where can the Grand Sorcerer be found?” Rhaenyra inquired.

“He has assembled with the rest of the twelve in the candle chamber. No loremaster or acolyte is allowed entry,” the loremaster explained.

Rhaenyra nodded and followed the loremaster inside, accompanied by Daemon and the Dragonknights.

They walked for a while through the austere corridors and library halls of the Anogrion until they finally reached the candle chamber. 

A ritual room where the sorcerers could light the glass candles and see the world around them, beyond the eyes of mortal men. 

When they reached the large stone double doors, ornately carved with depictions of hooded and masked valyrian pyromancers from the time of the Freehold, two of the sorcerer acolytes standing guard out the front pushed the doors in, allowing Rhaenyra and Daemon to enter alone while the Dragonknights stood guard outside.

Inside the chamber, the twelve hooded sorcerers in their heavy chasubles over their grey robes and masks of iron embossed with valyrian glyphs stood clustered around a ring on podiums with glass candles mounted on them.

“Dāriorys Rhaenyra, Dāriorys Daemon. We have summoned you here to address the gravest of matters,” Grand Master Raegoth explained.

Rhaenyra and Daemon looked at one another with deep concern.

“What matters do you speak of?” Rhaenyra asked. 

“As Master Rassular was scouting the realms beyond the Empire through the eyes of the candle, he discovered something most dire in the east where the slavelords of Old Ghis rule. A fleet amassing at the city of Astapor, a fleet of fifty ships answering to the Great Masters of Meereen, the Wise Masters of Yunkai and the Good Masters of Astapor. The fleet has been assembled for one purpose, to reach the coast of Valyria,” Master Raegoth explained.

Demon became angry.

“An invasion fleet?” he inquired as he crossed his arms, but the sorcerer shook his head.

“No, your Majesty. A scouting fleet,” he stated.

“What do you mean a scouting fleet? Explain?” Daemon demanded.

“It is easier to show you,” Raegoth explained, gesturing to the candles and the uncomfortable white flame that emanated from them. 

Daemon knew what was coming next and after exchanging looks with Rhaenyra, they both stared into the bright white flame, losing themselves to the visions within the light. 

As the colours around them went strange, Daemon disappeared from the material world and found himself somewhere else. 

A dock, a busy port outside sandstone walls and perched upon a bastion on the walls above was a golden harpy statue.

Astapor Daemon thought.

Daemon looked around and saw several ships being loaded up with haste, but they were not exactly warships- a few formidable galleys, but laughable if they were expected to take Valyria. 

The Emperor then saw a cluster of well-dressed nobles standing together on the dock near him.

“Master Adreq, are you sure about this?” One of the nobles in the group asked. 

“Yes. Pack the ships as light as possible, keep them swift and manuverable, only those essential to making them fast on board and a handful of men to guard them,” the man named Adreq declared.

A tall and austere-looking man with dark hair and a trimmed beard, a hooked nose and deep dark eyes. From Daemon’s perspective, this ghiscari master seemed resolute and ambitious. 

“I fear I am confused, Adeq. Why are you prioritising speed and leaving the ships with skeleton crews? I thought we were invading Valyria?” one of the other Masters declared.

His words made Daemon furious and wish that it was more than just a vision so that he could cleave those Ghiscari slavemongers' heads from their shoulders with Anogarys.

The master, Adreq, scoffed. 

“Invade Valyria… with fifty ships? Don’t be a fool,” said Adreq. “These ships are going to Valyria to break their illusion and force their hand. For too long, they’ve been hidden behind their veil, stealing our ships. Now it's time to expose them to the world and bring them out from the shadows. No more stealing our slaves and hiding away under supersition and ghost stories. These fifty ships will split up on the seas and approach Valyria from fifty different points along its coast and after making landfall, their only task will be to plant the banners of the three cities of Slavers Bay on the beach and return to us. Perhaps the dragons and ships belonging to this new Freehold will capture some of them, but at least a few will make it back. When they do, then we will have proof that Valyria is safe to travel.”

Daemon’s heart raced in his chest. 

Fifty light ships that could outsail their fleet and only a little over a dozen dragons to combat them if they were to even try. Dragons were fast but not that fast and they would have to know where each ship was going to land on their coast. 

Who was this man? How did he know so much about them?

“But Adreq, won’t that surrender the element of surprise?” one of the masters asked.

“We need allies more than we need surprise. Once the Targaryens are exposed, we will form a coalition. I have cousins from New Ghis, Tolos and Elyria, all of them drumming up supporters. We’re also sending emissaries to Volantis to join us. Once Valyria is exposed, they’ll all flock to our alliance and we’ll expand from there. Perhaps the Triarchy might be swayed to reunite under our shared cohorts to keep the Freehold from subduing us once again, and maybe we’ll even recruit those abominations in Mantarys to throw themselves at the Valyrians if it comes to war,” Adreq declared.

“But if it comes to war, how will we defend against all their dragons and the old valyrian sorcery?” another asked.

Adreq nodded.

“Dragons are hard to kill but not impossible. I’ve already given out schematics to all the forge masters in the cities for Donrish scorpions that I bought from a merchant sailor last year. We’ll have them mounted on every battlement across Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen in six months. We’re also sending emissaries to Qarth to commission the warlocks there to use their magic against the dragons if need be and we are deliberating on whether or not we shall try to enlist King Aegon himself if it comes to war,” said Master Adreq.

“King Aegon? The Empress’s brother?”

“ Half brother and adversary. Her empire is as much a threat to him as it is to us, so why not let the dragons kill each other off? But all this is hypothetical, of course. Should diplomacy win out, then the Empress will use whatever of the Freehold’s wealth she has uncovered to repay us for all she has stolen these past few years — with interest, of course — and then we can coexist as peaceful neighbours. If not, then our alliance will bring the world down on Valyria, and we’ll divide up the spoils of the Empire for ourselves,” Adreq declared. 

As the Ghiscari masters continued to plan, the vision faded, and Daemon returned to the waking world around him.
“Who the fuck was that? How does he know about us?” Daemon demanded of the sorcerers.

“His name is Adreq zo Loraq of the Great Masters of Meereen. After finding him commanding this fleet earlier today, we used the candles to look into the past and see his story. Apparently, over the past three years, he has been piecing together the truth of the Empire’s existence using debris from our ships salvaged on the tides and testimonies of sailors who spotted our dragons through the sea storms. A few weeks ago, when Dārilarossa Jakaerys and Lukaerys liberated the slave ships off the coast of Aquos Dhaen, one of the crewmen escaped on a slab of floating driftwood from his ship and made it back to Slaver’s Bay. Master Adreq used him as a witness of the attack,” Master Taecelon explained.

“And how long ago did this Ghiscari Master start gathering evidence against the Empire?” Daemon asked angrily. 

A few of the sorcerers looked to one another, probably nervous beneath their masks.

“From what we uncovered today, we would hazard a year, maybe more,” Raegoth declared.

“A year!? You have been scouting the goings on beyond the Empire through these bloody candles and failed to notice a growing threat right under our noses!?” Daemon snapped.

Rhaenyra pushed Daemon back and reprimanded him for speaking so furiously to the sorcerers.

“Forgive us, Dāriorys. These candles allow our minds to go anywhere in the world, Dāriorys, but it is impossible for our minds to be everywhere in the world. These things went unnoticed because until now they were too small to see,” Master Vazieris defended.

“It is alright, masters. You are not to blame for any of this. Please, grant my Husband and me a moment in private,” Rhaenyra requested as the sorcerers bowed and left the chamber.

On his way out, one of the sorcerers waved his hands through the air and extinguished the white flames of the glass candles.

Once the stone doors were closed with Rhaenyra and Daemon inside, the Empress let out a bereft sigh. 

“Rhaenyra?” said Daemon, checking on his wife.

“Five years? That was the bare minimum we agreed on. Those bloody bastards couldn’t give us two more years of peace?” Rhaenyra said in a flustered tone as she walked back and forth.

Daemon approached her and took her arms, calming her.

“I’m right here,” he asserted to her as she eased her breathing.

Rhaenyra lowered her head and collected herself.

“We need to address this,” she declared.

Daemon nodded his head.

“Do we wait two more days for the games to end?” Daemon wondered.

Rhaenyra looked disheartened and shook her head.

“No. More than anything in the world I wish we could… but this must be handled decisively.”

Rhaenyra took in a deep breath and exhaled. 

“Gather your generals and the city guard commanders. The lords, knights, sorcerers, our dragonriders and the Imperial councilors, too. It is time for a war council,” Rhaenyra asserted, looking into Daemon’s eyes. 

Whether this war council would result in diplomacy or conflict, Daemon knew that the veil of seclusion that had protected them was about to disappear, and the world was about to change forever.

Chapter Text

The sun was beginning to set when the war council was assembled. 

While the rest of the festivities and celebrations went on as usual, a select number of lords and nobles as well as the Imperial house were summoned to the meeting through the guise of a private dining feast, butt their long stone table was covered in maps, papers and markers rather than food and wine.

None sat, instead, they stood around the table as they once did around the painted table when the threat of war loomed four years ago at the onset of the War of Ravens.

Rhaenyra stood at the head of the table, her valyrian steel crown still resting upon her brow and Miliqelos sheathed at her side, its ornate scabbard held by a black leather baldric that she wore over her dark dress and a blood-red shoulder cloak fastened to her by a silver ring broach.

Gathered closest to Rhaenyra were her family, her dragonriders, Lord Corlys and Hugh, and her Imperial council and Dragonknights further down the table. 

Standing across at the other end of the table was Daemon, his hands rested against the hilt of Anogarys as the blade sat sheathed in his scabbard.

The Warmaster surrounded himself with his generals and their commanders standing closest to him. Daemon had given command of his legions to his most trusted and valued Gold Cloaks, General Garth the Harelip of the First, General Luthor Largent of the second and General Balon Byrch of the Third. Among the handful of the most respected commanders present who led the cohorts within the Legions, Rhaenyra saw Randyll Barret, another former Gold Cloak and Valarlie, an emancipated Unsullied they had freed in Volantis. 

Daemon also surrounded himself with men he had fought with in the Stepstones, both with him and against him, that had united under the Empire’s banner.

Lord Vezojenys, Lonrelgos and Henemon to name a few.

Lord Sllandros Saan and Racailio Ryndoon had arrived from the eastern isle, where they lived as vassals under Lord Corlys, to participate in the wedding festivities and were now counted as a pair of Rhaenyra’s senior maritime commanders under Grand Admiral Corlys’s command.

Many other prominent nobles were also gathered around the table. 

Lord Alan Esdoror, grandson of Lord Lyman Beesbury and husband of Elinda Massey. Ser Robert Gerguese, Rhaenyra’s Majordomo and Ser Alfred Raenaby, the captain of the Palace Guard. Lord Reggio Haratis, the former Prince of Pentos. Lord Simon Kostobar, uncle to the late lord Lyonel Strong. Lord Willem Zobritijon — who had once vied for Rhaenyra’s hand when he was still a boy called Blackwood — and his cousin, the young Davos. 

Lord Massey’s son Garrick was there too, the commander of the Watch Guard, under the appointment of his father, the Imperial Justicar.

The sorcerers and half a hundred other nobles with strategically relevant palaces and fortresses or military experience were all there as well, the more prevalent their station, the closer to the table they were. 

All standing around the table were looking to her, looking for guidance and leadership.

For a moment, she would let herself be nervous but not show it on her face, but after that, she needed to be resolute. 

“Shall we begin?” Rhaenyra asked aloud and all those gathered around her nodded their heads with a light bow as a sign of respect and loyalty to their Empress.

Rhaenyra then cleared her throat and spoke forthright about what they had gathered for.

All had been ever so briefly informed about the general nature of their war council, but now she would review the matter in detail so that all were informed.

“We are all gathered here to address a pressing matter that has only just recently come to our attention this past day. A matter so crucial to our Empire’s continued prosperity that it could not wait. Not even for the celebrations to conclude,”  Rhaenyra stated, looking with apologetic eyes to Jace and Baela, who bowed their heads in understanding, holding no ill towards Rhaenyra for drawing them away.

“I will not dance about it any longer, so here it is plainly: The three principal cities of Slaver’s Bay have discovered the existence of our Empire,” the Empress announced for all in the chamber to hear as the lords started murmuring to one another.

“How could they have found us? We have been secluded here all this time,” Lord Simon Doronton stated in disbelief. 

“It appears that our efforts to maraude the passing slave ships in the sea storms were not as fool proof as we had hoped. From what the sorcerers were able to scout in the glass candle, testimonies from passing ships saw hints of our dragons in the storms these past years and loose debris from our skirmishes were salvaged by passing ships. The Ghiscari Lord who saw these patterns and deduced our existence presented a living witness to the Great Masters of Meereen. The first mate aboard one of the slave ships that was taken recently by Princes Jacaerys, Lucaerys and Lord Ryndoon,” Daemon announced, looking to the three commanders of that raid.

Jace, Luke and Ryndoon looked disheartened. 

“One of the crewmen said that the captain, helmsman and the first mate were knocked into the sea by Arrax’s talons, and I assumed them all dead. Forgive me, your Majesty. I should have had my archers scout the waters for stragglers. I beg your absolution and offer my life in recompense for endangering the safety,” the Mad Giant said in a disheartened voice as he reached for one of his many daggers, seemingly about to slit his own throat.
“NO!,” Rhaenyra said immediately, halting Racallio’s drawing of his dagger. “Please, Racallio, do not be so drastic and brash. You are an honoured and beloved friend to the Empire, and I would not lose your services when I might need you desperately on the seas sailing for me, should war break out. This ghiscari lord who has stalked our existence had been building his case for over a year before that sailor was salvaged. This was all… inevitable , it would seem,” Rhaenyra stated, consoling her vassal.

“And how did the masters of the Anogrion not foresee this sooner? They’ve kept us well informed of the collapse of the Triarchy, the new Prince of Pentos and this Winter Fever that has ravaged the Seven Kingdoms, but the slave lords on our doorstep discovering our Emprie and non foresaw it?” Lord Bartimos asked, looking to the masked and hooded mages.

“Forgive us, Lord Celtigar. Our sight is limited to what we have the desire to seek, not what we should wish to seek,” Master Raegoth explained. 

“Let us not lay blame at one another’s feet. This was bound to happen sooner or later, we’ve known that since we started raiding slave ships along our coastline. Our focus should be upon that which is coming. The glass candles have allowed s to spy upon the masters gathered in Astapor, and from what we can establish, they intend to send fifty fast and light vessels to our shoreline at unknown and spread out points,” Rhaenyra said as the lords began to speak amongst themselves once again.

“Not for any malicious purpose,” Rhaenyra declared, subduing their anxieties. “But to confirm Valyria’s existence and the dissipation of the Doom. Now, even if we knew all fifty spots along our coast where these ships were going to land, we do not have enough dragons to find and sink them all before they can return to Astapor,” Rhaenyra admitted.

The news was greatly unsettling for most of those gathered in the chamber.

“Calm yourselves, my Lords. Please, let us not become unruly. When we first started taking slave ships from those that sailed between Volantis and Slaver’s Bay, we knew that conflict with those cities could follow when we revealed ourselves. Now it seems that our hand is forced,” Daemon declared.

Rhaenyra was not entirely sure that they should resign themselves to a violent outcome so quickly, but she assumed it was just Daemon being — himself . 

“First, let us review. What is our standing?” Rhaenyra asked, looking across the table to her husband, consort and Warmaster.

“We have thirty thousand legionnaires, twenty thousand men of the Watch Guard across the seven cities and sixty warships of both triremes and quinqueremes in the Imperial fleet manned by three thousand sailors. This is not counting noble household guards, knights and conscripts that can be raised from the rest of the Empire’s citizenry. Then there are the sorcerers of the Anogrion, twelve ancient masters from the Freehold with a following of two hundred acolytes who have been learning their spell craft for the past three years. However our true power — as you well know — is with our dragons. We have Syrax, Caraxes and Meleys. Our sworn riders have Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke, Grey Ghost and Sheepstealer. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax and Tyraxes. My girls have Moondancer and Morning. Then our three youngest have Stormcloud, Skywing and Dreamlyte. Gaemon has Iskar. Then there are also the young unclaimed dragons nesting here and being trained; Gaelithox, Midnyte, Tycorax, Venris, Thengar, Windfury, Aegarax, Stormbreaker, Starchaser, Orthenax, Parthilgar, Ezmer, Windprowler, Abris and Onixa. Thirty two dragons in total,” Daemon announced as those around them bore impressed expressions.

Rhaenyra let out a sharp exhale through her nose as she peered at her zealous husband.

“Twenty of our dragons are either juveniles or hatchlings, and sixteen of them are still without any prospective riders even if they were big enough to mount.”

“That still leaves us with twelve battle-ready dragons, more than enough to decimate whatever force our enemies throw at us,” Daemon retorted.

 “Twelve? Last I checked it was eleven. All dragons between Vermithor and Arrax,” Rhaenyra stated, but she could already assume why Daemon had counted twelve, though she did not like it one bit. 

 “Tyraxes is close to the size that Arrax was when we prepared for the war against the Greens four years ago, and Joff is an eager young rider,” said Daemon.

While Rhaenyra had expected Daemon to say the words, she did not for one second agree with them.

“Joff is ten ,” Rhaenyra reminded Daemon sternly. 

Daemon glanced away and shirked the matter, clearly knowing better than to argue the matter any further. 

The Warmaster then left the end of the table and walked along the side as the generals, lords and knights stepped back to make room for him.

“The Empress is correct. With the eleven dragons we have and the fifty incurring ships that will scout our shores in the coming days, we will not be powerful enough to destroy all of them without chasing the ships into the open sea where any number of vessels can spot us. This appears to be the end of our period of seclusion, however short it may have been,” Daemon said, bringing a sullen tone to the chamber. 

“Now we must discuss how we respond to this new threat. In the vision shown to us by the sorcerers, these Ghiscari masters were discussing their intentions. After confirming the safety to travel to Valyria, the Masters of Meereen, Yunkai and Astapor — not strong enough to face us and all our dragons alone — will seek allies to fight with them,” Daemon declared, placing map marklers on the large map spread out on the table.

The markers he placed down were over Meereen, Yunkai and Astapor, the three cities of Slavers Bay.

“They will seek allies from their immediate neighbours first: Volantis, New Ghis, Martarys, Tolos and Elyria. Volantis has three smaller walled towns under its rule that we passed through and recruited during our voyage to the Empire; Volon Therys, Valysar and Selhorys. The island of Yaros is also affiliated with the Ghiscari cities and would naturally join with them,” Daemon declared, placing map markers of neutrality on the eleven cities around the map, for they could not be sure which way the cities would be swayed. 

“In the most dire of scenarios where all these cities unite against us. What breadth of a challenge would we be facing?” Lord Gunthor asked.

Daemon winced grimly.

“Hard to say. Most of these cities have very small military forces of their own and rely mainly on sellswords companies for their bloodletting. Given the level of threat we pose with our dragons, they might be prompted to conscript their people to fight us alongside their mercenaries. If so, then we would be able to bring together an army of five hundred thousand at the minimum. That is without including the emissaries the Ghiscari reported to be sending to Qarth, Lys, Tyrosh, Myr, Dorne, Pentos, Braavos and the Seven Kingdoms and all the rest of the Free Cities. They even claimed that they intend to send envoys to the Dosh Khaleen to enlist the Khals against us,” Daemon explained.

Ser Alfred Raenaby shook his head.

“The Dothraki, the Free Cities and the Seven Kingdoms have no reason to unite with the Slave Lords against the Empire. The people of the empire are originally from those regions. Many of them showed us hospitality on our way to the Empire. What cause could they have to become our enemies?” the Palace Guard Captain asked.

Rhaenyra looked at the map of the known world and huffed.

“A common enemy can untie the oldest of foes to face off against it, and no nation has created enemies like the Freehold once did. The fear of our Empire’s potential, our capacity to reclaim the status and power of the Freehold — if not now then in generations to come — is a terrifying prospect that the entirety of the known world might take as a threat. My brother will see me as a threat because I still have a claim to the Iron Throne and now the force to challenge that claim once more. The Free Cities and the Ghsicari will challenge us because they will fear we might resubjugate them. Even the horselords of the Great Grass Sea would take us as a challenge to be conquered and pillaged. Perhaps if they do not fear us specifically, if our descendants wished to claim these cities and kingdoms on a whim, they would be helpless to stop them. If the Empire is to be stopped, now is the best bet for the world to do so. The sorcerers have shown us that the Ghiscari are even recruiting warlocks from Qarth and constructing great scorpions to challenge our dragons,” Rhaenyra explained. 

The old Lord Celtigar cleared his throat and held his head high.

“Well then. If they want a war, then let us give them a war. I’d match the best of Valyria against slave lords of Ghiscar any day,” Lord Batimos suggested, currying supporting chants from the nobles.

“Perhaps war should not be our default strategy. We have not the numbers to begin an open conquest of the known world, and bringing conflict to Slaver’s Bay could invite retaliatory campaigns from the other nations of Essos. Dragons are powerful and strong but not invincible; their scales are as strong as steel, but steel is not impenetrable,” Lord Doronton declared.

“And so what would you suggest, Lord Ambassador? That we ask these invaders from the east to stay their hand and forgive our transgressions of seizing their ships so that we can live in peace?” Daemon asked.

“Indeed I do. Diplomacy may not be as glamorous as a great war for the history books, but it is better for the Empire’s future. We have long discussed how we would handle the Ghiscari and the volantene when we opened dialogues with them after revealing ourselves to the world. It was ever the Empress’s plan that we pay for the emancipation of the slaves we took and reimburse the losses of the ships we took to pacify the slaver lords’ response. I say we send peace envoys and follow through on such intentions. When the cornucopia of our vast and unfathomable wealth is demonstrated through gifts to those who sue for peace with us, then it will inspire others to do the same,” Lord Doronton suggested.

“A most judicious proposition. Let us introduce ourselves to the world as an open hand rather than a clenched fist,” the other Simon, Lord Kostōbar, agreed.

There were still those who wanted to strike first and fast to portray the Freehold’s revived strength, but Rhaenyra would not be so impulsive in her decisions.

“Grand Wisdom Gerardys,” Rhaenyra called, looking to the old scholar standing next to High Rector Vaegon, the Empress’s great-uncle. “You have been training messenger wyverns in their use, yes?”

“Indeed, your Majesty. We have over three hundred in the rookery, and through the aid of the sorcerers, we have been able to replicate some minor enchantments from the dragon horns, allowing us to use smaller horns to control the wyverns and bewitch their minds. Using the horns, we can send the wyverns anywhere you need to go,” Gerardys announced, seeming to anticipate Rharnyra’s intentions.
“Three hundred, you say? Good, they all fly tonight. Messages were sent to the other six cities of the empire telling them to brace for the unveiling of the Empire and to pass on word to the towns, outposts and palaces in their territories. The rest will be sent out beyond our borders,” Rhaenyra asserted.

“Sent out where, your Majesty?” Lord Corlys asked. 

“Everywhere. To the Masters of Slaver’s Bay. To the Tigers and Elephants of Volantis. To the Triarchy — or whatever may be left of it now. To the Prince of Dorne, the Sealord of Braavos and even my brother Aegon, whose letter I shall draft personally. I want every archon, magistrate, khal, prince, lord and conclave from Darkest Asshai to Casterly Rock to hear my message. We shall let these fifty scout ships from Astapor come and go as they wish, unmolested. We shall even offer them our kind hospitality if they wish to have it, but they will not be the ones to exposed to the world as though we are rats in the kitchen. We are the Empire of Valyria, and we fear no one. I wish we could have had two more years to grow and consolidate our power but if this is what fate has dealt us we shall accept it with pride and reveal ourselves on our own terms,” Rhaenyra declared.

All in the room were silent and respectful of their empress as she made her statement and in that moment Rhaenyra knew she held the respect of all those around her.

“Bold and confident. A fine first move. But we must also be prepared to anticipate the slave masters’ response,” Lord Corlys cautioned.

“And we shall. In the statements we send out on the wings of the wyverns, we shall also include a summons to an emissarial envoys here to begin diplomatic relations with us. Whatever protections the slave lords might have on taking our empire by force, both tradition and logic would demand that they meet our summons,” Rhaenyra explained.  

“The slave lords would be fools not to accept our summons. Seeking a diplomatic atonement for our raids against their slave ships is a far safer and smarter move than open war against dragonlords. Whatever grand ambitions they have for our empire, they must balance their desires with practicality. Even if they do intend to push war with us, they could still better assess the threat we pose through the testimony of their diplomats,” Princess Rhaenys stated, speaking in support of the Empress.

“And if the case truly is that they intend to press war with us regardless of our diplomatic efforts? How will the Empire respond then?” Ser Alfred asked. 

“If they reject our wishes, then I shall take to wing myself and lead our dragonriders to melt every statue of the golden harpies across the three cities of Slaver’s Bay. Our dragons will leave nothing but molten gold where the harpies stand in Meereen, Yunkai and Astapor. A show of kindness as a first response, a show of strength as a second and if both fail, let it be war,” Rhaenyra announced. 

Most in the chamber were impressed with Rhaenyra’s declaration of strength, but some were concerned. 

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. While your strategy is sound, should you not reconsider having certain dragons  kept in reserve away from such violence… yourself perhaps,” Ser Alfred asked.

The room went quiet, and an uncomfortable silence lingered for a moment.

“I beg your pardon, Ser Alfred. I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning,” Rhaenyra stated, furrowing her brow.

The commander of Rhaenyra’s household guard became abashed as he felt the eyes of all the war council fall upon him. 

“You have always advocated for caution in dangerous matters, Your Majesty. As head of the Palace Guard, I would be remiss in my duties as a protector of you and your house if I did not advocate that some dragonriders — especially the younger ones — and yourself of course, be kept in reserve while the larger dragons carry out such an attack,” Ser Alfred suggested.

Rhaenyra’s expression softened.

“I appreciate your concern, Ser Alfred, but I think in the interests of the Empire’s security. Should this hypothetical attack on the Ghiscari commence, its purpose will be to strike the fear of Valyria into our enemies. For that effect, I say eleven dragons send a clearer message than five,” Rhaenyra responded, but Ser Alfred was not done.

“But, my Empress. You are our leader, the heart and spirit of this Empire. One scorpion bolt to Syrax’s eye, one arrow to your own throat and your loss would devastate the Empire. Should matters of war not be left to the Warmaster’s purview?” Ser Alfred said. 

Rhaenyra grew bitter and resentful of Ser Alfred and his discounting of her proficiencies in war based solely on her gender. Ser Alfred was loyal to Rhaenyra’s cause and had followed her all the way from Dragonstone to Valyria, but he was also a stubborn and crude man.

Rhaenyra had given him command of the palace guard to keep him pacified and honoured, but he was far from her best councilor. 

Rather than rage against Ser Alfred for his disrespect, Rhaenyra held her head high and spoke with eloquence. 

“I am grateful for your concern, Ser Alfred. But if it comes to war, I shall defend this empire the same way I founded it: by leading from the front rather than commanding from the rear,” Rhaenyra asserted. Her words cleaved through the war council, leaving her followers in awe, speaking like a warrior-poet.

The women of the War Council, Rhaenys, Baela, Rhaena, Nettles, Visenya and Lady Mysaria, all looked to her with pride, but none was more impressed by her words than her husband, Daemon. 

“It has been a long night. In the morning, the letters shall be scribed on the morrow and sent out on the wings of the wyverns. In the meantime, we must prepare for all eventualities. Have your homes prepared if it leads to war. Daemon, Lord Corlys, ready the legions and the fleets. May the fourteen favour us all,” said Rhaenyra, bringing the council to an end. 

Rhaenyra remained at her position at the head of the table as the rest of the assembled nobles poured out of the chamber until the Empress was alone with only Princess Rhaenys, Daemon and the Dragonknights remaining by her side.

When the doors of the chamber closed, Rhaenyra looked to Daemon and Rhaenys, showing vulnerability in her eyes.

“Two more years,” Rhaenyra vented as she looked the ceiling of the chamber in frustration. “The least I asked for was two more fucking years! Two more years to consolidate my Empire. I’d of been happy with longer, but in two years, the cities of Oros and Tyria would be finished in their repairs, we’d have a larger population, the young dragons would be bigger, and so too would their riders,” Rhaenyra stated as she leaned over the table in exhaustion.

“The gods are rarely fair. The question becomes how will we respond to their trials and you have met this new trial with grace and intelligence,” Rhaenys declared.

“It makes little difference anyway. We have the largest thunder of dragons in the world, unmatched sorcery, and I’d like the odds of my legion against whatever force our enemies could raise to be ten to one. A shield wall of valyrian scutums can throw back an army ten times its own force,” Daemon asserted as he flicked over the map marker of Meereen like a defeated king in a game of chess. 

“This might be a blessing in disguise. With our borders opened, new waves of self-exiles will follow the footsteps of those who have already pledged to you. Your remaining supporters from Westeros, other houses and commoners from the Free Cities and beyond will leave their homes and migrate to serve the empire,” Rhaenys declared.

Rhaenyra nodded. 

“I imagine more valyrian blooded descendants from Lys and Volantis will make the journey to join us and doubtless Lady Melisandre will reach out to worshipers of the Red God to join us here,” Rhaenyra contemplated out loud.

“Well, whatever ends up happening, not much we can do tonight. Should we return to the festivities?” Daemon asked.

Rhaenyra shook her head.

“I shall join you later. There is something I must do first,” Rhaenyra explained.

“What exactly?” Rhaenys asked.

Rhaenyra looked to the Rogue Prince and the Queen Who Never Was and then to Ser Harrold and Ser Steffon who remained in the chamber with them.

“The wyvern that shall usher news of the Empire to my brother Aegon. That wyvern shall carry two letters. One from me… and one from Aegon’s mother. I must go to her chamber and inform her that she shall be writing to her son,” Rhaenyra explained.

Daemon winced in disgust, but Rhaenys nodded in agreement.

“And I take it that when the wretched delegation from Westeros arrives here to negotiate peace, we shall be handing Alicent over to them?” Daemon asked.

“Yes, we will. Don’t tell me, after all this time of wishing Alicent gone, you now wish for us to keep her,” said Rhaenyra.

“That depends. Will she be handed over as an act of good faith or a condition to the Greens accepting our peace accords?” Daemon asked.

“Both,” the empress responded. 

Daemon sighed and looked at the Dragonknights, peering at them before looking at Rhaenyra. 

“Three years ago, the three of us agreed that for the sake of the Conqueror’s Dream, we will seek peace with the Greens, fine. But when their envoys arrive, do not forget who has the upper hand in the negotiations,” Daemon warned, speaking in High Valyrian.

“I will not forget,” Rhaenyra promised.

The three Targaryens and the Dragonknights then left the chamber, putting the War Council to rest and walking through the halls filled with the sound of music and cheers of the patrons of Jace and Baela’s wedding festivities. 

The sound of such joyous music made Rhaenyra sad, for it might be the last sound of peace in her Empire for a while if war was inevitable.

Chapter Text

After only three years, the time of seclusion of the Valyrian Empire had come to an end. 

The messages of revelation had been scribed by the loremasters and sent off to every civilisation of the known world on the wings of wyverns to herald them forth. 

A week had passed since the messenger wyverns had been dispatched, and the world had been silent in its response, making the Empire uneasy with suspense.

The ships from Astapor had come and gone, twenty-three of them sighted by outposts, sea-side towns, the port sentrys of Aquos Dhaen and Draconys, as well as those ships scouted out by their ships and dragons. All the ships came and went from Valyrria without incident, though they fled the second they spotted their ships, dragons and settlements. 

In the days that followed, they found nearly thirty banners marked with the chain wrapped harpy of the slave cities of Old Ghis, markers left by the unaccounted-for ships that had scouted their shores.

In the week since the messages, there had been no responses. For those cities and civilisations further away from them, it was understandable given how great a distance the wyverns had to travel, faster than ravens but slower than dragons. 

The wyvern dispatched to King’s Landing would be arriving in King Aegon’s court any day now if it had not already, but the letters to the Great Masters of Meereen, the Wise Masters of Yunkai and the Good Masters of Astapor were all silent.

No reply messages, no envoys, no emissaries, nothing. 

They were met by the same silence from Volantis, Mantarys, New Ghis, Tolos and Elyria.

Had it not been for the sorcerers, ever vigilantly watching and spying through the glass candles, then the Empire might be in a state of panic, but Raegoth and the masters assured them all that the neighbouring nations had received their messages and were contemplating diplomacy with all indications suggesting that emissaries would soon be sent out to greet them, yet still it was early days and anything could happen.

Aerion, trying to keep himself busy and make himself useful, was at his desk in his chamber early in the morning, writing a list of sellsword companies that frequented around the Gulf of Grief and the Orange Shore.

These mercenary companies found easy work fighting for Volantis, Elyria, Tolos and the Slave Cities, protecting their caravans and their farms, towns and cities from Dothraki raiders. The city guards and the slave armies of the Ghiscari would not be enough alone to face off against the might of the Empire, and they would doubtlessly turn to sellswords if it still came to war.

Aerion wrote down the names of each sellsword company, their commanders, their best fighters, which ones he’d fought alongside when he led the Dragonfangs, which ones fought against him, which ones liked him, which ones owed him favours, which ones owed him money and which ones wanted him dead.

The Maidens Men, the Second Sons, the Bright Banners, the Men of Valor, Long Lances, the Crimson Fists, the Death-hounds, the War-devourers, the Silver Wind and all the rest.

Aerion could think of six companies he could convince to parlay with them with a combined force of twenty thousand men between them. 

The Empire’s treasury as infathomably deep and they could beat any price the mercenaries were offered and just as easily pay the sellsword companies double to go fishing rather than join in the war.

However, there were some ambitious and arrogant commanders that Aerion had vendettas with, ones who would be more enticed by how much gold they could loot from the corpses of the Empire if they helped conquer it. 

It was all guesswork and suspicion at this point, conjectures about a war that they weren’t even sure they’d have to fight and yet that did not change that Aerion wished to be prepared for it. 

As Aerion continued writing his list, his attentions were insnared by the soft moan of a waking voice coming from Aerion’s bed.

Aerion glanced over to his bed where he saw Nettles lying there, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she roused from her dreaming. 

As she stared at the canopy above the bed, she let out a little sigh through her nostrils before rolling her head to the side to look upon Aerion.

“Good morning,” Aerion greeted him with a soft smile.

“Good morning,” she replied as she smiled back.

As Nettles woke up she became more aware of her surroundings, looking around Aerion’s chamber.

“Shit. Did I sleep over again? I thought I was going to sneak back into my own room,” Nettles said as she scooched back and sat up straight on Aerion’s bed, holding her folded arms against her chest to keep the sheets of the bed covering her naked body beneath. 

“Well, give yourself some credit. I did get you pretty exhausted last night,” Aerion boasted jokingly.

Nettles snorted with an arched eyebrow.

“Exhausted? I fell asleep out of boredom, waiting for you to pleasure me,” she rejoined, causing Aerion to gag and laugh at his lover’s biting remark.

“What are you writing, there?” Nettles asked, looking at the page of paper Aerion was writing on.

“A letter to my other lover. Just making sure she knows not to be jealous of you,” Aerion japed. 

“Ahh, of course. Just out of curiosity, what is this whore’s name? I’d just like to know where I can find her so that I can slit the bitch’s throat after I cut your cock off and stick it in your mouth,” said Nettles once again making Aerion laugh.

The dragonrider stood up from his desk, walked over and sat on the edge of his bed, caressing Nettles’s neck and kissing her. 

“I love when you speak so passionately ,” he told her as they rested their foreheads together.

“So come on then. What are you really writing?” Nettles asked.

Aerion shrugged.

“Nothing. A list of mercenary companies that frequent the coastline south of the Dothraki Sea back when I was leading the Dragonfangs. If it comes to war, these will be the companies our enemies will turn to. I’m making a list of which ones we can sway to our side and how to fight the ones we can’t,” Aerion explained, gesturing to the piece of parchment on his desk.
Nettles huffed and leaned forward, nuzzling her head into Aerion’s chest as he wrapped his arms around her.

“These last four years since we all shared the great dream have been the best years of my life… of all our lives. Now some slave mongering cunts want to come along and take it from us because they’re scared of us or they feel entitled to our power. Its all such horseshit,” Nettles declared in a melencholic tone.

Aerion buried his head in Nettles’s long wavy dark hair and kissed her head.

“They will take nothing from us. We won’t let them have a single scrap of our empire. We have thirty dragons, all our sorcerers, the three legions, the fleet. Whatever force of slave soldiers and mercenaries they can raise will not be able to overcome us,” Aerion declared, reassuring his lover of their empire’s security.

Nettles pulled her head back from Aerion’s chest and looked at him for a moment, deeply grinning. 

“What?” Aerion asked, noting Nettles’s smile.

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “That… heroic defender in you. I like it. It will make you a great lord when you rule Tyria,” Nettles declared, running her hands through Aerion’s hair.

Lord of Tyria , Aerion thought.

He still remembered when Rhaenyra offered him the lordship over the city a year and a half ago. 

Valyria, Aquos Dhaen, Rhylos, Telos and Draconys had all been restored — more or less — and the Empress wished to begin reconstruction of Oros and Tyria. 

The cities would require more work than others due half of each of them sinking into the sea, the original civic centres of both cities were forever lost beneath the waters of the smoking sea but by using old valyrian architecture techniques they were able to create a seawall around the sunken portions of the two cities and drain them of water.

After salvaging what they could from the remnants, they began filling in the old sunken portion of the city and building a new one on top. 

It would be years yet before the cities were complete, but the designs they had upon them would turn them into powerful port cities, twin sentries to guard the smoking sea from invaders.

It was Aerion who nominated his brother Hugh as ruler of the northern city of Oros and by the time Hugh was done with it, Oros would have the greatest forge towers in the entire empire, fueled by the heat of the subterranean volcanic vents that veined off from the Fourteen Flames themselves. 

Despite Rhaenyra and Nettles’s endorsements, Aerion knew not what kind of leader he would end up being. He’d only ever been a military commander, leading his sellsword company. For Aerion, to be a lord was a path he strayed from long ago when he turned his back on his father and his wish for Aerion to succeed him as a prominent noble in Volantis. 

“I don’t know what the hell kind of leader I’ll be. To be honest, I could use some help. And if you were to take up my offer then…”  

Nettles bit her lip and glanced away with a sad look in her eyes.

“Come now, Aerion… we’ve been over this. We’ve had a good thing going this past year. Let’s not spoil it with more talks of marriage,” Nettles asked, deflecting yet another one of Aerion’s proposals.

For over a year, the two had been in a trist together, but the affection between them had been lingering a lot longer — perhaps it began when they went with Daemon to the expedition to find the lost Lannister fleet of King Tommen the Second, but Aerion could not be sure when their spark first ignited.

In the past year, they had been truly intimate with one another, but they had kept it a secret, hiding it from even their closest friends who knew of their attraction but thought it to all be innocent as of yet. 

Aerion knew he was in love with Nettles and he knew that she loved him, but whenever Aerion asked why they couldn’t even tell their most trusted friends of their relationship or whenever Aerion even broached the subject of them being wedded, she would dance about the questions and push Aerion away, avoiding such matters entirely.

Nettles just wanted to keep their romance a secret, hidden from the world around them.

At first Aerion understood, keeping what they had special and contained, something that was just for them, but Aerion was growing weary of all the sneaking around, pretending they were not together as though there wass something shameful about it. 

“Why do you always pull away from me on this? If I were to go before Rhaenyra and ask her to let me betroth you, we would rule Tyria together. You would be the lady of my house and the mistress of one of the seven cities. Our children would be mighty dragonriders of one of the most resplendent houses in the Empire. Does that really sound like a terrible price to pay for us to be together in public?” Aerion asked.

Nettles pushed Aerion away and became flustered.
“I’m not with you because I’m after your lands and titles!” she snapped, becoming defensive and obstinate. 

“I never accused you of such things!” Aerion asserted, disbelieving that she would even suggest he’d think of her so shallowly. 

“Then just stop pestering me about all of this!” she replied, turning away from Aerion.

Once again, Aerion’s attempts to get closer to her were being shrugged off. 

Aerion tried reaching out and caressing her cheek, guiding her face to turn so that she might look at him once again.

“Talk to me, Naelys, please,” Aerion pleaded gently.

“Don’t—” she said, pushing his hand away and avoiding his eyes.

Aerion was pretty much the only one who was allowed to call Nettles by her given name, having been the first one to explain to her its true meaning as a traditional valyrian name.

When they fought, and Aerion called her by her valyrian name, she called it cheating and declared it was his way of trying to make her forget how mad she was at him. 

The two sat there on the bed for a moment, silent and frustrated, over reasons Aerion still didn’t fully comprehend. 

Soon after, three raps upon the door caught Aerion and Nettle’s attention.

Aerion looked back to her with a look of dismay upon his face.

“I’m going to have to get that,” Aerion declared, waiting to see what Nettles would do.

In the past when a knock came at the door and Nettles was in Aerion’s bed, she simply slid onto the floor and hid beneath his bed to hide, but Aerion would not force Nettles to do so for he was not the one who wished for their relationship to remain a secret and it would be up to her what happened next.

Nettles huffed and crawled out of the bed, still wrapped in one of Aerion’s sheets, and scurried beneath, hiding herself away. 

The knocking on the door repeated itself, and Aerion got up and walked over to the door and opened it. A young servant stood waiting to address him, cloaked and with a bead of sweat off his brow, suggesting he’d ridden to the palace from somewhere else.

“My Lord,” the servant said with a bow. “His Majesty, the Emperor, requests your presence at the Zōbriedōror posthaste.”

The Zōbriedōror? So early in the morning? Aerion pondered. 

The Zōbriedōror — or the Black Fort as it was called in the common tongue — was the largest and oldest fortress in Valyria and the heart of the valyrian legions of both the Freehold of old and the Empire today. 

It was located on the far side of the Valley of the Dragonlords, across the open grass pastures, far from the city, Blenon Valyriōs and the Lēdanāvar.

Since the letters had been sent out to tell the world of the Empire’s existence, Daemon had been spending most days and nights this past week at the Black Fort, training and drilling his legions ever so fiercely. 

What reason Daemon would have to summon Aerion to the Zōbriedōror so early in the day, he could not imagine, but he knew better than to keep the Warmaster waiting. 

“Thank you. I shall leave momentarily,” Aerion declared as the servant turned heel and left while the dragonlord closed the door.

Aerion took a moment and sighed, knowing that he had to leave for the Zōbriedōror and did not have the time to bring closure to his argument with Nettles at the moment.

When Aerion finally turned around to face Nettles, she had already shimmied out from beneath the bed and was redressing in her garments from the night before. 

“I have to go,” Aerion explained.

“I heard,” Nettles replied as she pulled her stockings up her legs, avoiding eye contact with Aerion. Something in Nettles’s tone had shifted; no longer did she sound angry, but rather sad and regretful, perhaps reconsidering how quickly she had gotten angry at him for reasons he still didn’t comprehend. 

“So that’s it then?” Aerion asked, waiting to see any kind of response from Nettles other than a cold shoulder.

As Nettles fixed her dress and stood up, she approached Aerion.

Her voice hesitated for a moment, seeming to find the words to speak to him and then forgetting them before they could leave her lips.

Eventually, she gave a gentle huff at her inability to speak and leaned forward to kiss Aerion, reassuring him with her actions rather than her words of her unwavering feelings for him.

“I’m sorry… can I come see you tonight so we can have a proper talk?” Nettles asked.

Aerion nodded his head.

“Of course,” he said as he took her face into his hands, caressing her cheeks. 

They kissed again and then Nettles scurried off to the secret passage out of Aerion’s Room. 

The entire Imperial Palace which had once been the shared home of the forty Dragonlording Houses of the Freehold, had a great number of hidden passage networks through them that could put Maegor’s tunnels in the Red Keep to shame.

Each section of the palace’s living quarters had its own segregated network of tunnels that were kept as trusted secrets by each of the forty families. 

For Aerion and Nettles, they were a useful way to smuggle themselves to each other’s chambers, living in the same section of living quarters of the palace. 

After Nettles disappeared behind the false wall marked with a fresco of a pair of intertwined dragons upon it, Aerion collected his swordbelt and fixed it around his waist and then grabbed his cloak and fastened it around his neck before leaving his chamber.

Aerion considered for a moment going down to the stables and riding for the Zōbriedōror, but with the Empire on alert for the prospect of their authority being challenged by foreign invaders and Aerion’s sudden and early summons to the the black fort, it was a better guess to think that Vermithor was needed somewhere and so Aerion followed the corridors towards the bridge to Blenon Valyriōs.

Upon reaching the dragonmount inside the volcano, the Dragonkeepers greeted him with bows of respect and led him to find Vermithor, resting upon the rocks near Silverwing.

As Aerion made his approach, Vermithor began to wake up, perhaps sensing his rider’s arrival. 

Before taking to the skies, Aerion spent some time with Vermithor, stroking and patting him and speaking to him in High Valyrian. 

A dragon was nothing like a common mule or a horse, it was not a mount but rather a friend and a companion. They were greatly intelligent creatures and bore complex emotions. Only the ignorant and the antagonistic dismissed them as mindless beasts. 

Aerion would never disrespect his friend by treating him like a common horse to be called upon at his beck and call like a slave or a trained pet, for that would be a betrayal of the dragon bond.

Aerion then climbed the chain net ladders that fell down the side of Vermithor’s great big saddle and made his way to he seat on top of the Bronze Fury. 

“Sovēs! Vermithor!” Aerion shouted as he cracked the reins and drove Vermithor into the skies, flying out the central vent of the volcano into the open sky above the Valley of the Dragonlords. 

The sun was low in the cloudy morning sky, and the soft volcanic mists lent the gentlest haze to the great valley in the heart of the mountainous ring that encircled it. 

Warships were anchored in the Lēdanāvar, a formation of four quinqueremes and five triremes ready to defend the city should any vessels come sailing up the Trūmaqelbar into the valley.

But on the far side of the ringed valley, opposite from the city of Valyria the Great, was the black fort. 

On the grassy plains at the base of the high-reaching mountain wall was a large and wide, austere, brutalist keep at least twelve stories tall and decorated with fortifications, windows, turrets and bastions and tall upward claw-like battlements that the Targaryens described as reminiscent of the castle on Dragonstone. 

The back of the keep was built into the mountain face with the keep’s floors expanding deep into the mountains and watchtowers, battlements and sentry posts spread all around the mountain face, connected by the corridors and chambers within the dark of the mountains. 

Outside of the keep was a thick and fortified three-sided wall about half as tall as the keep. 

Two of the walls extended out from the mountain, angled diagonally in each other’s direction, and the third wall went horizontally between them, connecting the three walls by defensive towers and creating a bailey between the outer walls and the keep.

In the grasslands outside of the fort, Aerion saw little specs moving around like ants, presumably legionnaires training in warfare. 

Aerion pulled upon the chain reins of his saddle and brought Vermithor down a short distance away from the fields outside the fort where the legionnaires were training, deciding to walk the rest of the way.

As Aerion left Vermithor and began his walk towards the gates of the fortress in the near distance, he saw different sections of training about the grassfields. 

Mostly calvary training but also long-range archers positioned on a nearby hill firing arrows into the sky and striking a field filled with wooden posts acting as targets a few hundred yards away.

Valyrian archers were trained by the best marksmen brought along from both Westeros and Essos in the use of the valyrian recurve bows, whittled from valyrian yew wood coated in black. 

In another section of the grasslands, Aerion saw light cavalry training. 

Some were jumping their horses over obstacles while others were practicing their lance work, jousting their spears through hoops that dangled from gallows-like structures that they had set up. 

Aerion also saw centaurs hooked up to war chariots, which could be used to give archers and lancers mobility on the battlefield. One driver and one fighter per chariot and two centaurs to drag them around the field of war.

As Aerion got closer to the gates of the fortress, he heard a shrill, growling squawk, similar to the cry a dragon would make.

The noise caught his attention and drew his eyes to the left, where he saw the Drake Rider Battalion approach him. 

The drake riders were a small force of one hundred and thirteen legionaries who had been trained to ride and command the wingless dragonkin as a new but limited cavalry force in the Imperial Legion.

In traditional cases, domesticating creatures would take decades or even centuries of taming creatures and their descendants, but by using the bewitching powers of the sorcerers, the chimeras and dragonkin bent to the will of the beast tamers of the empire in mere months of working with them.

All trained beasts were freshly caught over the past three years, but future generations would be bred and trained by the empire as their understanding of the creatures only grew.

When Daemon first attempted to form the drake riders, he lost two hundred men over three weeks; those who weren’t killed trying to mount the beasts were turned on while riding them in training. 

The sorcery used to quell and control the drakes worked fairly well, but their riders needed to be able to command them at all times without fear of them turning on their riders.

It wasn’t until they started using dragonseeds with Old Valyrian lineage that they found riders who were able to better bond with and command the drakes, but they were still wild to an extent and required a firm grasp to keep them controlled.

The drake riders were armed with spears and cetratus shields, and their mounts wore light barding.

As the great drakes came running down towards Aerion, they pulled to a stop just in front of him.

“Lord Aerion. We spotted Vermithor’s arrival during our training and came to greet you,” the captain of the Drake Riders stated as he removed his helm and tucked it under his arm, revealing the face of Silver Denys.

The first dragonseed who had managed to form a genuine bond with a drake.

The exact nature of how the drakes bond to the dragonseeds is a mystery, but it has been surmised by the loremasters that as the drakes are the descendants of the dragons who had survived the Doom and the dragonseeds were the same for the dragonlords of Valyria.

Whatever the truth, Denys was the first man to properly bond with a drake whom he named Lockjaw for the way he chewed on the bones of his prey.

Denys was originally a lowborn man from King’s Landing. His valyrian lineage was uncertain but definitely springing from the seed of some Targaryen king or prince. 

He had silver hair, from where he got his nickname, and scarring upon his face that he had long before their journey to Valyria. 

Denys worked hard to build up and train the drake rider battalion, passing along to those who joined him what he was learning as he went. 

While Daemon wished for an entire cohort of drake riders, a battalion was all they were able to raise from the riders who had successfully bonded with the drakes, and while dragonseeds were better at forming bonds with the drakes, their attempts were not always successful. 

Despite Daemon’s expectations, Denys had done great work to build his force and was granted a knighthood for his successes. 

“Captain. How goes the training?” Aerion asked, happy to see Ser Denys.

“Terrific, Milord. We’re in the midst of practicing our double envelopment tactics. If the Ghiscari do plan to take up arms against us, we’ll be able to break their Unsullied shield walls by taking them at their hips,” Denys declared, speaking proudly as he reached forward and petted Lockjaw. 

“Aye, Milord. Ripper here’s getting anxious for the taste of some real flesh instead of those bloody pale ones we practice on in the forests outside the valley,” said Denys’s lieutenant as he trotted towards them on his drake, Ripper.

The lieutenant unhelmed himself, revealing matted grey hair and stubble.

The second man to bond with a drake after Denys, this one was also a dragonseed from King’s Landing. 

A man who came along on the second wave of exiles and joined the legion and eventually got a posting as a palace guard in Telos before the capital was moved to Valyria the Great.

After getting dismissed from duty for stealing silverware from the palace, he tried to weasel his way out of getting his hand hacked off by claiming to be a dragonseed and a kinsman of the Imperial house.

The men of the Watch Guard did not believe him and so gave him the choice of losing his hand or trying his luck as a drake rider. 

To everyone’s surprise, he was the second man to bond with a drake, claiming Ripper as his mount. As the second longest serving drake rider, he had claimed the rank of lieutenant and stood as Denys’s second.

The lieutenant’s name was Ulf, but everyone knew him as Ulf the White. His nickname was a pejorative that had followed him from King’s Landing, teasing him for his claims of valyrian lineage yet not possessing silver-white hair, and so people called him Ulf the White in irony. Despite its origins being routed in mockery, Ulf had since claimed the name as his own and embraced it as a now prominent man of station within the Dragon Legion. 

Personally, Aerion didn’t quite trust Ulf as a man of authority. He was good with his men and had a talent for being well-liked, but he’d always struck Aerion as a raconteur and a braggart who was no stranger to a mug of ale. 

At the end of the day, he helped to keep the men together, and he followed Denys’s orders, but Aerion would not like to see a man like Ulf leading the Drake Riders alone.

“I rather think we should all be hopeful that it doesn’t come to war, Lieutenant,” Aerion responded as he looked to Ulf mounted atop his snarling Ripper. 

Ulf scoffed in response.

“Bollocks to that. We’re soldiers, aren’t we? No wars are bad for business in our profession. You outta know, you was once a sellsword yourself, wasn’t you?” the rider asked. 

“Ulf!” Denys growled sternly.

“Oh, come on now, Den. The Lord Aerion knows I’m just teasing,” he declared, still grinning unflatteringly.

Denys and Aerion’s stern silence was held upon Ulf for a moment until finally, he snorted and rolled his eyes.

“A sense of humor would do you both some good,” he muttered before bowing his head to Aerion, putting his helm back on and bringing Ripper around and trotting off to rejoin the other riders.

“Forgive him, Milord. Ulf can be a bit… arrogant in his ways,” Denys explained, but Aerion just shook his head.

“No, I just think he doesn’t like me,” said Aerion.

In the presence of members of the Imperial house, high ranking nobles or the generals and commanders of the Legion, but around the dragonriders like Aerion, Nettles, Visenya Alyn and Addam, they’d all noticed a slight bitterness from Ulf, disguised has humor and teasing.

The best Aerion could surmise was that he was jealous, a proven dragonseed from his ability to claim Ripper as his mount but denied the dragon dream and unable to claim a dragon.

Whatever Ulf’s grievances, he was at least smart enough or perhaps cowardly enough not to cause any trouble and stuck to his duty as an officer in the Legion.

“Can I offer you an escort to the Fort?” Denys asked.

“No, that’s quite all right. In fact, I think the Warmaster has sent out his own escort for me,” Aerion said, as he noticed three horses galloping out of the gates towards him, two mounted and one led by the reins alongside. 

The three horses were pulled to a halt in front of Aerion, giving some distance between the steeds and Denys’s Lockjaw, lest the drake mistake the horses for his breakfast.

“Lord Nestaar. We have come to escort you to his Majesty, the Emperor,” one of the riders said.

Aerion nodded in confirmation and then looked back to Denys.

“Very good. This is where I leave you, Milord. A good day to you,” Denys said as he placed his helm back on his head. 

“And to you,” Aerion bid farewell as Denys turned Lockjaw about and raced off to rejoin the rest of his riders.

“Right then. Let us continue on,” Aerion suggested as he approached the unmounted horse and climbed upon his saddle.

Flanked by the two riders, Aerion cantered over the grasslands towards the great gates of the Zōbriedōror. 

The gates were made of two tall, imposing spiked iron doors under a frowning archway with sharp metal teeth coming down similar to a raised portcullis. 

On either side of the gates were large dragon gargoyles made of black stone standing on square cut plinths.

Hanging from the gatehouse towers were the red banners of the empire outlined with black flames and marked with the three-headed dragon triskilions and the valyrian glyphs and bordering.

At present, the gates were open, allowing the legionnaires to come and go from the black fort freely, and so Aerion and his escorts trotted inside.

As Aerion approached the open gates into the fortress, a single file line of heavy cavalry men came trotting out armed with their spears leaning back against their arms and parma shields.

The barding of the heavy cavalry warhorses was a menacing fit. Chainmail caparisons, crinets and cruppers fashioned from scale armor, and dragon moulded full-face shaffrons with menacing dragon horns. 

The cavalry passed them by, and Aerion entered the fortress where the Dragon Legion was hard at work, training for war. 

More archers at the range practising close-distance marksmanship, their arrow groupings tight and concise. 

Swordsmen trained in the yards as they sparred with swords.

Spear infantry practicing shield formations, square, circle, tortoise, all different forms of interlocking their shield walls of scutums to repel attackers. 

Further down the way, Aerion saw more legionnaires practicing basic combat moves as the instructor called them out.

Since early on in its formation under Daemon, the Dragon Legion had been using all its battle commands in High Valyrian. The language was hardly a secret code and was used more for traditional purposes, but still, should they ever cross the forces of those who spoke the common tongue but not valyrian — such as the westerosi — they would have an added advantage of keeping their commands from being anticipated by the enemy.

Aerion recognised Commander Valarlie among the instructors, teaching the legionnaires in the ways of the Usullied’s combat disciplines. 

The next sight to draw Aerion’s attention was a group of beast trainers moving a great minotaur through the fort. Another of the chimera races they had managed to tame through sorcery and implement into their military. 

The beast crawled forward on his hind cloven hoofs and the knuckles of his large and bulky hands. 

Aerion had once seen great silver pelt apes from the isle of Jhala in the menagerie of a volantene lord. The large apes moved similarly to minotaurs, crawling about on their bulky knuckles but able to stand on two feet when they wished.

But their movements was where their similarities ended, for the minotaurs had the features of aurochses and as big as the beasts too.

The minotaurs had dark fur, cloven hoofs and great horns. He had a nose ring that was at present hooked up to chains used by the beast tamers to move him along.

Aerion could tell from its size that this minotaur was just a calf, only a little bit bigger than the size of a man with plenty of growing to do. 

It was led by two burly looking beast tamers who guided it by the chains connected to its nose ring, and the minotaur wore blinders to keep it from getting unruly while not yet fully trained.

The beast tamers gave it commands in High Valyrian, controlling the minotaurs much as the Aerion did Vermithor and Denys’s men did with the drakes.

The young minotaur was being led over to a gated area of the fort where the minotaur enclosures were. 

Grown and trained minotaurs who were almost ten feet tall, clad in chest barding, shaffrons and spiked cones slid onto the ends of their horns to make them more deadly in battle. 

They were still unintelligent and primitive creatures, but smarter than dogs or horses, at least. Mintoaurs could tell friend from foe and join in battle; they could even haul siege equipment when they were fixed to yokes, but they could not wield weapons or follow complex commands, but the beast tamers deemed that they could be quite loving and loyal outside of battle.

Minotaurs made for a brutal berserker vanguard that could tear through the enemies' ranks and scare them off the field. Though they had only been tested on wooden practice dummies, the vejesari and wild animals. 

“There you are at last,” a familiar voice called out, drawing Aerion’s attention away from the calf as it crawled on by towards its enclosure. 

Aerion turned his head and saw an old friend approaching him. 

From the neck down, he was dressed like a captain in the Dragon Legion, but his face was still that of Aerion’s old friend Silvero.

Before the Empire, Silvero had been Aerion’s right hand in the command of the Dragonfangs sellsword company, but since then, the Dragonfangs had been incorporated into the Dragon Legions as a Batallion with Silvero as their captain.

Aerion smiled, dismounted his horse and approached his old friend, pulling him into an embrace.

“Captain Silvero,” Aerion greeted, always addressing him as such when they saw each other, teasing him for his rank in the legion.

“Don’t start that shit again. Come on, I’m here to take you to the Warmaster,” Silvero said, patting Aerion on the shoulder. 

The two walked towards the stairs up to the main entrance into the fortress keep.

“So how are the lads?” Aerion asked, inquiring about the other dragonfangs as they strolled. 

“Oh, you know, the same as always. Stallo and Irrar are still running that scam with the archery recruits, and Rattles got into some trouble last week cheating at a game of dice. Tontor has some news, though, he’s giving lessons as an instructor for the heavy infantry,” Silvero recounted.

“Really? Good for him. I should like to come down to the barracks and see everyone — If I’m not being dispatched somewhere,” Aerion explained.

Over the past few years, Aerion didn’t get nearly as much time to spend with his boys as he wished. The last time he’d seen them was a fortnight ago when they went hunting in the forests beyond the valley.

When Aerion was Lord of Tyria, he intended to recruit his dragonfangs out of the Legion and make them his household guard, giving them lodigngs and homes in his palace for however long they wished them. 

Visenya would live there with him as his ward until such time as she found a husband or was granted lands and titles of her own by the Empress.

Better yet, Tyria was just a stone’s throw across the Smoking Sea from Oros, where Maekar would rule with his family. 

Aerion desperately wanted for Nettles to be there too, but she was so stubbornly against it and for the life of him, he could not think why. 

Aerion and Silvero continued to catch up as they climbed the many stairs up the floors of the keep filled with war rooms, armories, training halls and more. 

Eventually, they reached the Warmaster’s Throne Room, an audience chamber where the marshal of the imperial forces could hold court with his generals, commanders and others. 

The chamber was much smaller than the basilica of Imperial Palace, where the Dragonglass Throne stood, and the wide, low-spined stone chair that Emperor Daemon sat in was far closer to the ground.

Above the throne on the wall behind it was a sculptured mural of valyrian legionnaires doing battle against Ghiscari Lockstep legions, the valyrians portrayed as the victors of course. 

The three generals and at least a dozen of the thirty commanders and even a few captains were gathered before the Emperor, discussing matters of potential war as they pointed to the floor beneath their feet.

Engraved on the floor was a map of the known world that could only be seen the right way around by the Emperor from his warrior’s throne.

The Emperor sat fully dressed in his valyrian steel suit of armor, forged by Aerion’s brother to the specifications of the Conqueror’s armor and painted black. 

A long flowing cloak of blood red hung from his back, clipped to his armor by a pair of metal seals marked with the dragon triskilion.

“— Therefore, I propose we take the city of Mantarys first and put those wretched halfbreeds and mutants to the sword if they do not bend the knee. From there we will be able to create a stronghold to deflect attackers from either Volantis, Slaver’s Bay or even the Dothraki Khalasars that might try to rape our farms, villages and palaces in the Lands of the Long Summer from the north,” one of the commanders suggested. 

When scratched his chin with his gauntleted hand as he peered down at the map, contemplating his commander’s suggestion but then looked up and noticed Aerion’s arrival, sitting up straight as more officers took note of Aerion entering their meeting.

“Lord Aerion Nestaar for you, Your Majesty,” Silvero said with a bow to his Warmaster. 

Daemon was silent for a moment, peering at Aerion like he was trying to make a decision about him before nodding his head.

“Thank you, Captain. If you’ll forgive me, brothers. I must attend an important matter. We shall reconvene in a few hours. Until then, dismissed,” Daemon declared, standing up from his throne.

As Daemon stood, he picked up Anogary, which had been resting in its scabbard against the stone throne and fastened back to his sword belt.

Daemon descended down the shallow steps of the dais and crossed the map floor to Aerion as the officers bowed and departed. 

“You summoned me,” Aerion reminded the Warmaster as he bowed his head, lightly.

“I did. Thank you for coming at such an early hour. Please walk with me,” Daemon invited as he led Aerion from the throne room. 

“I noticed you arrived on Vermithor,” Daemon said, gesturing to the windows of the throne room where Aerion saw Caraxes fly past, lurking about the black fort. “Seems rather exagerative for such a short ride on horseback.”
From Daemon’s words, it seemed to Aerion that in the end, this matter was not about sending him off somewhere else on Vermithor.

“Forgive me, I had expected that my abrupt summons might mean I was needed to be dispatched somewhere. I thought that bringing Vermithor would save me the trip of having to go back and get him,” Aerion explained.

Daemon smirked.

“So… you think I needed you to be sent out somewhere alone? Dispatched to defend one of the cities alone? Do you believe that just because you ride the largest of our dragons, you are somehow our most valued rider?” Daemon asked, interrogating Aerion.

“I never said that,” Aerion replied sternly. The Lord Nestaar had never heard such baseless accusations before in his life. He’d said nothing to suggest he thought himself grand and important because of Vermithor.

“But do you believe it? ” Daemon asked, peering his eyes. “No, of course not,” said Aerion.

“Well, you should… because you are,” the Emperor declared, his words greatly confusing the Dragonrider. 

“Since the death of the Black Dead decades ago, Vermithor now stands as the largest dragon in the world after Vhagar, younger yet greater than Dreamfyre and certainly the largest dragon the Empire has at its disposal. Some say he is more fierce than Caraxes and Vhagar combined, and one day he will most likely grow to be as big as Balerion himself, if not bigger. When you claimed my grandfather’s Bronze Fury you became one of the most powerful singular entities in this world next to my one eyed cunt of a nephew. But what he has over you in Vhagar’s size, you make back in experience as a military commander and a seasoned soldier. I may command the Empire’s military might, but you are the mightiest part of our military,” Daemon explained as they continued their walk through the Keep.

Aerion had never heard such praise and admiration from Daemon before, at least not directed at him.

“I— thank you, Your Majesty,” he responded, not sure what else to say. 

“Your city of Tyria is far from complete, but the Empire’s need for both you and your dragon could be close at hand if this mess all does come to war. To that end, with the Empress’s blessing, I have a few gifts for you,” Daemon declared as he led Aerion on through the halls of the black fort.

Daemon took Aerion to a small chamber lit with candles and torches, and sitting on display on the far wall was a suit of armour, and nearby was Aerion’s brother, Maekar.

“Brother? What are you doing here?” Aerion asked as he entered the room.

“I wanted to be here for this. To see your face when these were presented to you.”

It was only then that Aerion noticed that his brother the smith was holding a long case in his arms. 

Daemon walked first up to the suit of armor on the stand and put his hand on the shoulder of the empty suit.

It was of valyrian style, just like Daemon’s suit of armour, but distinct in its own way. Aerion assumed beneath the dark paint was valyrian steel and along the edges of the plates was bronze outlining. An ornate and handsome suit of armour, fit for a dragonlord. 

There was a helmet, too. A closed, full-faced helmet with a pair of empty black eye holes with dragon horns, bat-like wings on the side and a scale mail veil around the back, protecting the neck from injury.

“Is this for me?” Aerion asked as he approached the suit of black and bronze. 

Maekar nodded with pride. “Crafted it myself.”

“We couldn’t very well have the Champion of Valyria dressed like a tramp, could we?” Daemon asked as he folded his arms.

Aerion perked up in surprise and confusion.

“Champion of Valyria?” Aerion repeated, to which Daemon nodded.

“A title of rank adjacent to one of my generals without direct command over the legions but authority over them. You will stand as a martial representative and defender of the Empire, a hero providing chivalric and moral leadership and combating the Empire’s enemy. The people need a hero to rally behind, and our enemies need to know who to fear,” Daemon explained.

Aerion couldn’t help but laugh with amazement, flattered at such an honour.

“You honour me, Your Majesty. I shall not fail you,” Aerion said, bowing his head.

Daemon smiled.

“Confidence. Good. You’ll need it if you are going to wield this,” Daemon said, walking over to the case held by Maekar and opening it.

From the case, he pulled a sword with an ornate but simple brass hilt wrapped with red leather on the grip and bearing a fireball moulded pommel. 

“This is Kostiogis , the champion’s spirit. Forged by your brother and enchanted by Master Leandrys, just like Anogarys and Miliqelos,” Daemon explained, handing the blade over to Aerion.

The moment Aerion touched the blade’s hilt, he felt a strange sensation in his hand.

“Enchanted in what way?” Aerion asked, drawing the sword halfway from its scabbard and admiring the valyrian steel blade.

“Enchanted to reject the weak. This is a sword for heroes of the empire who will fight to protect all that we are without failure or weakness. To ensure this sword is wielded only by the strong, I had the sorcerers curse the blade so that those who feel indecisive, hesitant, fearful or unsure will feel the weight of the blade grow, making it heavy to even lift. This sword will only suffer those who have the strength and spirit to fight for the Empire without weakness of folly. Tell me, Aerion, do you have the will to wield this blade?” Daemon asked. 

As Aerion’s fingers coiled around the hilt of the blade, his doubts made the weight feel so strong he feared he might not even have the strength to pull the sword from its scabbard, which only made it heavier. 

Enough, Aerion said to himself in his mind, commanding discipline in his own head. 

Aerion then felt the sword’s weight begin to soften and drew the blade from its scabbard, holding it aloft, feeling perfectly balanced as it rested in his hand.

Daemon smiled at Aerion and nodded his head in approval.

When Aerion woke up that morning, he did not think he’d be asked to stand as the champion and defender of the Empire, but nor would he shy away from the call.

He loved the Empire, his family, his friends, his Empress, Naelys. 

Before the Empire, he was a wandering mercenary, desperate to escape Volantis and try and find a place in the world he could be contented. As a child, he believed that place was Valyria, but as he got older, he realised that the idealised version of Valyria that the known world raved about with such reverence was not real and never had been; thus, Aerion expected that it never would be. But all that changed with the great dragon dream and Rhaenyra’s quest to found the Empire.

The Empire of Valyria was everything Aerion ever wanted it to be, and no one would dare take it so long as he drew breath. 

Of this, he swore upon his new sword in silence, an oath between him, the gods and the blade he would wield to keep his silent word.

Chapter Text

Daeron was not sure why his brother had summoned him to a Small Council meeting, but given he had sent word to Dragonstone for their brother Aemond to join them then it must have been a matter of great importance.

Their middle brother had arrived on Vhagar less than an hour ago, flying ahead of his pregnant lady wife, Floris and their son, little Prince Aerys. 

Whatever Aegon’s reasons for summoning his two brothers, Daeron was sure he’d find out soon enough. 

The Prince walked through the halls of the Red Keep, filled with iconography, statues and stars of the faith and the green and gold banners of House Targaryen, their new permanent colours. 

Daeron wasn’t sure how he felt about his brother and grandsire permanently changing the heraldry of their house, uprooting five generations of tradition in the Seven Kingdoms, but it was beyond a third son’s prerogative to judge such things.

Ever since claiming their father’s throne, for better or for ill, Aegon had long desired to make his mark the way the Conqueror and the Conciliator did and Daeron surmised that changing the colours of their house was a small part of that, though vanity was a rather trivial adornment to one’s legacy.

The self-proclaimed Aegon the Great had been given the name, crown and blades of the Conqueror and wore the Conqueror’s armour to tourneys on the off occasion he would enter the lists —  not that he ever made it very far — and had been blessed by the red comet in the first year of his reign. But for all the portents and trappings of his status, Daeron could tell that his brother felt underwhelmed by his reign… disappointed by how little he had accomplished. 

In the beginning, he was so proud of himself, claiming the victory over Rhaenyra and her self-exile as a sign of Aegon’s own strength and diplomacy and then attributed the reclamation of the Stepstones as the first expansion of the Targaryen dynasty’s dominion since the Conquest.

But the last year had brought its toll down on Aegon as it had for everyone in the Seven Kingdoms. 

When winter came, the fever came with it and where the fever went, death followed. 

The Maesters had concluded that the Winter Fever was the worst epidemic to strike the Seven Kingdoms in the terrible winter that brought the Shivers in the eleventh year of King Jaehaerys’s reign.

The first sign of the Winter Fever was a red flush of the face, followed by a fever which would grow progressively worse as time passed. Although cooling the diseased person down with snow and icy water appeared to slow the course of the fever, it was unable to halt it entirely. By the second day, those afflicted would start to shiver violently and complain of being cold, in spite of their fever. By the third day, they became delirious, and would begin to sweat. On the fourth day, either the fever would break and the victim would recover, or the victim would die. Only one in every four people afflicted survived the Winter Fever.

The sickness first appeared on the Three Sisters where it killed half the population of the town of Sisterton. 

Regardless of this, the disease crossed the Bite to White Harbor, where it killed Lord Desmond Manderly and his son, Ser Medrick. By rights, White Harbor would have then gone to Desmond’s second son, Torhen had he not perished following Rhaenyra into the Doom, so instead the seat went ot Desmond’s brother, Walter. 

From Sisterton and White Harbor, the Winter Fever spread southward through the major ports of the east coast, striking first Gulltown, then Maidenpool, and then Duskendale. Around the same time, it Winter Fever was reported to have reached Braavos as well.

Eventually it spread to King’s Landing and onward after that, but the disease had grown somewhat less potent as it traveled south, though such statistics didn’t do much for those who died anyway.

Helaena lost two handmaidens that she was fond of; Ser Willis Fell of the Kingsguard perished and so did Aegon’s lickspittle he named to replace the white cloak, Ser Leon Estermont; Aemond visited Storm’s End with his wife to attend the funerals for two of her sisters who perished; Lord Samwell Blackwood and Lord Amos Bracken died just hours apart on the same day with the story being that Lord Blackwood died smiling because he’d just been told of his rival’s death mere hours before his own demise. Leowyn Corbray, Lord Daemion’s good-sister Hazel Harte, Roland Westerling, Jon Roxton, Richard Rodden, Marq Ambrose, Owen Fossoway and so many more. 

Daeron was in Oldtown during the fever; two of his mother’s brothers, Arland and Garth, perished weeks apart, as did Arland’s only son, leaving Daeron’s uncle Gwayne as his grandsire’s last living child.

Daeron’s cousin, Lord Ormund Hightower lost two of his sons, Martyn and Garmund, both of whom Daeron knew very well.

But worst of all, Daeron was devastated by the death of his betrothed at the hands of the Winter Fever.

Her name was Lady Alliandra Hightower, the great granddaughter of Ser Otto’s uncle. A distant relation but still a Hightower and a suitable match for Daeron. 

Since their youth Daeron was smitten with her, he wrote her half a dozen songs on his lute, entered every tourney to try and impress her with his skills on horseback and when all the girls tried to allure the Targaryen Prince, Daeron only had eyes for Ally.

She got on well with Tessarion, Daeron remembering when he took Ally to meet the Cobalt Queen, resting her hand on Tessarion’s blue scales to show how friendly she was.

Daeron had even taken Ally on his saddle and flown around Oldtown with her.

It wasn’t long after the Winter Fever took Alliandra that Daeron returned to King’s Landing at Aegon’s summons, almost a year ago now. After Aegon’s youngest, Maelor, caught the fever and barely pulled through, Aegon wanted Daeron close by, becoming immensely protective of his entire family. 

Aemond remained often on Dragonstone where he ruled as Prince of the Island until such time as Jaehaerys was old enough to claim the seat, but often visited the Red Keep with his children at Aegon’s behest, trying his hardest to keep them all together.

Five years ago, their parents were alive and Westeros had a modest but strong population of dragonlords, now there was eight of them, nine once Aemond’s second child was born.

Even fewer were the dragons they had remaining to them with a dozen perishing in the Doom of Valyria at their estranged and long-dead sister Rhaenyra’s hand and now there were only six left, seven if one would count the abomination known as the Cannibal who dwelled on Dragonstone.

Now that their house and their dynasty was small and compact, they needed to stay together to remain strong.

Eventually, Daeron found his way into the Small Council chamber, following the staircase up to find he was the last to arrive. 

Seated around the table with their distinct spherical totems set dwon in front of them was each member of the Small Council.

To the left of the King’s seat was Daeron’s grandsire, Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, his hair and beard were now grey and the lines on his face more distinct with the last few years having taken its toll on him and his old age had finally appeared to have caught up with his features. 

Sitting next to Ser Otto was his last living son, Ser Gwayne, the Commander of the City Watch; after that it was Lord Larys the clubfoot of House Strong, the Master of Whisperers.

Sitting at the end of the table was Lord Daemion Velaryon, the Master of Driftmark, Lord of High Tide and Master of Ships on the council.

Son of the late Ser Vaemond Velaryon, the deceased brother of the Sea Snake, Daemion succeeded his uncle as Lord of the Tides after Lord Corlys left with Rhaenyra’s fleet.

While Lord Corlys abandoned Driftmark with half the Velaryon fleet, Daemion, imbittered by his father’s death and Lord Corlys’s pledge to see Prince Lucaerys succeed him on the Driftwood Throne, Daemion and the majority of his house broke from Lord Corlys and remained on Driftmark.

Daeron had first met Daemion in the Stepstones when they joined forces against the Triarchy and broke the pirates for the final time, securing the islands. One of Daemion’s cousins ruled the island of Bloodstone as a cadet branch of house Velaryon.

On the right side of the table, sitting closest to Lord Larys and Lord Daemion was Ser Tyland Lannister, brother to Lord Jason and the Master of Coin; next to Tyland was Grand Maester Orwyle and the last seat was where the Master of Laws, Lord Jasper Wylde, the Ironrod , sat.

Aemond was standing near the table, leaning against one of the pillars and Aegon was pacing up and down behind his chair with Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard standing at attention nearby. 

There was one last thing in the Small Council chamber, something Daeron did not expect. It was off to the left near Aegon’s seat, covered by a long fabric sheet and looked like a pillar with a domed top. What was so strange about it was the fluttering sounds within and queer raspy noises. 

When Daeron’s presence was acknowledged by the council, Aegon broke his pacing up and down the chamber and turned his attention to his youngest brother.

“Daeron,” Aegon said with open arms as he approached the prince and wrapped his arms around him. 

Daeron awkwardly recpriocated and patted Aegon on the back but he was vexed for he had seen Aegon only yesterday yet Aegon acted as though they had not seen one another in months. 

Aegon then pulled away and rested his hands on Daeron’s shoulders.

“I’m glad your here, little brother. Both of you,” Aeogon said, glancing between Aemond and Daeron.

The King dressed in a green tunic embroidered with golden flames, a livery collar and a thick dark green coat with grey fur lining around the edges.

Since becoming King he had become the slightest bit more girthy around the waist, though it was hard to tell with his coat on and he had grown a thin pale moustache over his lip. 

“Come, come,” Aegon said, leading Daeron by the hand closer to the table before leaving his side and standing behind his own chair with his hands on the railing.

Upon Aegon’s face was a consistent look of what seemed like bewilderment which had not broken since Daeron entered the chamber. 

Aegon had been acting strange from time to time since becoming King, taking up Valyrian lessons which he had given up on as a youth, reading many of their father’s history books which he once considered boring, planning a royal tour to the North and visiting the Wall, and had a strange interest in texts of prophecies and ancient Northern fairy tales of ice monsters and the living dead.

But for all Daeron oddities that came and went these past years, none were so strange as he was being at present, for this was seemingly something else entirely.

“Now that we are all assembled here we may begin,” Aegon said but after saying those words he rested his hands of his hips and huffed. “I actually don’t know how to start this off, its a rather… this is a strange matter I’ve gathered you for… very fucking strange,” he tried to explain as he rubbed his forehead with the wrist of his palm.

“Perhaps his Grace might begin by elaborating why it was necessary to summon his brothers… and perhaps he might enlighten us on this strange business here,” Ser Otto said, gesturing to the growling noise beneath the sheet of fabric.

“Right. Right. Right,” Aegon said to himself. “Well. This is… like I said it's strange but it's also very important — as in the fate of the Seven Kingdoms sort of important — so I need both my brothers here because it concerns them as much as me. They are both my closest blood, best swords and the only two war-ready dragonriders for the Seven Kingdoms other than me… and they are my mother’s sons” Aegon explained. 

Daeron glanced over to his one eyed brother, the pair exchanging looks of confusion about what their eldest sibling was on about. 

“As for the creature in the cage under the curtain, that’s where this all gets tricky. So let me set the scene. There I am, waking up in my chamber this morning and what do I wake up to find? Helaena is standing by the window sill stroking what I think is a young dragon, maybe Shrykos or Morghul. Now this is strange to me because why the hell would one of the twins' little dragons be in our chambers at such an early hour? Then I get out of bed and walk up to investigate and what do I find? What do I find?! Not one of my children’s dragons, no, instead I find… this,” Aegon declared as he grabbed the sheet covering and pulled it back.

Beneath the sheet was a bird cage on a stand and within the bird cage was a large draconic bird, similar to the size of a vulture, squawking, fluttering its wings, and clawing at the cage with its taloned feet. 

The creature had batlike wings, dragon-like scaly grey skin, a beaked snout with sharp teeth and taloned feet. It looked close to a dragon but to Daeron it clearly wasn’t one, first of all, the creature had no horns and a sort of primitive look to its eyes.

Dragons were intelligent creatures but this looked like a dumb bird and while dragons grew to be great in size, this was the size of a young juvenile, yet fully grown from the looks of it.

Almost the entire council sprang to their feet as Aegon pulled back the sheet and Aemond left his position leaning against the column and walked closer with intrigue and astonishment in his eye.

“What in Seven Hells is that?” Daeron’s uncle Gwayne asked in shock.

“By the gods!” Ser Tylands exclaimed. 

“Its called a messenger wyvern,” Aegon explained. 

A messenger wyvern? Daeron had never heard of such thing or of a civilization in the known world who used such things. 

Daeron then looked closer and saw that the creature had what looked like a harness on, wearing some kind of leather leather straps that looped around the joints of its wings and met at the back like the straps of a travellers backpack and mounted on the creatures back to the leather harness was a long boiled leather canister of some kind with an unbuckled lid. 

“Forgive me, your Grace. But I feel I would be remiss if I did not say, I know of the Sothoryos wyverns from my studies at the Citadel and I can say with some assurity that this is not such a creature. It is far too small and differently shaped,” Grand Maester Orwyle explained as he looked at the creature through the bars of the cage.

“I never said it was from Sothoryos,” Aegon responded as he pulled a pair of long paper scrolls from his long robe which he had tucked into his belt next to the King’s valyrian steel dagger.

“When Helaena was petting the beast, she reached into the canister mounted on its back and pulled these two scrolls. What is inside is… it is beyond madness. This is impossible. I summoned Aemond here because I need all of you to help me with this. I just— I don’t know what to do,” Aegon said, becoming flustered.

“Perhaps if you told us, we could help you,” Ser Otto declared.

“Right. Grand Maester, would you do the honours,” Aegon said, handing one of the scrolls to Grand Maester Orwyle. 

The Grand Maester took the scroll into his hand and sat down, with other council members taking to their own seats, including Aegon as they all began to calm down. 

Before unraveling the scroll, the Grand Maester first examined a little round grey circular cap at the end of the poll upon which the parchment was scrolled around.

“Strange… there is a seal embossed at the end of this scroll rod. It appears to be a triskelion but the ends of the spirals are adorned with dragon heads. I’m unfamiliar with any such sigil… I might have to consult the archives to find it’s origin,” Grand Maester Orwyle said, but Aegon smirked in reply as though he doubted such searches would result in anything. 

Clearly Aegon knew what the scrolls said but did not know how to communicate their contents to the council in his flustered state, so he was letting them discover the answers themselves.

Grand Maester Orwyle then unravelled the scroll, his eyes darting across the page from left to right as he read down the lines, as Grand Maester Orwyle continued to read he hesitated to speak a few times and his face became grim and surprised the further her he read.

“Well? What does it say? Out with it, man,” Lord Daemion demanded.

“Please Grand Maester,” the Lord Hand asked, speaking more politely than the Master of Ships.

Grand Maester Orwyle blinked rapidly as he looked around at the councilors and cleared his throat.

“D-Dear brother,” Orwyle began hesitantly, his voice breaking as he began to speak. After clearing his throat he tried again.

“Dear Brother. I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. Four years have passed since we parted ways and much has transpired since then in both our stories. I imagine that these past three and a half years you have surmised that my story came to an abrupt end when our ships and dragons disappeared beyond the mists of Valyria, leading you and all the peoples of the world to think us to have perished. For not releasing word of our existence and disillusioning you of this false assumption, I beg your forgiveness. My reasons for secrecy were to protect the safety of the Empire so that we could grow and stabilize in peace. Now, after more than three years of developing, growing and building, the Empire of Valyria is ready to show itself to the world and be recognised as a sovereign nation by its neighbours.”

Daeron’s heart raced in his chest, disbeliving of what he was hearing. Aemond looked stunned, the Hand looked mortified, and Ser Criston looked rageful like he was about to explode. Most of the councillors looked either terrified or furious or even both.

“Aegon my brother, I know ours has not been a deeply loving relationship in our past, circumstances laid out by others made rivals of us and not many years ago we treaded the path to war with one another. But the past is past and the future lies before us. I write to you offering an open invitation for emissaries from the Seven Kingdoms to visit the Empire of Valyria and begin diplomatic relations between our two great nations of Dragonlords. Furthermore, as you will discover in the second scroll, your mother Alicent is alive and well, discovered off our coast and taken into the custody of the Empire.”

Ser Otto reached over and held his son’s shoulder as a shaky breath escaped him and he covered his mouth with his eyes growing red with tears. Ser Gwayne let out a gentle laugh of disbelief and smiled. Ser Criston Cole closed his eyes, leaned his head back and sighed in relief. Aegon was smiling giddily, lightly bouncing in his chair and when Daeron looked over to Aemond, a tear escaped his eye with pure vulnerability upon his otherwise stoic face. 

“She has been a guest of the Empire these past few years and I offer to release her into the care of your emissaries so that she may be returned to the Seven Kingdoms. I can only imagine how strange this letter must be for you, how deceived you must feel, how you must have mourned your mother. Please heed me when I tell you that none of this was meant to threaten you. Our secrecy was a necessary evil to protect our Empire until we were strong enough to defend ourselves. I understand you may have no reason to trust me, but let me defer to the wisdom of our beloved father and the words, the crown cannot remain strong if the house of the dragon remains divided , so in honour of the he whom we both loved as he loved us, let us usher in a new alliance and let the Empire of Valyria and the Seven Kingdoms sit side by side as the twin pillars of Targaryen might in the known world. I understand you might wish to take some time to deliberate before responding to my letter so I beseech you to keep the messenger wyvern I have sent and when you are ready you may fill its canister with your reply and send it off to return home. In the meantime, sustain the wyvern with water and a diet of raw meat as you would feed a crow, yet with rations proportionate to its size. I will look for your response with great enthusiasm. Sincerely, Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, the First of my Name, Empress of Valyria, Queen of the High Valyrians, Lady of the Seven Cities, Keeper of the Lands of the Long Summer, Mistress of the Fourteen Flames and the Smoking Sea, Blood of the Dragon, Heir to the Freehold and Protector of the Imperial Realm.”

No words were said immediately after the Grand Maester had finished, all too stunned to speak. Ser Tyland drank his entire goblet of wine and Ironrod looked like he wanted to flip the table in rage. Even Clubfoot was stunned, despite most often seeming so calm and collected yet also slippery and sinister.

“My daughter is alive,” Ser Otto said, staring blankly across the table at nothing. 

Aegon took out the other scroll and handed it across to Ser Otto.

The Hand unravelled it and began to read, after a few lines he stopped and began to cry as silently as he could but the tears betrayed his face.

“All these years I thought she was— but it’s real. It is written in her own hand,” Ser Otto said in a croaky voice as he showed the letter to his son.

Ser Gwayne laughed with tears in his eyes.

“She writes just like mother use to,” Gwayne said with a smile on his face. 

“What does it say?” Aemond asked. 

“It says… she’s been well looked after… she misses all of us terribly… she wants to come home… and she has great hopes for peace between the two Targaryen dynasties,” Gwayne explained, sumerising the scroll. 

Daeron was elated to hear his mother still lived, when she died at sea, Daeron felt he had been robbed of her forever and any chance to reconnect with her. When Daeron was sent away from King’s Landing, the older he got the less he wrote to her as he lived his own life in Oldtown. Part of him grew to resent her perhaps, for turning him away and making him a stranger to his own family. They still had love between them, but when Daeron returned to King’s Landing for the pledging ceremony, he was colder and more distant to his mother than he should have been, perhaps blaming her for robbing Daeron of the chance to see her father pass, or even know him over the years.

After Daeron returned to Dragonstone with Aemond after the War of Brothers and Daughters in the Stepstones, his mother spent some time there before leaving for Braavos on her sejourne following Aegon’s exiling her from King’s Landing. 

During that time, Daeron and his mother truly found their way back to one another and began to reconnect with one another. She had promised they would spend more time together when she returned to Oldtown after completing her voyage, but Daeron believed her to have perished off the coast of the Doom as she sailed from Volantis to Naath.

Now the Seven had blessed Daeron with a second chance to have his mother back and it filled him with joy.

As all of the Virtuous Queen Alicent’s kin looked to one another with pure vulnerable joy in their eyes, Ironrod interrupted by clearing his throat.

“Apologies, Your Grace. While Queen Alicent’s survival is thrilling news to be sure, I feel we should focus on the grander issue at hand. Should we not be formulating a stratagem? Raising our banners? Preparing ships and forming a coalition with the Free Cities?” Ironrod asked.

Aegon looked with confusion at his Master of Laws.

“That sounds a tad extreme, Lord Jasper. My sister asked for a return letter and an emissary, not a fucking full frontal invasion,” Aegon reprimanded.

Ironrod, Tyland, Daemion and Clubfoot looked surprised by Aegon’s uncharacteristic call for restraint.

“But… Is this not how we should handle this threat, Your Grace? Rhaenyra Targaryen is a treacherous usurper and a whore who tried to steal the Iron Throne and Driftmark from their rightful rulers. Should this loathsome thief not be put down before she tries to steal the Seven Kingdoms again? You are Aenar Targaryen’s rightful heir, the true ruler of Valyria,” Lord Daemion declared.

“Our people will rally behind you to squash this threat to the east and rescue your mother from the tyrannical slattern if you command them,” Ironrod declared.

Aegon looked vexed by his councilors' urgings.

“Our people are tired. Only a year has passed since the Winter Fever struck us. The people are still beleaguered and not ready to send their fighting men across the Summer Sea to face dragonfire. Besides, we need our men here, the Ironborn, Dornish and Wildlings might try to take advantage of our weakened state,” Aegon declared.

“You are the King, Your Grace and your people have not forgotten it. Over the years, Lord Humfrey Lefford, Unwin Peake, Raylon Bracken, Jerrod Fossoway and many more have personally expressed their disdain for Rhaenyra in my conversations with them. You know my brother will always stand by you and all houses west of the Golden Tooth will heed his command. The regents of the young Lord Lyonell Tyrell have cozied themselves to Lord Ormund Hightower in recent years. Your brother Aemond is wed to one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters. Young Lord Oscar Tully is still greener than a field of grass in the Reach and will not break faith with his King for a now foreign Empress he never met. The Starks are revered for their adherence to their oaths and Lord Cregan knelt to you four years ago,” Ser Tyland asserted.

“My lords, please. What comportment is this? We have received no provocation to violence in this letter and yet you would have us strike at this new and largely unknown power without a second thought? Giving no consideration to weather or not we can sermount a threat such as this?” Ser Otto asked.

“Honeslty lads, show a little composure,” Aegon asked of his councilors like a pot calling a kettle black, as the saying goes.

“Your Grace. Years ago, did we not celebrate the supposed deaths of Rhaenyra and her Empire, decrying them as traitors and thieves? And Lord Hand, when Rhaenyra first claimed to make herself an Empress on Lys, did you not draw up strategies to dispense with the threat of the Empire should they prove to be alive?” asked Ironrod.

“That was long ago and the circumstances have long since changed. Yes, I perceived that Rhaenyra’s Empire could pose a great threat and needed to be crushed but if that were to happen it should have happened swiftly. Regrettably, the opportunity for surprise and a quick strike to a small and underdeveloped power has passed us by in seclusion. There is no telling how powerful Rhaenyra’s little Empire has become in these past few years. The wealth, weaponry and sorcery of Valyria was a power the world has not seen since the Doom. If Rhaenyra has the ability to find and control beasts such as these,” Otto said gesturing to the wyvern in the cage. “Then there is no telling what other forces she could use against us. Our point of advantage over her is gone and now we must play the board before us. If war is inevitable we will adapt but as it stands, I believe diplomacy might be our only course of action,” Otto declared. 

Aegon nodded his head.

“I’ve had my differences with Rhaenyra and I’ll admit, I did feel — slighted by her claiming my comet as her own and stealing so many dragons… but I think for the good of both our realms, so long as she stays on her side of the Narrow Sea and I stay on mine, we can get along just fine. In any case, a war would surely make the first casualty out of my mother,” Aegon declared.

“Your Grace. This Empire is a threat to us. Surely we cannot yield to them for the sake of one wom—”

Before Ironrod could finish his words, the King, the Hand and the Commander of the City Watch rose from their chairs quickly and abruptly with fury in their eyes as Aemond, Ser Cirston and Daerron closed in closer to the table.

All six of them communicated that if Ironrod finished his sentence, he would not leave the room alive. 

Lord Jasper sunk back down in his chair, frightfully.

Aegon leaned on the table by his elbows and rubbed his eyes.

“I shall write a letter to Rhaenyra, give it to that damn dragon bird and inform my sister that I want peace as much as she does and that I will be sending an emissary to go to her empire and retrieve my mother,” Aegon declared.
“Send me, brother,” Aemond said abruptly. “I will take fifty skilled knights and Vhagar with me. Rhaenyra will hand over our mother and let us go in peace or face our wroth.”

“Out of the question!” Otto declared adamantly. “Rhaenyra had a dozen dragons under her command when she left Volantis for Valyria, pooling her riders from those lowborn dragonseeds. Vhagar would be outnumbered immensely. If we lose her we lose our largest and most fierce dragon. Dreamfyre is no fighter in sweet Helaena’s hands and Tessarion is only a young adult. Besides the point, you have a history for instigation, Aemond. You’ve long sought retribution for your lost eye and we cannot risk your temper overwhelming you in such a delicate matter. I shall go and while I am there I shall assess the dangers this empire poses to us and if they prove too dangerous to forge lasting peace with then I will be able to assess if there are weaknesses to be pressed,” Ser Otto declared.

“Lord Hand. Your relationship with the Empress and her Consort is… less than stellar. Besides, in such hard times after the Fever and with this new Empire rising out of obscurity, your advice to the King is needed now more than ever before. Perhaps someone who does not have any past grievances should be sent to represent the Seven Kingdoms to the Empire,” Orwyle suggested. 

“Do you have anyone in mind?” Aegon asked, leaning back in his chair.

“I’ll go,” Daeron declared, speaking up before Orwyle could speak.

All eyes in the chamber fell on Daeron, making him feel flushed and nervous.

“I’ll go,” he repeated louder and more confidently. “I was sent to Oldtown very young and I was not a part of the feud between Blacks and Greens. Rhaenyra does not know me as her enemy. I shall begin diplomatic proceedings with our sister and bring our mother home. If Rhaenyra is planning to betray our trust I shall find evidence of it and find a way to stop it. You have my word brother,” Daeron declared. 

He meant every word of it, after spending so long in Oldtown, it was finally Daeron’s time to show his quality and prove his worth.

Aegon looked across to their grandsire who took a moment before nodding in agreement.

“Perhaps a member of the Small Council should accompany the young Prince,” Lord Jasper began slowly rising from his seat. “A man of experience and cunning who could—” 

“Not you,” Otto said outright and Ironrod sat back down.

“Tyland. You have served the council for many years, you are brother to one of the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms, you have served as both Master of Ships and master of Coin. Would you join Prince Daeron on his journey east?” Otto asked.

“It would be my honour, Lord Hand. I’ll be the first Lannister to travel to Valyria since—” the smile quickly melted off of Tyland’s face and a grim look of horror overtook him.

“Oh gods,” he said covering his mouth. “Oh, gods.”

“What is it?” Aegon asked.

“Prince Daemon… my brother and I caught him in the halls of the Red Keep a few days before he left after the pledging ceremony. We chided him and made sport of his disgraceful banishment from the Seven Kingdoms. He said if he made it to Valyria and found the remains of my ancestor… oooh gods,” Tyland said in horror. “I must go to Valyria and confirm that he has not reforged my family’s lost ancestral sword Brightroar into… an obscenity.”

Daeron was curious about what Ser Tyland meant but would wait until later to find out his meaning.

“You’ll also need a guard. Tessarion can’t be with you every minute of every day and you’ll be passing through Triarchy territory to reach this Empire if it doesn’t end up being hostile itself,” Gwayne said, sounding like he was volunteering himself. 

“It should be headed by a kingsguard knight. I was the Queen’s sworn protector for many years, I feel honour-bound to see her freed and returned here,” Ser Criston said stepping forward.

“You were her sworn protector but now you are Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Your place is by the King’s side,” Ser Gwayne declared.

“I nominate Ser Arryk Cargyll. He is the twin brother of one of Rhaenyra’s guards, yes? Perhaps the deep-rooted bonds of fraternity might allow Ser Arryk to unearth some hidden truths from conversation with his brother,” Lord Larys suggested.

After everyone around the table agreed, Aegon dismissed the council. 

Daeron then left to prepare for his journey. 

He had read plenty about Valyria during his time in Oldtown, his favoured books on the Freehold being suggested to him by his great-uncle Archmaester Vaegon, who he imagined he would see once again in Rhaenyra’s empire. 

There were so many faces he would see again, his mother, his half-sister, his cousins.

Daeron did not know what to expect from Valyria now, he didn’t know what except about anything for he felt that now, the world would be changed forever.

Chapter Text

In all her years, Rhaenyra watched men of the realm train in swordsmanship and battle in the tourney fields and imagined their experiences as her own. When she started learning the way of the sword nearly three years past, those experiences she imagined became her reality. Rhaenyra expected the exhaustion, the heavy panting, the ache in her muscles as she developed her strength, but after all those years she spent watching men fight with swords, the one experience of fighting she had not anticipated with the stench and ich. 

The fowl odor she exuded from her sweat and the irritation of her skin against the moistened fabric of her garb. 

The Empress clad herself in a sleeveless maroon red gambeson over a black cotton shirt and long cuffed leather gloves. Her hair was tightly tied back into a single braid and in her hands, she held a tourney sword. 

Her opponent was Ser Erryk who had stripped off his white cloak, his valyrian steel helm and armour and set aside his blades, taking up a tourney sword and clad in the white gambeson he wore beneath her cuirass. 

As Rhaenyra duelled with one of her protectors, three more stood around them, spectating the fight and advising the Empress on her form.

The spectators were Ser Steffon, Ser Lorent and of course the Lord Commander, Ser Harrold. 

After several sparing matches, Rhaenyra’s energy was greatly spent, her breaths were deep, her veins throbbed in her neck as the blood pulsed through her and her body was moistened with stinking sweat. 

As her breathing began to settle, Rhaenyra noted her mentoring opponent was flourishing his blade in his hand, keeping his wrist loose and indicating his readiness for another match.

Rhaenyra gripped her sword tightly, a well-balanced blade that felt like an extension of her own body. She had trained for three years, honing her technique and building her strength, but there was always more to learn. Ser Erryk stood before her, a calm presence, watching her every move with keen eyes. He was a seasoned swordsman, known for his expertise and patience, earning his place in her father’s Kingsgaurd alongside his twin brother at only eight and ten.

“Remember, your Majesty,” he said, his voice steady, “a fight is not just about strength. It’s about control, timing, and understanding your opponent.”

She nodded, focusing on his words as he took his stance. With a swift motion, he lunged forward, testing her reflexes. Rhaenyra parried his strike, feeling the impact resonate through her arms. She countered with a quick thrust, but he sidestepped, demonstrating his experience.

“Good! But take care not to be too obvious with your counter,” Ser Erryk said, his tone encouraging yet firm. “Surprise me.”

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, centring herself. She feinted to the left, drawing Ser Erryk's attention, then pivoted on her back foot and spun to the right, aiming for his unguarded side. He reacted quickly, blocking her strike and pushing her back with a swift riposte.

“Excellent footwork!” he praised. “Now, let’s see you combine your strikes with a defensive maneuver.”

Rhaenyra took his advice to heart. As they exchanged blows, she began to weave in defensive movements, rolling her shoulders and angling her blade in ways that deflected his strikes while preparing her own. She felt herself growing more confident, her instincts kicking in as she anticipated his next move.

But Ser Erryk was relentless. He pressed forward, his strikes becoming faster and more aggressive. Rhaenyra found herself on the defensive, her heart racing as she blocked and dodged. Just when she thought she had found her rhythm, he executed a feint of his own, drawing her into a trap.

Rhaenyra stumbled slightly, but she quickly regained her footing. Channelling her frustration, she remembered her training: every setback was a lesson. With a determined yell, she launched a series of rapid strikes, each one precise and calculated. Ser Erryk met her with equal intensity, their swords clashing in a symphony of steel.

Finally, after a gruelling exchange, she found an opening. With a swift, decisive move, she executed a technique she had practised countless times. Her blade found its mark against his—just a gentle touch to signify a victory in their sparring match

Ser Erryk stepped back, a proud smile breaking across his face as his three brothers clapped their hands. “Well done, Your Majesty. You’ve come a long way, and you’ve learned to think on your feet.”

Breathing heavily, Rhaenyra couldn’t help but grin. “Thank you, Ser Erryk. But I know I still have so much to learn.”

While Ser Erryk had given her a good fight and made her earn the win, they had sparred seven times already and Ser Erryk beat her in all of them. 

As a Dragonknight, the highest calibre of warrior in the entire Empire and a Kingsguard before that, Ser Erryk could have killed Rhaenyra a thousand times over in a straight fight. 

Rhaenyra’s victory was a testament to her training mixed with chance for with every sparring match she won against her mentors she lost five against them and that was with them going easy on her.

Rhaenyra knew she would never be as great a sword wielder as her Dragonknights, nor would she ever match Daemon or any of her sons for that matter, but at the very least she would never be helpless in a fight. 

“True, but you have shown talent and commitment these past years and they have served you well. So long as you keep at it, you shall continue to hoan your skills, Your Majesty,” Ser Harrold said, approaching the empress and taking her tourney sword and offering her a waterskin in trade.

Rhaenyra uncorked the waterskin with her teeth, letting the stopper dangle by the leather string it was tied to and let the refreshingly cool water pass her lips and slip down her throat, quenching the tyring thirst that had been plaguing her. 

So carried away by her desire for hydration, Rhaenyra had to gasp for air upon ending her drink.

“Thank you for today’s lessons, Sers,” Rhaenyra said in gratitude as she wiped the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her shirt.

A light applauding sound caught Rhaenyra’s ear and when she turned her head to follow its source she saw the Princess Rhaenys leaning against the entryway of the courtyard with the white worm, Mysaria standing past her shoulder.

How long the pair had been standing there watching Rhaenyra or what they had been conversing about, she could not guess. 

What caught Rhaenyra about her two watchers were the smiles on their faces, so clear even from across the courtyard, smiles that Rhaenyra found flattering and identified as looks of pride in the Empress’s skills. 

It was always a comfort for Rhaenyra when she saw either of her two councillors and together was all the more comfort. Of all her advisors, there were none that Rhaenyra prized more than the Queen Who Never Was and the White Worm.

Rhaenys was her wise mentor, a woman who had been informally tutored in the ways of statecraft under the Good Queen Alyssane, her father Prince Aemon, her uncle Prince Baelon, the wise Septon Barth and of course, King Jaehaerys Targaryen, wisest of all Targaryen kings. She had also seen much of the world on the back of Meleys as she followed her husband on his grand adventures and ruled many years as the Lady of Dritmark. Rhaenys bore all the wisdom, fortitude, prudence and grace that even the mightiest King would crave and while the crown of Westeros had been long since denied from her, the wisdom of leadership that she had cultivated in her lifetime she put to the service of Rhaenyra. 

Then there was Mysaria, Rhaenyra’s daring and clever spymistress. When Rhaenyra first knew her, the Empress was just a girl of five and ten, not even Princess of Dragonstone six months. Back then, Mysaria was but a whore from Flea Bottom made Mistress to Daemon when he occupied Rhaenyra’s island, one he claimed he would marry and beget a dragonriding child from. 

In the years that followed after Daemon went south to wage war in the Stepstones, Mysaria returned to King’s Landing and made herself greater than she was, first becoming a gossipmonger and then a self-made spymistress who insnared all the boroughs and streets of King’s Landing in her web of observation. In the time since then, after the murderous wretch Clubfoot destroyed her network, she had become Rhaenyra’s loyal ally.

For now, since they entered the realm of Valyria beyond the shadow of the Doom, her web of spies and informants was as small as the empire itself, the streets of the seven cities and the back alleys of their villages and ports. But while her web was small, it was more focused and there was hardly a thing that transpired in the Empire that Rhaenyra did not hear from her White Worm.

Rhaenyra passed back the waterskin to Ser Harrold and left her knights, but she knew they would not be far behind, her protection being ever constant in her life.

On her way towards her two advisors, Rhaenyra went to a small stone bench where her sword Miliqelos sheathed in its ornate scabbard was laid down.

As Rhaenyra retrieved her blade, she slung her head and arm through the loop of the thin leather baldric and let the blade hang from her hip. 

The blade was valyrian steel, stronger and lighter than any other metal and yet the Empress trained with tourney swords for the dull blades were safer and training with a heavier blade would make her quicker in a real fight with Miliqelos in her hands. 

The Empress then left the courtyard and went to the entryway where her advisors stood awaiting her. 

“You fight like Queen Visenya herself, Your Majesty,” Rhaenys complimented. 

Rhaenyra snorted and shook her head.

“They say Visenya bled from sword wounds to her arms before her first moonblood. When she first convinced Aegon the Dragon to form the Kingsgaurd, she drew Dark Sister from its scabbard and split his cheek before his guards could grip their hilts. Some claim she could have bested a Sword of the Morning had she ever met a Dayne on the field of battle during the First Dornish War. I, on the other hand, fight like a woman who knows what she is doing at least, but that does not make me a Visenya,” Rhaenyra explained, refuting the praises of her skill.

“Which will be more than enough against a peasant conscript of which most armies in Westeros are made of,” Mysaria responded.

Rhaenyra was concerned by her spymistress’s words.

“Is that relevant? Has my brother replied to my letter with threats of violence?” Rhaenyra wondered as her heart beneath her gambeson quickened.

Of all the potential enemies across the known world, none were more dangerous than Westeros for while they outnumbered their sibling branch of House Targaryen three to one in dragons, a victory for the Empire would be assured but perhaps not a lossless one should Vhagar’s maw find some of their younger dragons before Vermithor, Silverwing, Caraxes and Meleys could bring her down. 

More than that, it would put Rhaenyra in an impossible predicament with Alicent.

What could Aegon be thinking? Rhaenyra wondered as she pondered if Mysaria truly wished to deliver bad tidings on the matter.

Mysaria pulled a scroll of parchment from the sleeve of her pale robes and presented it to the Empress. 

“A letter, yes. But not one of violence. King Aegon Targaryen, second of his name has responded to your welcome offer of diplomacy with open arms and fraternal love. He has agreed to dispatch your youngest brother, Prince Daeron Targaryen to head a delegation to open diplomatic channels with us. He shall arrive in the coming months,” Mysaria said, offering over the scroll to the Empress.

“Daeron?” Rhaenyra repeated, surprised by the chosen ambassador. 

Her youngest brother, a young man of twenty years, no older than Jace and Baela. 

“I have not seen him since the pledging ceremony for Aegon before we left King’s Landing. When I last knew him well, he was still a boy of two and ten when Alicent sent him away to be fostered by the Hightowers of Oldtown. 

Mayhaps the young prince had chosen come of his own volition to reach his mother, or perhaps Aegon wished to send a dragonrider to head the negotiations and Daeron was the only option. 

Aegon was too valuable for Otto to let him come in person, Helaena was no politician and if Aemond was still as he once was, then he would bring war to Valyria and Westeros with his short temper. 

As Rhaenyra took the scroll into her hands, she unravelled it and began to read from the page, confirming all that she had been told by her spy mistress.

“And so our beloved homeland of Westeros adds the ranks of those who have replied to our summons,” Rhaenyra noted as she ravelled the page back up. 

For over a week, the wyverns had been returning from beyond the Empire, bringing replies from their neighbouring nations in their scrolled-up letters. 

They had already received word from the Volantis, Mantarys, Meereen, Yunkai, Astapor, New Ghis, Tolos, Elyria, Lys, Tyrosh, Myr, Pentos and Braavos, all agreeing to send envoys of diplomacy to the Empire. Some would be arriving in the next few days while others would be perhaps weeks away. Their most immediate arrivals would also be their most threatening prospects. The Masters of Slavers Bay, the Lords of Volantis and according to the wyvern reply message of Mantarys, the Lord of the City, Roverys of House Haergar, was on his way to meet the Empress himself and would be riding along the coast of the Sea of Sighs for Valyria at present.

“If Daeron is accompanied by a delegation that will sail alongside him to Valyria and they keep their stops at the ports of the Free Cities breef then they should arrive in perhaps a month and a half, three at the most. Meanwhile, the delegations from Slaver’s Bay and Mantarys shall be arriving at Aquos Dhaen and Telos any day now and arrive here a few days after that,” Rhaenyra recounted, speaking aloud the thoughts in her head. 

Mysaria then sighed.

“The city of Mantarys is a pariah state. Their deformities and injuries since the Doom have made them outsiders, rejected by most of the known world. Even bandits and Dothraki raiders fear pestilence will befall them if they enter the city and the superstition of them makes many afraid to cross the roads past their city. The fact that the Ghiscari Slave-Masters wished to ally with them against us is a testament to how dangerous they perceive us to be,” Mysaria recounted. 

“Take caution, your Majesty,” said Princess Rhaenys. “The emissaries from Slavers’ Bay bring with them not just words, but the weight of their nations' ambitions. We must approach this with caution. Our power gives them an equal reason to envy us and fear us, meaning their intentions can be as unpredictable as the winds of the tides beyond our borders.”

Rhaenyra nodded her head as she contemplated the words of her advisors. 

The Empress then motioned her councillors to follow her as the Empress began to walk down the corridors of the palace, her Dragonknights following behind. 

“For years while hidden here, we have been raiding the convoy of slave ships running between the Gulf of Grief and Volantis and the very act that prompted us to reveal ourselves to the world was their desire to invade us. Mysaria, in lieu of spies during our isolation, you have been relying upon the sorcerers of the Anogrion to peer into the goings on of our neighbours. So what have you seen of these Slave Masters through the light of the glass candles?” Rhaenyra asked. 

“Much as of late, your Majesty. We are to receive nine masters from the delegation sailing this way. The Good Masters of Astapor send their masters from houses Ullhor, Nazlok and Ghoin. The Wise Masters of Yunkai send their masters from houses Myraq, Rhaezn and Ahlaq. Lastly, the Great Masters of Meereen send their masters from houses Reznak, Hazkar… and Loraq,” Mysaria explained.

Rhaenyra peered her eyes as she heard the final name said.

“Master Adreq zo Loraq?” Rhaenyra asked, wishing for confirmation on the man she suspected to be part of the delegation.

Since first seeing the vision of him through the candle standing at the port of Astapor, Rhaenyra had studied further into this Master and discovered that it was his intrigue and kean mind that had discovered them and promoted conquest of their empire.

“No doubt he wishes to prod our Empire himself, find our weaknesses and find ways to take our power for himself,” Mysaria suggested.

“Then it is important that we show strength. Diplomacy is always preferable but it is important to show our power and a willingness to use it. Peacefulness to the point of indolence will be a sure end for the Empire,” Rhaenys stated, making sure Rhaenyra knew never to forget she held her sword as an option when the olive branch was not enough.

“We have three legions and thirty-two dragons. I’m sure we can find some ways to humble this ambitious lord Loraq,” Rhaenyra assured her allies.

As the three women continued down the corridor, shadowed by the four white cloaks, Rhaenyra spotted her handmaiden Jayne approach. 

A Kingslander from birth who first worked as an informant in Mysaria’s network who first approached Ser Erryk and Arryk in the child fighting pits when they sought Aegon in the hours after Viserys the Peaceful’s death. 

When Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting, Elinda Massey was waiting no longer following her marriage to Lord Alan Ēsdōror, heir and grandson of the late Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Empress required a second hand to lighten Dyana’s load and Mysaria offered Jayne for the position.

“Ah, Jayne. Please tell me that you have come to inform me that you have prepared a bath to wash me clean of my stench,” said the Empress, hoping for such luck, but her handmaiden’s expression did not instill her with confidence.

“The Lady Melisandre of the Red Temple has invaded your private solar and awaits you there. Dyana and I insisted that she await being summoned by you but she remained… obstinate to our requests and has made herself comfortable as she waits for you,” Jayne explained.

“Does that damn witch’s impertinence know no bounds?” the White Worm pondered in a biting tone.

“Mysaria,” Rhaenyra reprimanded as she turned her gaze upon her spymistress.

The White Worm and the Red Woman had always been at odds, at least on Mysaria’s part but Rhaenyra would have none of it, regardless of how unfazed Melisandre may have been by such comments.

It was true that Melisandre walked through life in the Empire with a degree of confidence and impunity not expected of one in Rhaenyra’s court, but she was still respectful and loyal in her actions. 

Though Rhaenyra had not expected it, Melisandre had also proven herself a valued councillor in Rhaenyra’s court and relied on her council often. Though cryptic, Melisandre was wise and insightful and staunchly loyal to Rhaenyra, her Princess that was Promised. 

Her prophetic visions that she divined through the flames were also useful, prophesying landslides and volcanic quakes and giving them foresight of where to find freshwater streams to feed their farms and villages and where to find lost valyrian ruins. 

Rhaenyra’s sorcerers did not deny Melisandre’s abilities of foresight, nor did they condemn Rhaenyra’s use of it, but they warned her to take caution for conscious divination was far removed from the oneiromancy of the dragon dreams. 

In the sorcerers' explanation, for the future to call out to you is set in stone but when you call out to the future, many different possible futures will answer back.

It was for that very reason that the sorcerers only used the candles to look to the past and the present and did not bear the hubris to look forward as Melisandre did.

Nonetheless, Melisandre’s prophecies had proven true thus far and Rhaenyra continued to welcome her council and her abilities.

Daemon had once said that Rhaenyra was counselled by the ladies of four colours.  

Princess Rhaenys, her wise and regal mentor dressed all in black.

Lady Mysaria, her sharp and daring clad in dresses of white. 

High Priestess Melisandre whose robes were as blood red as her hair.

And lastly, the one who Daemon was most objectionable to, the imprisoned Dowager Queen, Alicent Hightower who still wore dresses of green in her tower cell.

The Empress was then off to her solar accompanied by her ladies to go see her Red Woman.

Rhaenyra walked through the halls of the palace past bowing guards, servants and nobles, all of whom looked somewhat vexed by her outfit — not surprised to see her wearing it but conflicted about how to act when they saw the Empress wear such a warlike garb. 

Eventually, her feet took her to the door of her private solar, far removed but not too far away from her bedchamber where she and Daemon cohabitated when he was not away on the other side of the valley at his Black Fort, marshalling his legions for the prospect of war against their neighbouring city-states.

The room was adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen, featuring dragons in flight among the clouds, symbolizing the family's connection to fire and blood. The walls were made of the same dark stone as the rest of the palace, giving the room a sense of strength and permanence, while large glass windows with black lattice panels over them allowed soft light to filter in, casting vibrant patterns on the polished black marble floor.

Along one wall were diagonal square box bookshelves filled with ancient tomes of the Freehold and her father’s many texts of Valyria’s history that Rhaenyra often poured over to learn more about her Empire and to feel closer to her late father.

A grand fireplace dominated one wall, its mantle decorated with dragon motifs, providing warmth and a cozy ambience when needed.

The furniture was opulent yet functional, with a large, intricately carved black wooden desk at the centre, scattered with scrolls and quills, evidence of Rhaenyra's work as a ruler. Plush chairs were arranged around a low table, where she often met with advisors and confidants. A grand fireplace dominated one wall, its mantle decorated with dragon motifs, providing warmth and a cozy ambience when needed and sitting at the end of the table was the red Priestess Melisandre. 

Standing over Melisandre’s shoulder was Rhaenyra’s other handmaiden, Dyana, dressed in the same uniform as Jayne, a black kirtle with a red sleeveless frock over it emblazoned with the three-headed dragon triskelion.

As Rhaenyra entered her solar, Melisandre rose from her seat and bowed with Dyana.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted in her fair and alluring voice, draped in crimson robes and radiating an air of mystique and fervour.

“Lady Melisandre,” Rhaenyra returned the greeting as she removed Miliqelos’s baldric from her shoulder and hung the blade on the back of the table chair closest to the door. 

“My handmaid tells me you have decided to squat in my solar and refuse to be dislodged until you had words with me,” the Empress noted as she pulled out the chair opposite the table from Melisandre at the head of it and sat down.

Rhaenyra then motioned for Mysaria and Rhaenys to join them and then asked Dyana to fetch some refreshments. 

“Forgive my impertinence, Your Majesty. With all the commotion of the coming visitors from beyond the Empire’s borders merely a few weeks after the Imperial Wedding, I worried you would be too busy with preparations to converse with me. Thus implanting myself in the midst of your solar during your few private hours seemed the most apt way to garner your attentions, my Empress,” Lady Melisandre explained.
Rhaenyra bobbed her head from side to side, seeing reason in Melisandre’s actions. 

Having been vastly busy, preparing for the prospects of a plethora of potential wars on the back of establishing diplomatic relations with just about half of the known world, it was hard to find time to breathe let alone train with a sword or speak with the High Priestess.

“And what prey tell is the nature of this meeting you are so desperate to arrange,” Rhaenyra asked as she was handed a goblet by Dyana which the Empress accepted with a gentle thank you .

“The veil of seclusion provided by the myth of the Doom’s persistence is gone, Your Majesty. The whole world knows we live and thus it is my wish to return to Volantis for a time.”

Rhaenyra was filled with concern as she looked to Rhaenys and Mysaria.

The Queen Who Never Was remained steadfast and reserved in her judgement while the White Worm already looked dismissive.

“That is a very… serious request . In the next few days, the delegation from Volantis will arrive here in the capital. We cannot be sure how the diplomatic proceedings will go and thus I am hesitant to begin dispatching my courtiers beyond our borders at such a tense moment in our Empire’s history,” Rhaenyra explained.

“It is for that very reason that I wish to undertake this journey. At present, we are some five hundred thousand strong. Barely enough to fill the seven cities and the small towns, ports, villages, palaces and farms we’ve built in these past three years. Our numbers need to grow if we are to hold our heads high in the eyes of the world. Though they do not know it, the people of Volantis yearn for a leader, a saviour. They crave the warmth of the Lord of Light’s embrace. You, as the Princess that was Promised, hold the key to their hearts. Let me go to them, let me preach your divine purpose. Together, we can swell the ranks of your citizenry.”

Rhaenyra looked over to Rhaenys as subtly as she could, the two of them holding a fleeting and yet knowing look in response to Rhaenyra being called the Princess that was Promised .

There were now seventeen in the Empire who knew of the Song of Ice and Fire.

Rhaenyra who had heard it from her father when she became heir, Daemon who heard it from Rhaenyra after mistakenly revealing it to him thinking he already knew, Rhaenys who first heard it from Jaehaerys alongside Rhaenyra’s father from Jaehaerys the Consiliator, the twelve sorcerers who had watched over the Targaryens from their hibernation beneath the city, Jace who had been told of it by Rhaenyra and lastly Baela who had the prophecy revealed to her months ago when the wedding was first being prepared. 

Jace wished for Baela to share in the secret as she would be his consort and know all that he knew.

But there were none others in the Empire who knew their secret and for everyone else, the Prince that was Promised was but an old legend spread across various cultures of the known world.

Rhaenyra had always suspected that Melisandre knew of Rhaenyra’s secret thoughts on the matter that she had never shared with the Red Woman, but if the priestess did then she had never said a word about it.

“You flatter me with your endorsements of these eldritch prophecies, Melisandre. But as I have said ever so frequently, it would not be appropriate to claim the messianic trappings of your faith to swindle the good people of Volantis into joining our empire. Our borders are open to all who wish to settle here and carve out new lives as free men and women of the Empire, but I would not see myself as a saviour, only as a leader. Furthermore, while the worship of the Lord of Light is welcome within my borders, it would be improper for me to exploit a faith that I myself do not share,” Rhaenyra explained, giving the most diplomatic no she could fashion.

Melisandre took no offence and smiled confidently and caringly.

“You may not believe in the Lord of Light but it is clear he believes in you. On Lys during your coronation — amidst Targaryens and Velaryons, amidst the cliffs seashore and the dragons circling above, amidst salt and smoke — you were reborn from Rhaenyra Targaryen Princess and Would-Be-Queen of Westeros to Rhaenyra Targaryen Empress of Valyria and the sky was streaked by the bleeding star. Your sorcerers used ancient techniques of their magic to resurrect the fossilised dragon eggs, awakening the dragons from stone as foretold. You are he who must stand against the coming darkness. The one whose coming was prophesied five thousand years ago. The red comet was your herald. You are the prince that was promised, and if you fail the world fails with you,” Melisandre explained. 

Rhaenyra wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to being told she was the great saviour of the known world, so all she could do was take a sip from her drink and remain silent.

Lady Mysaria on the other hand snorted in contempt.

“Perhaps the reason prophecies are kept so riddled in confusing and archaic texts is so that they can be kept malleable and interpretive with no true deeper meaning. Tools for the fanatics of clergies to corral and shepherd their followers with promises of far-off salvation. Though if I am not mistaken, the flock you shepherd has dwindled these past few years. When her Majesty started praying to the Fourteen at the Jaeserion, many of the worshipers of both the Seven and the Lord of Light traded both the Father and R’hllor for Arrax. Even most of the freed slaves you dazzled with your silver tongue have turned to the Fourteen and now they follow the Old Valyrian variant of the Prince that was Promised legend. Perhaps beneath the mystic pretence, your desired venture to Volantis is driven by a desire to grow your numbers and influence. Is that it? Do you fear being reduced to a mistress of a lesser faith in this Empire?” Mysaria asked.

The White Worm often prodded the Red Woman with barbed comments, the like of which would stir fury and offence in most, but not in Melisandre. It was like a game between them, though one more malicious on Mysaria’s side. Mysaria wished to exact a reaction — any reaction — from Melisandre, yet to no avail. Rhaenyra would wager Mysaria could spit in Melisandre’s eye, strike her across the face and call her any number of expletives and the Red Woman would just sit there with that confident and all-knowing smile upon her face.

What the precise nature of Mysaria’s feud with Melisandre was, Rhaenyra could not be sure, for she only described it as not trusting Melisandre’s zealotry. 

Perhaps the sorcerers had a hand in it, for they too were weary of Melisandre’s unchecked and unapproved use of the three arts of pyromancy, shadowbinding and bloodmagic, for the masters of the Anogrion held to the belief that magic and faith were a more dangerous compound than wildfire. 

Without her network of spies enabled beyond their own borders, Mysaria relied upon using the Glass Candles under the supervision of the sorcerers to gather information about foreign powers and had since become well acquainted with the twelve mages.

Whatever the source of Mysaria’s contempt, her latest ploy to exact disgust from Melisandre proved a failure as the red priestess sat in her chair with her gentle confident smile, seeming to only find amusement in Mysaria’s words. 

“I fear not, for I bask in the Lord’s light. The people of the Empire are only human and such is to err at times. When the Empress fulfils her prophecies in their entirety, she and all her followers will receive the wisdom of the lord’s blessing and then every worshiper in her Empire from the lowly commoner to the Septon and the High Priest of the Fourteen Flames, will all turn from the false idols and accept R’hllor’s embrace. As for the obstinate heretics who have no love for our Empress and the Lord — those non-believers will be purified in the breath of the Empire’s dragons by the thousands, burning their sins and flesh away.”

A colourful prediction by Melisandre, though Rhaenyra regarded this particular one to be of doubtful reliability.

Princess Rhaenys sighed, seeming to have had enough of the back and forth between the two women.

“Regardless of Lady Melisandre’s intentions, I’m afraid it makes no difference. We are on the cusp of war with Volantis if this diplomatic matter is not handled intricately and with the greatest amount of care. The Volantene may have been kind to us on our journey here, but they will be in sympathy with Slaver’s Bay for all the liberated slaves we have brought into our Empire. To send a religious missionary to lure more citizens to abandon the city while they are in peace negotiations with us would only further invite discord and could very well bring about war,” Rhaenys warned looking with caution at Rhaenyra.

“War is coming one way or another, Princess and with it comes victory,” Melisandre replied. Her words were uncomfortable and distressing for Rhaenyra to hear. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, adjusting her seat as worry overtook her.

“The Lord of Light has shown me visions, Empress. Within the flames, I have seen the banners of the black three-headed dragon spiral hanging from the walls of Volantis and the Slave Cities of the Ghiscari. The Lord has shown it to me,” Melisandre said with confidence. 

Rhaenyra’s heartbeat quickened with fear. Would her hand be forced? Would she be made to send her dragons to war? Would she become a conqueror like Aegon the Dragon and take Volantis, Meereen, Yunkai and Astapor by force?

“Your prophecies are by your own admission, not always correct,” Mysaria said, trying to comfort the distressed Empress.

“No, not always, but they all have meaning. It is one of many possible futures, but I believe this one should be strived for, not avoided. The Empire will expand and with it so too will the power of the mighty house of Targaryen,” Melisandre stated.

“It is not my wish to expand!” Rhaenyra said sternly. “I wish for us to be prosperous.”

Melisandre bowed her head in apology for her zeal and remained silent for a moment.

“I take it my request to travel to Volantis is denied?” Melisandre asked.

“On that much at least, you are correct,” the Empress replied. 

The Red Woman then stood up, bid Rhaenyra good day and left.

The Empress then dismissed Rhaenys and Mysaria and sent Dyana and Jayne to fetch hot water for a bath.

As Dyana was the last to leave and she closed the door, Rhaenyra turned her head around to see them leave and her eye caught her sword hanging from the chair and in that moment she wondered how soon until she would have to use it.

Chapter Text

After Ser Erryk’s shift had ended, he was relieved by the night watch of the Imperial guard and returned to his home in the Tower of the White Shield.

In the days of the Freehold, the tower was merely a watchpost over the city above the barracks where the palace guard dwelled as they protected the Forty Dragonlords and their kin, but now it was the home and seat of the Dragonknights. 

The Tower of the White Shield to mirror the White Sword Tower, where Erryk and three of his brothers dwelled in the Red Keep when they were sworn to King Viserys the Peaceful.

Their tower in the palace was far more bare and undeveloped than the tower of the Kingsguard back west.

The White Sword Tower was decorated with such history and legacy within its hallowed walls. Swords, cloaks, suits of armour and tapestries of past brothers adorned the walls, and the Tome of the White Book was filled with the most revered swordsmen of the past, five generations of Kingsguard knights. 

Erryk and his brother were just boys when they first entered the tower. They were eighteen years old and just elevated to the greatest order of the knights in the known world. 

None had ever been so young and brought into the brotherhood of seven before, and many questioned King Viserys for admitting the pair so young, yet the White cloaks took Erryk and Arryk in and made them their brothers.

The shield tower, on the other hand, did not have the mounted swords and armour of past brothers, nor tapestries of glory, nor a legacy to live up to, nor a grand history, nor previous generations, but that made it all the more intimidating.

Rather than living up to a legacy, it was they, the first Dragonknights, who had the obligation to create one, to make their mark on history so that their order would be as revered and as honoured as the Kingsguard. 

Thus far the fourteen had done their duty protecting the Imperial House without fail, and the four of them who had been sworn to King Viserys had made fine sworn brothers out of the ten that had been chosen in Braavos all those years ago.

To reach the tower, Erryk had to walk through the barracks where the imperial guardsmen lived, ate, rested and kept their arms and armour. A battalion of one hundred and forty men was divided into groups of ten and answered by each of the fourteen Dragonknights who took responsibility for the selection, training, discipline, and deployment of their own ten. 

Four of Erryk’s ten, Jeran, Graffin, Barroth and Blane, were the ones who relieved Erryk from duty outside of the Empress and Emperor’s chamber for the night shift, meanwhile, the rest of his ten were in the barracks eating and resting after a long day. 

The other two battalions of soldiers in the Imperial citadel were the palace guard, a separate entity under the command of Ser Alfred, but while they had the Imperial guard beat on numbers, they were half as skilled and dedicated. However, Ser Alfred’s battalions were stationed at other barracks in the palace.

Outside the barracks was a black banner marked with the valyrian glyphs for Empire at the top and beneath were two crossed white swords in a ring of flame with a crown of gold above. The battle-standard of the Imperial guard, by which the battalion was known, was a useful bolt of cloth to distinguish themselves on the field of battle should the Empire go to war. Every Legion had its own banner, as did every cohort within the legions and every battalion within the cohorts. Rather than the legion, cohort and battalion being marked in valyrian numeral glyphs on the top of the banner, the Imperial Guard’s standard just had the glyphs for empire and one on it to identify it as it was not part of any larger cohort or legion and only in service directly to the Imperial house and answerable to the dragonknights.

Within the double doors to the barracks was a large common area where the legionnaires of the guard were relaxing, dining, chatting and drinking, one and a half cups limit as per regulation amongst the guard, not only to keep them sharp but to instruct discipline in their ranks.

When Ser Erryk entered the barracks, the legionnaires showed him respect and reverence, bowing their heads and raising their cups to him, treating him as they would a captain, for that was the level of authority Ser Erryk held amongst this guard battalion. 

Ser Erryk nodded respectfully back and showed respect to the men before walking through the common area to the spiral staircase up the tower at the far end. 

Up the stairs he went, passing the doorways into many floors containing their apartments, their private training room, their armoury and their private common area.

Finally, Erryk surmounted the staircase and reached the chamber of the brotherhood. 

Inside, Erryk’s thirteen sworn brothers were waiting for him in a grand and ornate chamber with a roaring hearth flame and a round table of stone carved with the words of their brotherhood’s oath in High Valyrian around the edge. 

Fourteen chairs were around the table, and doors out to the balconies of the tower at four sides of the round drum room. 

The Dragonknights were clad in their gleaming suits of valyrian steel, the ripples in their armour brightened by Lord Maekar Galreon, Lord of Oros and Master of the Smithing Guild, mixing powdered silver to the valyrian steel to brighten its colour when he forged their suits.

Some of the brothers were seated while others stood around talking amongst themselves.

It was only in the hours after dusk and before dawn when all fourteen of them could be untied in their entirety, entrusting their guardsmen to cover the night watch of the imperial household.

Upon Erryk’s arrival, he pulled his helm from his head and set it down on the table in front of his seat, greeted by his brothers as he arrived.

“Arrived at last, brother. How fared our Empress when last you saw her?” Ser Harmon of the Reeds asked as he approached, offering Ser Erryk a cup of wine.

“She was well when I left her… though she remains agitated by the Emperor’s absence these past weeks,” Ser Erryk said, taking the drink.

Since the messenger wyverns were dispatched to the ends of the known world carrying invitations to Valyria, Emperor Daemon had spent more days and nights across the valley at his Black Fort , preparing their small Empire for all eventualities and prospects of war, only visiting the palace for small intervals of time from day to day. 

But while the brotherhood of the Dragonknights was more present, having not left the palace, they were equal to the Emperor in their heightened sense of alert since the wyverns went out.

Each night when the fourteen were assembled these past weeks, they discussed the prospects of war and the safety of the Imperial house. 

The brothers took their seats around the stone table with Lord Commander Harrold Westerling sitting at his taller, spined and slightly more ornate seat as the first among equals in their brotherhood. To the Lord Commander’s left was Ser Steffon Darklyn, the only other living man besides Ser Harrold to have served the Old King Jaehaerys and the natural successor to Ser Harrold as their most senior brother. To the Lord Commander’s right was Ser Lorent Marbrand, a man good and true and the first knight King Viserys ever appointed to the Kingsguard years before Erryk and Arryk were cloaked. 

Ser Erryk’s seat was next to Lorent’s. 

The first four, the original four, the old four, Viserys’s four, the Empress’s four and other names like them. The four men who had taken vows as Kingsguard knights before being decloaked and replaced by King Aegon the Second and his Grandfather, thus becoming the four founding members of the Empress’s sworn brotherhood of dragonknights.

Two were sworn in before King Jaehaerys the Wise, and two were sworn in before Viserys the Peaceful.

Their senior status as sworn swords made them leaders amongst their brothers, and it was they who guarded the Empress Rhaenyra more often than any others.

“Now that we are all gathered here, brothers, let us begin,” Lord Commander Westerling announced. “Now, firstly, is there any matter of importance that has transpired during duty today?”

A traditional beginning to any council of the order, where they would discuss anything that transpired during duty, from princes and princesses going rogue and sneaking into the city or potential threats or strange occurrences. Even the smallest scrape on Prince Joff’s knee when he fell over the other day was reported in such sessions. 

The more boring a session was, the better for it meant there were fewer troubles and dangers encountered. 

One by one, the brothers went around the table reporting their slow and uneventful days.

“The Crown Prince and Princess Baela were late to rise and early to bed today as they have been often of late since moving into their chamber together,” Ser Glendon explained.

Garrick Hall, the joker of the brothers, smirked.
“Early to bed but late to sleep if the pleasurable moans from behind the door are to be trusted. Soon I would hazard a new princling will be scurrying about the palace,” the good knight japed, bringing hardy laughs from the brothers around the table.

“Mind your tongue, brother Garrick. We are honour bound to guard the Imperial house from all offences, even light japes,” Lord Commander Westerling reprimanded, pleasantly but firmly.

Garrick put his hands up in surrender, conceding to the Lord Commander’s will. 

“If that is all then we may continue on to our next order of business, brothers… we have received word that the Lord of Mantarys and his procession has reached Oros and will be making the crossing to Tyria tomorrow from where he shall be received by an Imperial escort and brought here to the captial. This is our first test, brothers, the first time since the Empire’s establishment on the peninsula when a foreign power will be welcomed into these halls. We must be vigilant, we must be prepared,” Ser Harrold asserted as the brothers nodded in agreement.

“Who will be part of the escort bringing the Lord of Mantarys into the city from Tyria?” Ser Merrell asked. 

“My father, Lord Dar— I mean Lord Zobrilion has volunteered,” Ser Steffon said, still not used to his family’s new valyrian name. 

As celibate brothers of the order, the Dragonknights had forsworn all worldly possessions, lands and titles and thus did not change their family names as other Westerosi had done, even their own kin, for a Dragonknight has no legacy but the deeds he does in life and the cloak he passes on to his successor.

Thus Ser Steffon remained a Darklyn while his father, the Lord of Telos and Imperial Conservator of the High Council, was now a Zobrilion, the first Zobrilion. 

“A council member to escort them sounds diplomatic enough, but is it wise that it be your father? After that trouble at Telos?” Ser Adrian asked.

The trouble at Telos , when the Lord Taegar Amalrys of Mantarys arrived with his convoy at the city of Telos along the banks of the Sea of Sighs, they were barred from the city by the majordomo left in charge there, claiming them to be pestilent abominations.

All knew the stories of the people of Mantarys, once proud and mighty during the days of the Freehold, a rich and glorious city filled with those of the old blood, but when the Doom struck the peninsula, their city stood at the edge of the calamity’s reach.

They survived the Doom, but many argued they would have been better off not having done so. Its people are said to be twisted and monstrous, nothing like the Vejesari, but nothing like other people of the world either. 

The Empress was outraged when she heard that the people of Mantarys had been denied hospitality at the first valyrian city they reached, and Lord Gunthor swore he would see his majordomo deposed and flogged for his offense. 

“My father wishes to present himself to Lord Taegar and personally apologise,” Ser Steffon explained. 

The knights nodded in acknowledgement of Ser Steffon’s explanation. 

“And what of the processions from Volantis and Slaver’s Bay? Any news?” Ser Harrold Drake asked, Young Harrold, they called him to distinguish him from Ser Harrold the Lord Commander. Once he was a squire for Ser Steffon and now he was one of their sworn brothers.

“A messenger wyvern claims that the Volantene ships have arrived at Jaedos Vilinion, and by now they should be on their way to Telos, if they have not already arrived. Hopefully, they’ll have received a better welcome than those from Mantarys. As for those from Slaver’s Bay, we have not heard anything since the Sorcerers of the Anogrion spotted them leaving the port at Astapor,” Ser Lorent stated. 

Given their distance from the shore of Valyria, the Slave Masters were likely to make port at Aquos Dhaern any day now.

“Did you hear about what happened at the Anogrion?” Ser Loreth asked. “One of the sorcerer apprentices snuck into the glass candle chamber without supervision of one of the masters. Apparently, he told his peers he wanted to prove himself by searching out the emissaries coming to Valyria in hopes of spying on any deceit they might be planning. Poor sot was found the next morning lying on the group in a puddle of his own drool and piss. They say he’s now in a waking sleep, incurable. He’ll spend the rest of his life being fed water and honey by a nursemaid, a mindless vegetable.”

The brothers let out their own grunts of dismay, disgust and pity for such a tragic outcome. 

“Gods. Give me a good clean death any day rather than that living hell,” Ser Roger Corne announced to the table.

“He was a fool to play with magic like that when only a student. You all remember what happened two years ago? One student with similar arrogance spent two hours staring into a glass candle without supervision. When they pulled him from the trance, he was feral and mad, rambling on about his visions. He killed himself three days later,” Ser Rennifer added, reminding them.

“Alright, enough of that. Let us all refocus on matters more important. As we have all discussed, the prospect of these diplomatic envoys devolving into declarations of malice remains a delicate and dangerous possibility. As the Empress’s sworn protectors, this war will affect our order as well, maybe more than any other in the Empire if she wishes to fight herself,” Ser Harrold declared.

“Her sword training has instilled her with great confidence, but not arrogance. Should it come to war, she would not dismiss her own safety. We’ve observed the Dragon Legion ourselves; they may not be the largest army in the world, but they are perhaps the most well-trained and regimented. Dragons or not, no slave army or mercenary company can hold a candle to their skill and discipline. The only real threat we face is the Dothraki and the Iron Legions of New Ghis and their War Elephants, but our dragons will make short work of them,” said Ser Roger.

“Agreed, but for Volantis and Slaver’s Bay, it is not their land forces I fear… it is their ships,” Ser Harrold declared, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on the stone table. 

Between Volantis and Slaver’s Bay, their military might was not much in the way of land forces beyond sellsword companies and slave soldiers, but their true power was in their fleets. Even without the sellsails and privateers they employed, the navies on either side of the Empire.

“During the Lady Mysaria’s visits to the candle chamber in the Anogrion, the sorcerers helped her scout out the navies we shall be facing. If Volantis goes to war with us, we will face a fleet of three hundred war galleys to the west. Should Slaver’s Bay and their allies in Elyria, Tolos and New Ghis unite against us, a thousand war galleys,” Ser Harrold explained.

“And our own navy is but sixty warships, forty triremes and twenty quinqueremes. Furthermore the gods — be them fourteen or seven — have damned us two hundred years in advance with the Doom of Valyria. With the landmass around the Fourteen Flames beneath the ocean, leaving the volcanoes an archipelago, the creation of the smoking sea has left the heart of the Empire exposed to naval threats. Oros and Tyria are years away from fortification, and thus our enemies can sail into our heart whenever they wish,” Adrian added.

“Can we add more ships to our fleet?” Ser Harmon asked.

“That subject was broached in a council meeting. The mother of the three Driftmark dragonseeds, Mistress Marilda of the Mariner’s Guild, has been commanded to ready as many ships and crews as she can. With all the shipwrights in Aqous Dhaen and Draconys working day and night, they predict another seventeen can join the fleet within three months. Twelve triremes and five quinqueremes,” Ser Steffon stated.

The brothers grunted in dismay, disappointed with such a small number.

Seventy-seven warships to combat a combined navy of one thousand and three hundred.

“It matters not how well trained the legions are, how well made the ships are or even if we can get a handful of sorcerers or their apprentices to join the fighting. If it comes to war, land and sea, our only chance of survival is through one power… dragons,” the Lord Commander declared. 

“And if the dragons are put in harm's way, the Empress and all the Imperial house will be put in harm's way with them,” Ser Glendon noted, scratching his beard.

“Syrax is a dragon grown, her scales are as good as steel,” Ser Garrick declared, trying to ease the brothers' concern.

“As were Meraxes’s, and yet it took one scorpion bolt to bring her down. Do not forget, the Freehold had over a thousand dragons, and it took them five wars to bring the Ghiscari to heel. Dragons fell from the skies in those wars, some at the hands of sorcerers, some took twenty scorpion bolts, but they fell nonetheless. Scales strong as steel are good, but steel is not indestructible,” said Ser Steffon.  

The brothers thought long in somber silence of Ser Steffon’s warnings.

A dragon’s back was the worst place a member of the Imperial house could be in the eyes of a Dragonknight just as it was for a Kingsguard, they feared it for it was the one place they could not protect their charge and where they would be out of reach but they were also jealous of it for it was the one place they were probably more safe than under the care of the guards.

As the somber faces of the fourteen knights looked to one another, they dreaded the thought of the Empress or any of the Imperial house flying off to meet fleets and cities in battle atop their dragons and not returning.

It would be easier to wave their hands in dismissal and say that the Empress would prevent all war, that she would negotiate a perfect peace, and they could rest easy, but that was not the way of Dragonknights. 

They were the living shields of the Empress and her house, it was their burden, their duty and their privilege to spend sleepless nights thinking of all the horrible ways their Empress and her house could be destroyed and stop them.

That was who they were, who they had pledged to be in their oaths, and so the fourteen sat there for hours on, having every hard and uncomfortable conversation of all the ways things could go wrong and all the dangers they must prepare themselves for.

Chapter Text

There were many components to leadership, so said Rhaenyra’s father when he was sculpting her to be his heir. A leader must be a parent, a peacekeeper, an inspiration, a caretaker, even a shepherd. In all those fields Rhaenyra had been tested in such regards and passed such trials with relative ease, but not entirely without incident.

Rhaenyra had established roots for her empire, she’d found them bread and water and kept the peace and instilled justice in the Empire.

Now it came for the next test, for there were more qualities to a leader that her father told her of. Warrior, protetor, diplomat, intervener and others.

Rhaenyra sat in her chamber, calm and patiently with her fingers interlocked and her eyes closed. Rested upon her brow was a silver circlet that she had requested to be brought to her from the Grand Reliquary beneath the Imperial Palace. 

The Circlet of Wisdom was one of the ancient Heirlooms of Power wielded by the archons of the Freehold in the time before the Doom. 

The Empress did her best to not wear it often due to not wishing to be seen as dependant on the Circlet’s calming aid and also for the cautionary tales of those who wore the circlet too long losing their minds to degradation.

Before placing the silver headband upon her head, Rhaenyra was not greatly agitated, yet she still felt a bit nervous and wished to make sure she was not overthinking anything and ensuring that she knew what she would be doing.

Upon placing the band upon her head, her mind became tranquil and at peace.

It was the power of the circlet to granted the wearer clarity of mind, increase their patience, collect and organzie their thoughts and even strengthen their focus, memory and reduced impulsivity.

The cuplerate of her dearth for wisdom and calmness was the arrival of Lord Taegar Amalrys of Mantarys who had arrived from Tyria an hour earlier and was soon expected to be received by the Empress in the palace basilica.

In truth Rhaenyra felt embarrassed that she even needed the the circlet’s assistance with relaxing her mind and collecting her thoughts. 

She had tended to her Empire like a shepherd to his flock but now the first wolf had come prowling into her fields, licking its lips at her flock and how was Rhaenyra to respond? Could she peacefully scare the wolf away and send it off into the woods without incident? Would she be forced to slay the wolf and bloody her hands to protect her flock? Or would she loose her nerve and let the wolf snap its maw at her sheep?

Gods be good , Rhaenyra thought as she reflected upon how philosophical and poetic the circlet was making her as she cultivated her shepherd metaphor in her mind.

“Your Majesty,” Dyana spoke, interrupting Rhaenyra’s meditations.

Rhaenyra opened her eyes and turned to her handmaiden.

“It is time,” Dyana explained and Rhaenyra nodded in response before gently removing the circlet from her brow and placing it in a cushioned box on the table before her in front of the settee she was sitting on. 

Time it was, Rhaenyra thought.

After three and a half years of isolation within the lands of Valyria, it was time for the Empress to welcome the first political guest, Lord Taegar Amalrys of Mantarys. 

With the Ghiscari, Tolosi and Elyrians arriving at Aqous Dhaen and the Volantene on their way south towards Oros from Telos, the Mantarysi were the first to arrive.

Rhaenyra had never met a Mantarysi but she had heard a plethora of stories, twisted and misshapen half-forms and mutants, their forebarers cursed by the posion winds of the doom that swept northwards from the peninsula. 

Rhaenyra contemplated if such would be a complication for their diplomacy and if the Lord of Mantarys resented the Freehold’s successor for the sins of the Doom committed against his own forebarers. 

Despite Rhaenyra’s concerns she recalled what Mysaria had reported of the Mantarysi and their demenour as she spied upon them through the glass candle under the supervision of the sorcerers. The White Worm described them as humble and good natured people, regardless of their physical impairments. Rhaenyra had heard tales of some having extranumerary limbs and others having missing limbs, twisted spines, crooked arms, elongated brows, hunchbacks, bulgy eyes, swollen welts and countless other oddities.

But it was not for the Empress to pass such crude judgements upon their visage based on hearsay before meeting them himself. 

Rhaenyra then rose from the settee and brushed her hands down her front to banish the crinkles from her dress.

The Empress then went over to a table where her crown was awaiting her and set the valyrian steel winged headpiece upon her brow. 

Hanging from her hip by a diagonal running thin leather baldric was the Empress’s sword, Miliqelos and she was clad in a fine black dress with a split red cape hanging from her back.

Once crowned, the Empress took up a sceptre sitting in an ornate casing.

A long black rod about the length of an arm, with a silver pommel that caged a long red gem within it. 

Another of the Heirlooms of Power; the rod of Authority, imbued with enchantments allowing its wielder’s voice to carry an aura of persuasion which made those around her more susceptible to listening to and obeying her, but only within reason.

The Empress took up the rod and rested along the inside of her forearm with the bottom end of sceptre in the palm of her hand and the jewelled head of it going past her elbow. 

During the reign of the Dragonlords, the archon used the sceptre to keep order and civility when holding court in the senate. 

After taking in a deep breath of confidence through her nose, Rhaenyra helde her head up high and departed from her chamber, joined by her four Dragonknights who formed their four sided pillar formation around her and they made their way through the palace.

The halls and corridors of the Imperial citadel seemed somewhat bare with most of the courtiers and servants perhaps already assembled in the great hall for the arrival of the procession from Mantarys.

The closer the Empress got to the basilica, the more people she passed, also on their way there and at last the Empress reached the open heavy ornate black double doors into the throne room.

The great crowd of nobles had already assembled in the basilica on either side of the long red carpet that was rolled all the way down the middle of the hall with legionnaires of the Imperial Guard standing on either side, fencing off the hundreds of courtiers that filled the room. Between the grand and ornate stone colonnades on either side of the chamber, long red banners hang from the rafters with black flame cut borders marked with the valyrian patterns the scripts of glyphs along the sides and the three headed black dragon triskilion in the middle. 

At the far end of the basilica, the stone bleachers that had once been there for the dragonlords to sit upon had been cleared away leaving only the dias upon which the dragonglass throne sat and the great stone sculptured mural on the back wall behind it.

At the top of the great stone dias, fourteen steps high, the archon’s throne that had once been there had been demolished and replaced by a grand throne made purley out of dragonglass.

The throne had been crafted by the combined effort of the builders guild and the pyromancers to make a large asymmetrical mound of jagged onyx black rock with five steps and a seat carved into the mountain of stone. 

On the back wall of the chamber moulded in stone was the sculpted mural of a great dragon with its wings spread out, wreathed in fire and beneath it standing upon a hill with a raised sword in hand and worshipers bowing below was a figure.

The fable of Valyrion the Founder and his trusted dragon, Zaldrizar, etched in stone.

As the empress made her way down the middle isle of the chamber, the Imperial Guard stood at attention and the courtiers fenced off behind them bowed their heads to the Empress as she progressed down the isle. 

On the far end of the crowd, the rest of the Dragonknights were assembled in a formation which the remaining four joined in to. 

The Imperial household, the council, the sorcerers and many of Rhaenyra’s highest ranked nobles were gathered together at the front of the assembled crowds closest to the throne, save for a select few. 

Awaiting the Empress at the top of the the dias on either side of the throne was Daemon, Jace, Corlys and Balea. 

Spaced out on either side of the throne were four chairs, two to a side; ornately crafted and coated in black with valyrian sphinx shaped armrests. 

The seat immediately left of the throne was for the Emperor and the one of the right was for the Crown Prince, next to Daemon’s seat with the High Chancellor’s seat and next to Jace’s was the Crown Prince’s consort, the next Empress of Valyria. 

As Rhaenyra reached the foot the dias, she began to climb the steps as gracefully as she could. 

The Empress looked to her husband, her son, her step-daughter and her High Chancellor, nodding to them in confidence but speaking no words as each of them bowed in respect to her. 

When the Empress reached the plaform of the dias, she then aproached the black onyx glass hill and climbed the steps chizzled into it and sat in her throne. 

Beneath her, the courtiers, the parallel lines of legionaires and the tightly knit guarding chevron of her fourteen Dragonknights standing at the foot the dias, cloaked in white and clad in bright silver valyrian steel. 

Sitting back comfortably in her throne with the rod of authority rested in her arms, there was not much else to do at present except wait for the arrival of the diplomatic procession, the first of many that the Empress was expecting. 

As the Empress waited, doing her best not to fidget before the murmering crowds of her assmelbed citizens, Daemon walked leisurely over to her as her rested his overlapping forearms on the hilt of his Anogarys.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, arching back his head and looking up to the Empress as she towered over him on the throne. 

“Perhaps a bit… what about you? Are you nervous?” Rhaenyra asked looking back at Daemon.

The Emperor snorted in dismissal of such a suggestion.
“It will take a lot more than cripples and mutants to make me quake,” the Warmaster asserted. 

Rhaenyra sighed and rolled her eyes. 

Her husbands unyielding self assertiveness and his subsequent arrogance ranged from an annoyance to an amusement for Rhaenyra, depending on what state she was in when she collided with Daemon.

“No, of course not. Your only fears are patience and responsibility,” Rhaenyra chided, amusing Daemon as he leaned upon his elbow that he rested against the jagged groves of the Dragonglass Throne.

“I do not fear such things, I merely detest the boredom they invoke,” the Emperor responded. 

“Ahh, I remember the adversary well,” Lord Corlys interjected as he joined the Imperial pair’s conversation. “Though I must admit, in many place where I once found boredom I now tend to find tranquility.”
Daemon shrugged.

“Yes… I suppose self-made adventurers like us must settle down sooner or later in our elder years,” Daemon suggested as he looked to the Sea Snake, speaking as though he were still the youthful Rogue Prince.

“Daemon, you are five and fity. I think your elder years are here already,” Rhaenyra stated, reminding her husband he was not nearly as young as he saw himself to be.

“Yet dragons age slower than men,” Daemon joked, causing both Rhaenyra and Corlys both to laugh.

Soon the herald on the far end of the hall blew a horn to signal the impending arrival of the Mantarys host.

Everyone shuffled into place while Daemon, Jace, Corlys and Baela took their seats on either side of the Empress.

At last the procession from Mantarys arrived, heralded in by the thudding of drums.

Into the Basilica through the great open doors came a pair of banner bearers, their faces covered in veils, one had elongated claw like fingers wrapped around the pole of the banner and the other had a hunchback. 

The banners they carried were black and marked with a purple eye wreathed in a white sunburst, the banner of Mantarys. 

Walking between the two banner bearers was a short, bulky and disproportionately formed man, his face hidden behind a veil and two sticks in his hand that he banged against the marching drum strapped to his chest.

Behind the bannerbearers came a litter carried by four men on either side, each wearing face masks and in the centre of the litter was a throne with a figure sitting on it. 

The figure was dressed in long dark garments embroidered with valyrian patterns and a loose hooded flowing robe over the top, his faced was covered my a steel face mask like the ones worn by the sorcerers, but distinct in its own way and the man carried two long sceptres in his hands. 

Already Rhaenyra knew that this masked man being carried in was Lord Taegar Amalrys, the ruler of Mantarys. 

Behind the carried throne came a number of Mantarys courtiers, some were dwarf in stature, some hunched over and some looked plain, many wore masks, veil and hoods to hide their faces and covered much of their skin in their attire.

One was as small as a child with small stubby legs and had to be brought in on a cushioned chair with wheels at the bottom of it. 

Another did not wear a veil, hood or mask and presented himself proudly, clad in Mantarys armour, close in style to what those of the Dragon Legion wore.

The unmasked man had sliked back silver hair, like a valyrian, a pronounced low stooping brow, and his lip seemed to recede on the left side, showing off his teeth and making it look like a chunk of his mouth was missing.

Marching on either side of the procession was a number of soldiers, their lines escorting the Mantarys courtiers in as the two lines of the Imperial guard fenced off the nobles of the Empire.

These Mantarys soldiers wore facemasks beneath their helmets, but all of them seemed more or less undeformed, at least in bodily shape, perhaps selected from their physic to be part of the city’s armed force, however small it may have been.

When the drummer and the banner bearer reached the end of the red carpet with the Dragonknight chevron blocking them from going any further, the drumming stopped and the procession held in place and the hall was silent. 

The litter was set down and the Lord of Mantarys lifted his head and looked up to Rhaenyra sitting above him on the dragonglass throne.

The mask made Lord Taegar impossible to read, his face hidden beneath the blank expression moulded into the face of the mask he wore.

Rhaenyra then turned to Baela sitting next to Jace and nodded to her, siginalling her to make the first introduciton. Baela nodded back and stood up from her seat, stepping a few feet closer to the edge of the dais and began to speak.

“You stand in the presence of Her Majesty Rhaenyra the Redeemer of House Targaryen, First of her Name, Empress of Valyria, Queen of the High Valyrians, Lady of the Seven Cities, Keeper of the Lands of the Long Summer, Mistress of the Fourteen Flames and the Smoking Sea, Blood of the Dragon, Heir to the Freehold and Protector of the Imperial Realm,” Baela announced. 

When Baela concluded, a man stepped forward from the courtiers that had followed Lord Taegar in. This one wore long sweeping robes purple robes and wore a grey veiled headdress that showed only the strip of his eyes, the skin around his eyes was warped, creased and twisted, his left eye was pale blue and the right eye was bulgy, bloodshot and darker blue. 

The man kept his hands hidden beneath the sleeves of his robe but held some small staff of office in his hand and had a golden livery chain hanging around his neck suggesting he was perhaps a majordomo or some equivalent rank to the Lord of Mantarys.

“Hail to you, mighty Empress,” the man began with a bow. “We, the good people of Mantarys, thank you for your hospitality. Please, allow me to introduce to you, Taegar of House Amalrys, Lord and protector of the city of Mantarys and keeper of the Demon Road,” the man said, gesturing to his master in the seat. 

Rhaenyra smiled softly and leaned forward from the throne.
“Be welcome, my Lord, to you and all your household,” Rhaenyra spoke out to her visitor. 

Lord Amalrys bowed his head and then leaned back in his seat to get a better look at Rhaenyra towering above him.

“Your welcome is an honour beyond compare, my Empress. I bid you eternal gratitude for allowing me to see your lands with my own eyes,” Lord Taegar announced, his deep voice carrying through his mask and filling the chamber with a light echo, seeming not to be feeble in his voice as his body may have been. 

Rhaenyra then felt guilty at hearing such gratitude as she recalled how the people of Mantarys had been treated on their way through Telos.

“I understand that the majordomo of one of my cities was… ungallant towards your procession on your way here. I cannot tell you how embarrassed and ashamed I am for you to have been treated in such a way. I beg your forgiveness,” Rhaenyra said, responsible and thus contrite for such ill behavior.

Lord Taegar raised his gloved hand high in a stopping gesture.

“We are used to it, my Empress. I would call the fact that my people were but merely shunned rather than hunted down like vermin or taken as slaves to fill the circuses and menageries a kindness. When your Lord Zobrilion came to us in Tyria and begged our forgiveness… well, I can honestly say that is more kindness from an outsider than we are accustomed to,” the Lord said, bowing in respect to Lord Gunthor who was near the front row of the left side of the gathered courtiers. 

How horrible, Rhaenyra thought. 

The people of Mantarys, condemned to cruel treatment and insult from their neighbours, all because of the acursed afflictions that had plagued them since the Doom.

Rhaenyra looked once again to the proud warrior amongst Lord Traegar’s procession with the heavy forehead and silver hair, clearly of the Old Blood and then Rhaenyra wondered how many of the people of Mantarys were no different from the Rogares, Celtigars, Velaryons and Targaryens beneath their masks and hoods. 

Lord Taegar then waved his hand forward and a limping servant came forward from the procession carrying an ornate black box. 

“In gratitude for your hospitality, I offer the great Empress of Valyria tribute,” the lord announced.

The limping servant took to a knee, opened the box and held it high above his head.

Inside the box, from the high vantage point of her throne, Rhaenyra saw a glistening necklace of silver and bright white gems.

“At the onset of the Century of Blood, following the Doom, our City was governed by Yraegor son of Taenor, House of Daeryses, Drajai Chapter, the Consul of our city at the time. This necklace of belonged to his sister-wife, Lady Alaea. When they and their dragons went south into the Doom alongside Aurion Varezys the would-be-Emperor with five thousand of our fighting men, these gems were left in the care of our city and now I offer them back to the Dragonlords of Valyria,” the Lord of Mantarys announced.

Ser Harmon of the Reeds left the chevron of Dragonknights and took the box from the servant and then handed it off to Princess Rhaena who was in front of the crowd at the left side of the basilica. 

“Thank you, my Lord. The House of Targaryen will treasure these gems forevermore more and we will accept them as a token of our friendship, a friendship between our Empire and your fair neighbouring city,” Rhaenyra announced, believing she was making a good start with a new potential ally. 

If the Volantene and the Ghiscari were so open the good relations, she feared such to be a different story altogether.

Lord Traegar was silent for a moment as he stared blankly at the Empress from the seat of his throne. 

“Friends and neighbours to your Empire? Is that what you wish? Do you not seek to have Mantarys returned under the banner of Valyria as it was during the time before ” Lord Traegar asked as he looked up at Rhaenyra.

The Empress wondered if the Lord of Mantarys was detecting some form of betrayal and testing her response. Perhaps he feared that Rhaenyra intended to offer an olive branch with one hand and seize his city by force with a hidden other hand.

Rhaenyra would not blame the Lord for his paranoia if his people were so mistreated and abused by outsiders so regularly but Rhaenyra had no intention of becoming their enemy and wished to consolidate friendship with the fine and humble people of Mantarys.

Rhaenyra let out a gentle laugh to dissuade any such fears Lord Traegar had.

“I assure you, My Lord, I have no designs on your city. Yes, during the time of the Freehold, Mantarys was a client city-state of the Dragonlords, but those times are past. Your people have proudly governed over yourselves for more than two hundred years and it is not the Empire’s wish to tarnish your sovereignty, nor do we wish to conquer or subjugate anyone. We only wish to be on good diplomatic terms with you,” the Empress assured them. 

Lord Traegar lowered his head and sighed deeply before raising it once again.
“Then… I must disappoint you, Empress… for that is not what we wish,” the masked lord declared. 

Rhaenyra’s heart quickened, she glanced over to Daemon who was tightening his grip on the pommel of Anogary and murmurs began to rise up from the assembled crowds of courtiers. 

Did Mantarys seek conflict with the Empire? Rhaenyra wondered. Perhaps beneath the mask and humbleness of Lord Traegar’s kind pleasantries, there was paranoia or perhaps ambition that would see Mantarys defy the Empire alongside the cities west and east of them.

Lord Traegar then took the two sceptres in his hands, sitting across his lap and held them by the heads, driving the ends into the floor of his litter and used them to push himself up.

Not sceptres, but walking sticks.

As the hunched over masked Lord tried to make his way down the litter, his attendants came to aid him, but he shewed them away, wishing to stand on his own two feet.

A painful lump in Rhaenyra’s throat swelled as she saw the lame Lord of Mantarys struggle to hold himself up on his canes, masked to hide his deformities and refusing help.
A wounded but proud ruler.

When Rhaenyra looked at him, all she could see was her father as he limped all the way from the doors of the great hall to the Iron Throne in an agonising state just to defend her. 

Now Lord Traegar was doing the same for his own people.

The Lord of Mantarys then stood ahead of his people, right before the arrowhead formation of the fourteen Dragonknights and held his masked head up high and spoke.

“We do not wish to become your allies, your neighbours, your peers,” he announced to the crowds of valyrian courtiers. “Before the Doom came and swept away the Freehold, we too were counted amongst the valyrians, like many of you from Lys and Volantis and you of the old blood from Blackwater Bay. Then the calamity came and wrath followed. The poison winds of damnation befowled my city and crippled my people. Once we were proud and great yet now we hide our silver hair beneath veils and hoods. For two hundred years we have been… alone !” Lord Traegar asserted, banging the bottom of one of his canes against the floor of the basilica. Rhaenyra looked to her feet, feeling great sorrow for her kinsmen to the north, whom had been plagued by the doom worse than her house. 

They were damned like the Vejesari, but spared from becoming animals and monsters, though not all in the known world saw it as such.

“Pariahs, outcasts, prey for the slavers who look for the unnatural and unlovable to make novelties out of. We are tired. Tired of being alone in the world. Tired of being feared and hated by all who see us. Before the Doom we were part of something larger and more powerful than what we have devolved into. For generations, we would tell our children fairy tales that one day, the time of the dragonlords would come again, and they would bring us back under their protection, and we would need to fear the world no longer. It was but a false prophecy meant to help the children of our city sleep at night and have hope that one day we might be more than what we are. But you — Rhaenyra Targaryen — you made our fairy tale a reality,” Traegar stated, raw emotion clear in his voice.

The Lord of Mantarys then set aside one of his walking sticks, letting it clatter to the floor. Lord Traegar then lowered himself down on one knee, falling upon it as he lowered himself.

His retainers tried to come to his aid, but Traegar shrugged off their assistance and sent them back.

Now Rhaenyra saw, it was not that he feared the Empire wished to rule over Mantarys, he welcomed it. 

“I know our city in its current state is not much to look upon… nor are our people for that matter. But we are yours. Please, my Empress, take us under your cloak of protection and grant us a place in your empire. I know we are not but distant echoes of what we once were under the Freehold, but if there is any charity in your heart… please accept us,” Lord Traegar begged, bowing on his hands and knees with his head down, showing allegiance and obesence to Rhaenyra as his Empress without invitation. 

Rhaenyra was overwhelmed, abashed and astounded all at once, feeling nothing but awe and reverence for this mighty Lord of Mantarys whom she had known but a few minutes and yet already held in the highest esteem. 

A man of valour without vanity or arrogance, willing to kneel not out of weakness but out of a strength of will to defend his own people without regard for his own pride.

The Empress rose and those seated on either side of her rose too.

Rhaenyra then descended down the steps of her throne and ignored Daemon when he subtly tried to call for Rhaenyra’s attention and then she walked to the edge of the dais and walked the rest of the way down the steps of the dais to the floor of the basilica.

The arrowhead formation of Dragonknights parted in two at the Empress’s approach, letting Rhaenyra pass between them and approach the kneeling masked lord.

Rhaenyra stopped and hesitated, looking down at the man who knelt before her, yet she felt so vulnerable in front of.

Rhaenyra then handed off the Rod of Authority to Ser Harrold behind her and then took to her knees in front of Traegar, gracefully descending down as many of her courtiers gasped in shock and disgust, treating the good lord as though he were a leper. 

Rhaenyra suddenly felt flushed, never having predicted that of the many thousands of possible ways her first diplomatic meeting could go wrong would be her heckling vassals and retainers embarrassing her in front of the visiting Lord and his entourage.

Traegar meekly raised his head and looked at the Empress, now up close, Rhaenyra could see his eyes through the eye holes of the mask, pale blue irises with tarnished flesh around them. 

“Remove your mask, my lord… please. I would look upon your face myself,” Rhaenyra requested of him.

Traegar scoffed in disbelief, his tone matched by many of the onlooking valyrian courtiers.

“Your Majesty, I would not offend you with something so foul as my disfigured face,” Lord Traegar stated, turning his face away in shame.

Rhaenyra took his gloved hand and held it comfortingly.

“You are a valyrian of the Empire now, Lord Amalrys. You have no cause to ever be ashamed of who you are ever again,” Rhaenyra assured him.

After a moment of silent contemplation and another of hesitation, Lord Treagar pulled down his hood and unstrapped his mask from his face, revealing himself for all to see.

Many of Rhaenya’s heckling nobles expressed disgust but not her, she would not shame her new vassal for who he was.

Lord Treagar’s face was without a nose, only two long nostril cavities where his nose should have been, a disfiguring growth around his left eye, his brow drooped down on the left as well, his lip was low hanging on the left side and his face was covered with with ulsers, lesions and blemishes. His thinning hair was silver, just like Rhaenyra’s, parted in the middle and hanging down to his neck, but with many bald patches on his scalp. 

Silver hair of the Old Blood of Valyria, not the descendant of the dragonlords but still one of her own just like the Velaryons, Celtigars and all those who had joined her from Lys and Volantis who were also of the old blood, yet his afflicitions made others treat him lesser than he was. Another valyrian lineage victimised by the Doom, worse so than Rhaenyra’s had ever been.

Rhaenyra did her best to keep her nerve, not wishing to cry in pity for the man who had so bravely shown his vulnerabilities to her.

“Does it hurt?” Rhaenyra asked softly. 

Lord Traegar sighed.

“We are Mantarysi, we are use to pain,” he assured her.

Rhaenyra looked into her new lord’s eyes for a moment of sheer respect for his very nature and then she looked to all those who had come into the basilica with him, clad in veils and masks to hide their own afflictions.

Rhaenyra then offered the mask back to Lord Traegar so that he could cover himself and then she stood up straight.

The Empress then turned her head around to the crowd of valyrian gathered on the right side of the basilica.

“Grand Master Raegoth,” she called out to the leader of her sorcerers.

The masked sorcerer left the crowd and stood before the Empress, bowing his head.

“The city of Mantarys has long held an affliction brought on by the Doom that has kept a tight hold on the people there. Those people are now my subjects and so long as they suffer, I cannot be at ease. The bloodmages of the Anogrion will now endeavour to heal the people of my northern city and ease their condition. Through aiding the people of Mantarys, we shall be one step closer to our desire of avenging the grief caused by the Doom,” Rhaenyra announced for all her courtiers to hear.

The procession from Mantarys was raw with emotion, many talking amongst themselves, laughing, crying and hugging in sheer joy. 

Rhaenyra then turned back to Lord Traegar, masked and hooded once again but still on his hands and knees, this time crying with drops of tears hitting the floor of the basilica.

“Thank you… Oh, thank you, Your Majesty,”  Lord Traegar said as he leaned back and looked up at Rhaenyra.

“No, thank you, Lord Traegar. Thank you for trusting me with the prosperity of your people. I swear so long as I live, the burdens of your city will be mine to bear and the prosperity of it shall be my pride, now and always, from this day until the end of my days. And when I am gone, my son shall take this charge and his heir after him and forever onward. This I swear solemnly to the High Lord Arrax as my witness,” Rhaenyra asserted offering a hand to her new vassal lord.

Lord Traegar took her hand and rose to his feet, holding himself up by his canes. 

“And the people of Mantarys will be yours forever. We shall carry the Valyrian Empire’s banners above our walls proudly, we shall fight your wars, follow your laws, speak your praises and pay you tribute from now until the end of time,” the Lord of Mantarys swore.

Rhaenyra then looked around the basilica and smiled. 

“Let us all rejoice! Our Empire is now one city stronger and our borders have expanded all the way to the southern foothills of the Painted Mountains! This is a great day in our Empire!” Rhaenyra announced, coaxing cheers from her people and the basilica erupted into thunderous applause.

Chapter Text

Adreq was not sure what to expect when he departed from Astapor. 

He had personally spoken to all the captains of the ships that had visited the shores of Valyria when they went to scout it out. Fifty vessels that braved the mists of the Doom and discovered the hidden paradise within. 

They spoke of finding forestation and green lands, hills and mountains beyond the black sand beaches, which Adreq found proposterous to believe, unable to fathom how that land could be green once more after being decimated by the wrath of the Doom not but two centuries past. 

Some had reported seeing more of the small wyverns like the messenger dragon-bird sent to Meereen with the Empress’s invitation, they claimed that the creatures were as common as seagulls. 

Others reported seeing winged sea creatures skipping like dolphins in and out of the water, and one ship even claimed to have seen a sea serpent. 

Those of the fifty scout ships that found cities, watchtowers and settlements in Valyria kept their distance and refused to make landfall but observed life and civilization in their reports and saw ships fill their harbours. 

When Adreq first reached the lands of Valyria deep within the volcanic mists that rested on the sea, he was awe struck to see the city of Aqous Dhaen in the distance, the mighty costal city standing proud and glorious as the old fables and legends described and standing guard at the entrance seawall that curved together with two twin walls extending out from either side of the mouth of the bay was a pair of colossal stone statues with their arms outstretched forming an arch into the bay.

It was not until Adreq and the rest of the procession were feasting that night with Ser Haegelor Emberyon, the Majordomo of the city, that he learned the two titanic statues were less than four years old and had been fashioned in the like of Lord Corlys Velaryon’s late children, Ser Laenor and Lady Laena.

Adreq was in awe, if the Empire could fashion great mighty statues of stone in only a few years, then what great fortifications and defences might they have erected across the empire? Aquos Dhaen alone looked to be a lively city with no signs of the Doom upon it.

During their stay in the city, Adreq and the other emissarial Masters from Slaver’s Bay were also allowed to tour the Hall of Ten, the Great Hall of Aqous Dhaen’s palace, which had been refashioned from the likenesses of the Consuls of the Freehold to instead suit the Sea Snake and his kin.

Set up on display across the hall were souvenirs, trophies and memorabilia from all ten of Lord Corlys’s Great Voyages, the tenth and last being their Empire’s arrival in Valyria.

During their stay, they were also joined by fellow emissaries from across the Gulf of Grief.

The Tolosi, the Elyrians and the New Ghiscari all arrived on their ships in the city, giving Adreq a chance to meet all of them and gauge their intentions in visiting the Empire.

From what Adreq could tell, they would all wait to see how the Masters of Slaver’s Bay would treat with the Empress before making their own stances known.

Between the three cities of Slaver’s Bay, they had the most amount of territory in the Gulf of Grief, and through their slave trade with their friends in Tolos and Elyria, and their rich shared history with New Ghis, they were seen as the ring leaders of their shared alliance.

The truth was, for as many ships, mercenaries and slave soldiers as the Masters had, the three cities would not be able to stand against the Valyrian Empire without their allies. 

Tolos had the finest slingers under their command, Elyria had plenty of war galleys and New Ghis’s Iron Legions and War Elephants would be instrumental in fending off the Valyrians.

They’d also needed the support of the Volantene and their ships and probably even a few Dothraki Khalassars soclitade to their cause with promise of slaves and horses and keeping whatever spoils they raped from the Valyrian Peninsula, but most of those horse-fuckers would attack Valyria for the glory of slaying dragons in their delusions, but it would take more than an Arakh to slay the winged beasts. The only good the Dothraki would do would be to distract the Empire and soften their land forces.

In truth, it would take scorpion bolts, many, many scorpion bolts, and archers and catapults and sorcerers collected from across the east to join them and aid their cause. 

It would take much effort, but eventually the dragons would fall.

However, such was all just contemplation, and the more time Adreq spent in Valyria, the less he saw the likelihood of war unless the Empress were the one instigating it.

In Adreq’s zeal and narrow-mindedness he thought he could have conquered this empire with great ease when he knew nothing about it but its existence. 

When he looked from one of the balconies from the Great Pyramid of Meereen over the waters of Slaver’s Bay to the west and imagined his prize of Valyria, his imagination created a barren landscape of ash and fire with the Valyrians struggling to farm the hard and lifeless land, living roughly in the shattered ruins of the once mighty Freehold.

Adreq did not expect fresh green land and unblemished cities. It was as though the Doom of Valyria never happened, and all that had been common knowledge in the known world was not but a dream that the world had woken up from. 

When Adreq inquired into these mysteries that perplexed him, those in Aqous Dhaen told him that the lands of the Empire were indeed once shattered and poisoned fields of ash and fire, but the ancient enchantments interwoven with the very soil of Valyria overpowered the Doom and restored the land to life, verdancy and growth. 

When Adreq inquired about the restorations to the cities, the Valyrians explained that the cities had barely anything in need of restoring, claiming that the ancient Freeholder Lords had them built from dragonstone and bound with many protective spells which made the ancient stone cities endurant in the face of the Doom with only minor damage to the outer shell of the city. 

The spells were designed to repel siege engines and rogue dragonlords in times of invasion or civil war, but proved resilient against the wrath of the Doom just the same. 

The emissaries from Slaver’s Bay, New Ghis, Tolos and Elyria did not linger long in Aqous Dhaen, remaining there only two days after all had been gathered together before returning to the sea.

Their ships were escorted along the coast by a quartet of trireme ships that guided them around the eastern isle to the heart isle.

In the time before the Doom, there were no great isles in the south of the peninsula, but the Doom shattered the land, sinking the volcanic chain of the Fourteen Flames that went from coast to coast into the sea and the lands south of the volcanoes were shattered into three islands.

According to what the Valyrians had told Adreq, if the Fourteen Flames had ever sunk below the sea in the Doom, they had since risen as an archipelago of volcanic islands that filled the smoking sea. 

Coming up along the eastern coast of the heart isle, their convoy of ships reached a rivermouth that led them inland. 

Upon reaching the mouth of the river, Adreq left his cabin in the ship and went topside, leaning against the railing of the forward port side of the ship, for he had surmised what river they were sailing up.

Before the Doom, the mouth of the Trūmaqelbar let out further to the south, but since much of the land had sunk into the sea, now the river mouth could be found along the coast of the central island since the shattering of the land.

The Trūmaqelbar was one of the five passages that led into the valley of the dragonlords, hidden within the ring of mountains in the heart of Valyria where the ancient city of Old Valyria sat, it was also the only of the five passages by sea through which ships could be moved with the other passages being the four old roads from north, south, east and west.

After a while of sailing inland up the river past forests and grass fields, they finally reached the mountain chain which held the Valley of the Dragonlords.

Cleaving through the mountains was a great and winding gorge which the river ran through, and greeting their convoy of ships on either side of the gorge were a pair of great stone dragons carved into the mountain face, greater and far more ancient than the pair of titans who guarded the seawall into Aqous Dhaen.

When Adreq first beheld the great statues, guardians at the gates, he stood up straight and looked to the mighty stoneworks with awe and wonder.

Very few among the Ghiscari lamented the end of their overlords from Valyria when the Doom struck, but while thety celebrated their independence and the down fall of their old masters, there was a degree of tragedy held among the Masters of Slaver’s Bay, if not for the devastation upon the millions claimed by the Doom then it was most certainly for the wonders that were lost with Valyria. 

To build stone statues as tall as mountains, to fashion cities beyond remarkable and fill them with the greatest shipbuilders, alchemists, sorcerers, artisans and scholars the world has ever known.

Now, such power and wisdom had returned to the living and had been inherited by the old blood of Valyria once more. 

As the ship drew nearer to the clawed feet, the great stone colossuses as they sailed between them, Adreq felt his ambitions shrink smaller and smaller, the prospect of conquering Valyria becoming a fantasy.

As small as the Empire was, its power was proving itself to be nearly limitless with every spectacle that Adreq beheld from their great and powerful land.

War was becoming less of a desire and more like a dreaded nightmare he desperately wished to avoid, but might not be able to. 

When Adreq thought the Empire was weak and vulnerable, he desired to squash it like an insect beneath a boot and take its power for himself, but now he feared the possibility of war being inevitable.

Adreq knew precious little of the Empress of Valyria save for her story of untraditional placement as heir apparent to the Iron Throne and her subsequent abdication and exile forced upon her by her brother, but none of that told Adreq her character, her demeanour or how reasonable or unreasonable she was.

What if hers was a demeanour no different from the Dragonlords of old? An ambitious and merciless conqueror who wished to press the world beneath her boot?

Adreq contemplated whether the nature of the Freehold and the nature of the Empire were the same at their core.

Kostion Jaqiarzir, that is what they used to say in Old Valyria.

The mantra of the Valyrian Freehold was written in their mother tongue, their battle cry, their ideology, their message to all beyond their borders.

In the common tongue, their words translate roughly to Power and Glory.

When the Freehold conquered another city, they did it for Power and Glory; when they declared dominance in the known world, they attributed it to Power and Glory.

Would the Empress covet their lands and their subservience in the name of Power and Glory and force war upon them?

Adreq was not afraid to fight the Empire if it came to it, but seeing what power they were capable of… perhaps now he’d rather avoid it if at all possible.

But one truth Adreq was confident in was that the harpy would never be subservient to the dragon ever again. 

Either the Empress would respect their authority, or she would force war, and they would destroy her, or in all likelihood, a war would end in the razing of the Ghiscari cities, but in any event, they would not bow before the Dragonlords of Valyria ever again.

As Adreq leaned over the railing, he heard the creaking of the wooden floorboards of the ship behind him as footsteps began to emerge.

When Adreq turned his head, he saw his old friend, Master Gamdar zo Ullhor of the Good Masters of Astapor.

“We should be arriving in Old Valyria fairly soon,” Master Gamdar observed as he joined Adreq’s side.

“Valyria the Great,” Adreq corrected. “Apparently, the Empire renamed the city to better distinguish it from the Freehold.”

“Sounds a tad pretentious, no?" Gamdar smirked, trying to make light of the Valyrians, but Adreq did not concur with his old friend.

“How so? Are they not great? Are they not powerful? Look at all this… all they’ve uncovered and taken for themselves in less than five years. Centuries of power accumulated and stored in their grasp,” Adreq pondered as he looked at the sheer rock walls of the gorge between the mountains through which the river ran.

“That sounds uncharacteristically defeatist of you, Adreq, my old friend. Where is the spirit? Where is the man who wished to smash this Empire and take their power for ourselves?” Gadmar asked but Adreq could only shake his head in dismay.

“My prospects of war are over, Gamdar. In my conjecture, I misinterpreted the Dragon Empress’s power to be easily destroyed. I imagined her empire soft and fragile, its foundations still fresh. I could not have imagined what wonders they have achieved in such a short period of time. The best we can hope for is to be ignored or left to our own devices, keep our slave trade and bide our time until we have an advantage to press against the Empire that might force them to view us as their respected equals. If it comes to war, it will be the Empress’s choice and hers alone. If she wishes to seize our dominion and reclaim the Freehold’s mastery over us then we have no choice but to fight and fight hard if we wish to live. If we go to war with them and find victory, then perhaps one day we can salvage the spoils of the Freehold and reign supreme in the known world, but think of the cost such a war would have. We would see cities burn, thousands of our people killed, we’d be robbed of millions of our slaves. I fear such a war would result only in utter defeat or a scrounged phyric victory over the dragonlords,” Adreq explained.

Gamdar began stuttering his words, trying to think of a response for Adreq’s words.

“We can summon together the largest army and fleet in the known world. We can swindle the horse-molesters from the great grass sea to move their khalassars south and raid the Empire so that they might keep them distracted while we build our forces. Between all the—”

“They have over a dozen dragons that we know of, and who knows how many they’ve gained since disappearing through the mists from Volantis a few years ago,” Adreq interrupted. “Look at the calibre of these warships sailing alongside us and the discipline of the city and palace guards we saw at Aquos Dhaen. Not to mention, they in all likelihood have the eight forbidden weapons of old in their possession.” 

Gamdar stammered his words in hestiation and awe.

“That cannot be it. We are the mighty Masters of Meereen, the scions of Grazdan the Great, we cannot be toppled by a small family of dragonriders. And you, Adreq, you have never conceded defeat in all the years I’ve known you, not to anyone. You uncovered the hidden Empire when many others thought you a madman and a fool, if anyone can form a plan to reach dominance, it is you. What is your plan? What now? What comes next?” Gamdar asked.

Adreq thought for a moment, mulling over an answer in his mind and he thought of one, an answer that he had never given aloud to anyone lest he be seen as weak, but now, no matter how hard he thought, only the one single answer remained, and so he spoke it.

“I don’t know.”

Further down the gorge, the mountain range opened up, and the river led out to a lush green valley encircled by a mighty wall of mountain around it.

As the ships sailed into the valley, more of the ambassadors and emissaries came out topside from their cabins and marvelled at the valley of the Dragonlords. 

The old texts written in the centuries before the Doom bore accounts of Ghiscari nobles who had visited their overlords in the Valley of the Dragonlords, either independently or as part of the Consul’s entourage. In those accounts, the Valley of the Dragonlords was treated as an otherworldly paradisiacal realm, the purest marvel in the entire Freehold, as though it were an intermediary realm between the world of men and the world of gods, with the great Dragonlords being closer to gods than men, but such was all poetry and embellishment.

As Adreq looked across the encircling mountains where the dark jagged rocky peaks met the blue skies above, his gaze caught an especially tall peak, higher than the others and at its summit, the grey fog of smoke rose like that of a chimney. 

Blenon Valyriōs, the great volcanic dragonmount, where the winged serpents of the Freehold made their dwellings. 

Adreq also recalled what lay beneath the slopes of the volcano as his eyes traced downward until they fell upon a great city up against the base of Blenon Valyriōs, the mighty and ancient city of Valyria the Great.

As the ship sailed further along the river, it eventually opened up out to a grand lake which sat beneath the eastern wall of the city, where the port was, the Lēdanāvar, the lake of abundance.

There were many ships in the lake, from fishing skiffs to cargo vessels and prominently a formation of four quinqueremes and five triremes sitting in defensive positions in the middle of the lake facing the river mouth.

Nine warships, now made thirteen with the four triremes escorting the emissarial vessels into the valley. 

At the height of the Freehold’s power, they had the largest navy the known world had ever seen, yet between the number of warships they had behind the seawall at Aquos Dhaen and how many were defending the capital, it seemed that they didn’t have that many in the way of ships.

Assuming a similar number of ships were garrisoned at the other major ports around the empire, then Adreq couldn’t imagine them having much more than fifty. 

Any navy on either side of the peninsula could outmatch such a number alone, let alone if they banded their numbers together.

Adreq was sure it wasn’t a matter of supply, but a matter of numbers. 

Yes, Adreq thought to himself. 

The Empire was still small in their numbers, forced to rely on poaching slaves from the Ghiscari and Volantene to build themselves up, their score estimated to be under half a million if the lost slave ship manifests and the hundred thousand the Empress entered the mists of Valyria with were to be added together.

An exploitable weakness? Adreq contemplate.

Adreq’s mind was his greatest weapon, but also an unsheathable sword; even when in the presence of allies, he would always look for an advantage to press and how to get an edge over any potential adversary.

The lake was so lively, with children swimming and playing down by the banks, fishermen casting nets off their bows, and as their ships drew into port, Adreq spotted fishmongers, harbourmasters and sailors bustling up and down the pier and the fish markets.

Such life and vibrance filled even the outer waterside edge of the city, making Adreq wonder what majesty was in the ancient paradise of the dragonlords within the high stone walls. 

Their vessels anchored in the lake, and the emissarial processions took longboats to the shore, ferrying back and forth to bring over their Unsullied guards, their litters and the slaves to carry them. 

They were met at the port by an andal man who clad himself in valyrian attire, one of countless to do so, the westrosi vassals, retainers and citizens of the Empress claiming the ancient heritage of the Freehold as their own.

The man introduced himself as Ser Robert Gerguese, Majordomo to the Imperial Household.

A Valyrian-sounding surname yet clearly an Andal’s given name, causing Adreq to muse how much assimilation Rhaenyra’s people had undergone in order to adopt Valyria as their own homeland, but to a man such as Adreq, the Majordomo still seemed a western foreigner playing dress-up like a child. 

When the Majordomo and all the guards, sailors and fishmongers around the port looked at the grand emissaries from Slaver’s Bay, New Ghis, Elyria and Tolos, they looked upon their slaves kneeling and waiting to carry their gilded litters.

The slaves' heads were shaved, clad in loincloths and wearing collars around their necks, and those of the Empire that looked to the slaves had eyes of pity, until they turned to the Emissaries, then their eyes showed disgust.

Now Adreq saw the truth of this Empire.

He’d known that as a condition of loyalty, all those from the Free cities who had pledged to Rhaenyra were made to emancipate their slaves and accept them as citizens under her protection. The Emrpess had even solicited and freed slaves from the Free Cities with her own coin when she passed through them. But Adreq had assumed that Rhaenyra must have shaken off such delusions of granting freedom to the inferior and taken their slave ships to chizzle her mines, build her monuments and till her fields.

By the harpy, don’t let it be that she was emancipating them, Adreq thought to himself. 

And the truth was now revealed of the fragility of her Empire, Rhaenyra and her people did not belong there. 

Transplants from the west and cultural apostates from the free cities, like a pine tree planted in the desert climate, destined to wilt and die and be rejected by the soil. 

Slavery was a way of life in Essos, renounced only by the Braavosi in their little lagoon. 

Adreq now saw that the Empress did not wish to reforge the Freehold but instead make a mimicry of her beloved Seven Kingdoms using the Freehold’s bones.

No stomach for Power and Glory, only entrenched structures of hereditary power and lightly taxed freeholding plebeians serving under the lords of her domain. 

That was how the world worked in Westeros, but not in Essos. 

Essos was a land of republics, archons, magistrates, conclaves, elected princes and warring Khals, where the noble families fought, schemed, plotted and bribed their way to power, rising and falling and retaining power over the masses by segrating them into free men who served the powerful and the slaves who served the powerful.

The slaves were kept pacified by being kept weak, and the freemen were kept pacified by being grateful that they were above the slaves, and all worked together to serve their shared masters, and when they were spent and had given all they could give to the powerful of the world, they died.

Valar Morghulis, Valar Dohaeris.

That was the way of the world east of the Narrow Se,a and the Targaryen Empress should have known that better than anyone, for it was her forebears who moulded their world to fit that shape with the long-reaching wings of the Valyrian Freehold that covered all their lands. 

The great lords and masters of the east felt no shame for who they were and held their heads high, regardless of the scowling looks from the foreign empire. 

After a brief exchange of pleasantries with the Majordomo, they mounted their slave carried litters with pride and were ushered through the streets, heralded by banner bearers and drummers with their guards walking alongside. 

The majordomo offered them the use of carriages that had been prepared for them drawn by strange six legged horses with short snouts that they called centaurs, but the emissaries rejected such offers, not only for their apprehensivness at the strange creatures but also wishing to flaunt their pride in slavery through their litters, not wishing to be made to feel ashamed of their culture.

As they were carried through the streets of Valyria the Great, Adreq could not help but feel astounded by the majesty and glory of the ancient city of the dragonlords, the tall austere valyrian brutalist architecture, the red banners of the empire wreathed in borders of blade flame, the small wyverns fluttering about like gulls in the port of Astapor. 

For all its majesty, the city’s greatness was undermined by the people who filled its streets.

Men and women from across Westeros and the Free Cities who had followed the Empress into the peninsula and perhaps even some freed slaves amongst them, all dressed in the fashions of the freehold as though they knew anything about Valyria and yet looking upon the slave litters with such disgust and contempt, some even turning their backs on the emsisaries in protest to their arrival.

Such insolence, from plebeians no less, who thought themselves entitled to judge a Master of Old Ghis.

Adreq zo Loraq, Nineth of That Noble Name, was a scion of the Old Empire of Ghis; his ancestry was filled with the likes of Mazdhan the Magnificent, Hazrak the Handsome and Zharaq the Liberator.

Adreq’s ancestors were already making their mark on the world while the forebears of those who dared to scorn him were farming sheep generation after generation in the hills of Andalos. 

After passing the round plaza in the heart of the city where a great obelisk made from dragonglass stood in a tall and ornate fountain, a loud howling caught Adreq’s attention. 

Adreq looked up to the sky and what he saw made his stomach turn with anxiety. 

As a child, Adreq had nightmares from the stories his father told him as a child about the wars with the Freehold. 

In his worst dreams, the dragons came to eat him, flying over him like nightmarish shadowy clouds of death. 

Now Adreq was looking up to the skies and saw colours of red, gold and silver in the form of horned lizards with bat like wings, flapping around the smoking summit of Blenon Valyriōs, howling in the skies. 

How many was Adreq seeing? A dozen? And how many more were there hidden deep within the cavernous chambers of the volcano.

Adreq had heard a story when he was gathering information about the Empire over the past few years.

The story was about how when the Empress and her fleet were in Volantis during their voyage, the Emperor Consort Daemon, who already then styled himself Warmaster of of the makeshift dragon legion under their control, took the Crown Prince and one of the baseborn dragonriders back west to escort a second wave of self-exiles who wished to join the Empress’s voyage.

On their journey to Volantis, the three dragonriders caught wind of a Dothraki Khalassar heading their way to pillage their great caravan of travellers.

The three dragons challenged the Dothraki in the night while they camped and encricled their tents and horses in a great ring of fire and smited all within the circle creating a pillar of fire as wide as a city and as tall as a mountain, so great it could be seen for miles around in all direction by the farmers and travellers who witnessed it.

No Dothraki survived. 

Such relentless devastation to be brought down by three dragons alone, it made Adreq shudder to think what could be achieved with the Empire’s full force. 

Eventually, the procession arrived at the grand Palace of the Dragonlord from fables of old.

Ser Robert then departed from his carriage and approached the single-file line of carried litters behind him.

“Welcome to the Imperial Palace, Master Adreq. Perhaps you and your lords would wish to depart from your litters so that you might be presented to the Empress who waits for you in the throne room,” Ser Robert said, looking with concern to the exhausted slaves. 

“That is no issue, Ser. I know my histories well. The visitors to the Freehold were often carried into the Basilica on litters far taller and grander than ours. I am sure the architecture has not changed since then,” Adreq bit back.

Ser Robert was clearly not amused and huffed through his nose. 

“The halls are tightly packed with so many nobles gathered to bid you welcome, and while the carpets laid out for you would be wide enough to fit one or two litters side by side, the rest would have to line up behind. Surely you would not wish to cause a diplomatic incident by suggesting some of your fellow emissaries are less important than you,” Ser Robert bit back.

Adreq snorted, seeing fair play in the Majordomo’s words. 

Adreq communicated the situation to the other emissaries and so they continued on foot through the palace with their banner bearers, slaves, drummers and guards. 

The mighty halls of the dragonlords were magnificent and intimidating to walk down.

When they reached the large, imposing double doors of the great hall, Ser Robert told them to wait momentarily as he entered the chamber and closed the doors, leaving the emissaries waiting to be received.

A minute or so passed, and the double doors then opened with a fanfare played by trumpeters welcoming them into the great hall.

The banner bearers and drummers went in first, heralding the arrival of the ambassadors.

Inside the chamber, a red carpet stretched out the length of the hall with imperial guards on either side and crowds filling up either side of the chamber behind the lines of guards.

As the ambassadors went further down the carpet, Adreq took note of a line of fourteen men in an arrowhead formation standing guard dressed in white cloaks and fine suits of armour. 

Beyond the fourteen men was a tall platform with fourteen steps leading up to it, and on the platform were four lesser thrones on either side of a great dragonglass mountain with a seat shaped into it where a woman sat in a black dress with a red cloak and a heavy crown with dragon wings. 

The Empress Rhaenyra Targaryen, at long last. 

When the ambassadors reached the end of the carpet, they stopped and fanned out, standing side by side with the Fourteen white cloaks blocking their path.

Sitting on the right of the Empress on the lesser thrones was a dark-clad man with valyrian features, long silver hair and a short beard with a circlet upon his brow, doubtless the Emperor Consort and Warmaster, Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince from the west.

Next to the Emperor was an elderly man clad in blue, also valyrian features, most likely Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake.

On the other side of the Empress sat a young man, probably no older than twenty, with dark hair but a prince’s trappings and next to him was a silver-haired princess of similar age who stood from her throne and approached the platform's edge.

“You stand in the presence of Her Majesty Rhaenyra the Redeemer of House Targaryen, First of her Name, Empress of Valyria, Queen of the High Valyrians, Lady of the Seven Cities, Keeper of the Lands of the Long Summer, Mistress of the Fourteen Flames and the Smoking Sea, Blood of the Dragon, Heir to the Freehold and Protector of the Imperial Realm,” the girl stated.

Next, one of the ambassadors signalled an orator who had been selected by them to introduce the emissarial procession.

The orator unravelled a scroll and began to read from it aloud for all in the hall to see.

“Representing Archon Jacaenarr Berralis, the splendorous island of Elyria, Lord Maeharon Qohlaeris,” the Orator announced and a silver haired ambassador in purple silk robes and golden adornments stepped forward and bowed his head respectfully. 

The orator cleared his throat and announced the next set of ambassadors.

“Representing the ruling conclave of the ancient and noble city of Tolos, Lord Aeraron Goneris and Lord Jaenor Ageneos.”
Two more silver-haired men of the old blood holding gold pommeled sceptres stepped forward and bowed their heads.

“Representing the Octarchs of New Ghis, Lord Zaklir zo Ghaen.”

A dark-haired noble stepped forward and bowed his head before stepping back.

“Representing the Good Masters of Astapor; Gamdar zo Ullhor, Azhihr mo Nazlok, and Dreiden na Ghoin.”

Gamdar and the other two Good Masters from Astapor stepped forward and bowed their heads.

“Representing the Wise Masters of Yunkai; Remdaz na Myraq, Ekniq zo Rhaezn, and Toreq mo Ahlaq.”

The three wise masters stepped forward and bowed their heads.

“Representing the Great Masters of Meereen; Aqneihr zo Reznak, Krekhol mo Hazkar, and Adreq zo Loraq.”

At long last, Adreq and his peers stepped forward and bowed their heads respectfully.

When Adreq raised his head and looked into the eyes of the Empress, he beheld a quiet and humble yet firm confidence that encapsulated all the Power and Glory that Adreq feared he would face.

Adreq knew not what would become of the next few days or weeks of negotiations and formalities with all the other emissaries arriving, but it was Adreq’s duty to ensure that whatever the Empire’s intentions, the great cities of Slaver’s Bay would not be squashed beneath the Empire’s ambitions, no matter what power they had obtained.

With the orator falling silent, the introductions had ended but everything else had only just began.

Chapter Text

It was a queer feeling to be in Lys of all places, for it was a place that Daeron had long surmised that he would never be welcomed after his part of the third war of the Stepstones. 

They had set out from King’s Landing a week prior, Daeron bidding farewell to his grandsire, his uncle, his brothers, his sister, his good-sister, his niece and nephews, pledging to them all that he would bring their mother home before departing on the wings of Tessarion, his blue queen with scales of cobalt and highlights of copper. 

From the saddle of his dragon, Daeron escorted Ser Tyland Lannister and his entourage out of Blackwater Bay and down the sea aboard his ship, the Golden Mane. 

Wishing to make haste in their voyage, they did not drop anchor to seek hospitality at Tarth or Rain House, instead sailing and flying on until they reached Bloodstone where Lord Malentine Velaryon, cousin of Lord Daemion, had established his cadet branch after fighting gloriously in the Stepstones war. 

While staying on Bloodstone, Daeron sent messages to the Magisters of Lys and requested safe passage through their waters enroute to Valyria and while he waited, his company was visited by Ser Tyland’s cousin, Lord Brett Lannister of Dwarfstone and Daeron’s own kinsman, Lord Heldon Hightower of Grey Gallows. 

During the War of the Stepstones, the three houses that had contributed the most amount of ships and men were House Hightower, Lannister and Velaryon. 

At the war’s conclusion the Crown — more the Hand’s wisdom than the King’s — had decided the islands needed garrisoning and wished to set up noble houses to build proper forts, castles, settlements and watchtowers there. 

At this time, the three houses of Oldtown, Driftmark and Lannisport realised they had a surplus of three things; coin, ships and cousins. Thus the three largest islands of the Stepstones were graciously colonised by cadet branches of the Lion the Hightower and the Sea Horse with most of the other islands being held by cadet branches of their own vassals and retainer knights.

The Magisters of Lys soon gave their reply and welcomed Daeron not only to pass through their waters peacefully but even offered the young prince welcome to stay in their city a week so that they might discuss Rhaenyra’s Empire diplomatically. 

Daeron would have declined an elongated stay for the sake of reaching Valyria all the sooner to find his mother but would not slight the offer the Lyseni so soon after the Stepstones War when things were could so easily escelate between their realms. 

Now, three days after having arrived in Lys, Daeron was sitting next to Ser Tyland having supper in the gardens of the Palace of Lys.

Not only did they share the long table with the seven magisters of the city, but also with emissaries from Tyrosh and Myr on their way east to treat with the Empress Rhaenyra.

It was odd to say the least, all of them sitting at the table there and being civil when not so long ago they were enemies. 

Daeron had fought against their three cities in the Third War of the Stepstones and thery had been fighting each other ever since with the fall of the Triarchy.

Now word from the Empire had reached them and they had all dropped their hostilities and bad blood to address this new power that had shaken the known world to its centre. 

For hours they discussed matters of the Empire. Many of the nobles from the three Triarchy cities recounting their meetings with the Empress or her emissaries. 

The Lords of Tyrosh spoke of Prince Jace and Lady Baela, calling them respectable, pleasant, mature and regal, describing the pairing as Jaehaerys the Wise and the Good Queen Alyssane reborn anew as youths in their grace and diplomacy. 

The emissaries from Myr spoke of the young Prince Lucaerys and the lowborn dragonrider, Addam of Hull, saying they were decent enough fellows and extended the Empress’s courtesies. 

Daeron still remembered the night Aemond returned from Dragonstone to King’s Landing after Rhaenyra departed the island for Braavos.

Aemond vented his rage and fury to Aegon about how Seasmoke had been claimed not by a valyrian but by a baseborn commoner from Driftmark called Addam.

Aemond relayed that Addam had apparently shared in Rhaenyra’s prophetic dream that led her to Valyria along with two others, his brother and foster sister, whom Rhaenyra was in the process of training to claim Vermithor and Silverwing, claiming the three lowborns to be of Valyrian stock — dragonseeds.

Aemond demanded that they take Vhagar, Dreamfyre, Sunfyre and Tessarion and fly to Braavos to lay waste to Rhaenyra and her faction of dragonriders while they slept. 

The Strongs and the Dragonseeds have defilied our birthright, making bastards and commoners into Dragonlords, it is a sin and must be punished! Aemond raged. 

Aemond’s bluster riled Aegon up plenty enough, but Daeron and Helena would not become kinslayers and butchers of Rhaenyra’s youngest children for such slights. 

It was lucky that Aegon heeded more to their mother and grandsire, more than their one eyed brother. The council of the Hightowers was clear, that such an attack would bring war down upon them from both Braavos and from Rhaenyra’s remaining allies in the Seven Kingdoms for such an underhanded attack and if even so much as one dragonrider survived their attack, it would lead to massacres of vengance at the hands of such a rider.

Thus no action was taken against Rhaenyra at that time, but every time a new dragonrider joined Rhaenyra’s ranks, Aemond flew from Dragonstone back to King’s Landing and petitioned Aegon to let them attack but such requests came to no avail.

As each of the nobles who had met the dragonrdiers recounted the experiences, Daeron simply sat and took it in.

They had been pleasant hosts to Daeron and Ser Tyland since their arrival, certain members of certain houses were a bit cold and mentioned deceased kinsmen who fell in the Third Stepstones war while others who had fought directly in the war could be very jovial and plesant, trading war stories with Daeron as though it was all a bit of competitive fun they’d had in the past but Daeron remembered the Stepstones war to be anything but fun.

At the moment, Lord Ennar Stassion was recounting his experiences in his home of Tyrosh when Jace and Lady Baela visited them as envoys. Stassion was a thin man with dyed blue hair and luxurious robes.

“Prince Jacaerys may have been a young prince, but he spoke with the confidence and the resplendence of a king himself. Patient yet unyielding when challenged. And his consort… ah, the Lady Baela was marvel, flattering and charming every man and woman in the Archon’s court. By the time the pair of them were done dazzling and charming us, they had managed to swindle away the three noble houses of Adarys, Mopyr and Pahrys to join their cause and the Mad Giant, Racailio Ryndoon, himself,” Lord Ennar stated.

“Is that a comment on Prince Jacaerys’s diplomatic skill? Or the lords of Tyrosh’s gullibiility?” Ser Tyland mocked quietly as he leaned towards Daeron.

“Easy,” Daeron cautioned, telling of the Lannister second son.

“And what of you, Prince Daeron?” Thorio Taenos asked, one of the ambassadors sent from Myr. “Did you know Prince Jacaerys well growing up in the Red Keep with him?”

Daeron cleared his throat, hesitant to speak for a moment.

“Actually… I was sent away from the Red Keep when I was seven. My ah— my mother believed that I do well to squire for my cousin, Lord Ormund Hightower. I grew up most of my life in Oldtown, the city is the jewel of Westeros believed to have been raised up by Brandon the Builder himself. The libraries at the Citadel are unmatched to any in the world and the Hightower is one of the great marvels of Westerosi stonemasonry,” Daeron explained.

He was not sure why he was being so expositive of Oldtown without prompt from the formerr triarchy lords. Perhaps he still felt that being raised away from the Red Keep was a disadvantage for him and made him seem un-Targaryen if such were a thing that he could be. Growing up, Daeron’s only tie to his valyrian heritage was Tessarion, the three Dragonkeepers who guarded her in Oldtown and his great uncle Vaegon, who was far from the most sociable man towards Daeron growing up and even he went away eventually, off to join Rhaenyra on her quest.

Perhaps Daeron was still trying to convince himself that he hadn’t been cheated by being sent away, for he was long past old enough to know that him being sent away had less to do with enriching him with a Hightower upbringing and more to do with sharpening him against his sister’s faction.

Daeron, much like Aegon and Helaena, had no stomach for seeking quarrel with Rhaenyra growing up though for Aegon it was more to do with laziness rather than for distaste for strife with their own kin. 

Daeron was even close as brothers to Rharnyra’s boys, especially Jace who was his best friend in their youths.

Rhaenyra was never cruel to him but they were always pleasant with one another but far from close, as though an invisible line existed between them which kept them from frasternising as brother and sister, one that kept the blacks from the greens apart. 

Daeron had not even shared a single word with them when they were all in King’s Landing for Aegon’s pledging ceremony, only glancing at them from across the great hall of the Red Keep. He’d never even been properly introduced to Daemon nor his daughters and he hadn’t even met young Prince Joffrey nor Rhaenyra’s younger sons.

Daeron remembered hating them for many years on principle when he heard that they had maimed Aemond and taken his eye. 

Daeron had always been led to believe that Jace, Luke and Daemon’s girls had attacked Aemond out of jealousy and tried to kill him to take Vhagar from him, though in recent years when he spent some time with his mother on Dragonstone at the beginning of her exile from King’s Landing, she revised the story for him, shaping it be slightly more complicated than how it had been porrtayed to Daeron and later in King’s Landing, Aegon — under the influence of wine — told a far more modest account of what he had heard about had transpired on Driftmark.

Daeron still felt that Aemond had been wronged but he now suspected that there was more than just the narrative he had been told. 

“Were you studying as a maester, Young Pinrce?” one of the Lyseni Magisters asked.

 “No, only squiring. Though as a prince of the realm and a kinsman of House Hightower I was given free reign of the Citadel. I spent many ours pouring over the chronicles there,” said Daeron before taking another bite of lamb off his fork.

“Any particular vocation that you fancied?” another lord asked.

Daeron knew that his answer would peak the interests of those around him and so quickly cleared his mouth of the lamb by swallowing it down before speaking.

“Valyrian history,” Daeron said and just like that all eyes fell upon him, many of the lords smiling with intrigue.

Now they all probably assumed that Daeron’s disbatchment as an emissary was of some grand design with him having a certain knowledgable expertise in Valyria that would make him an apt negotiator with his estranged half-sister when in reality, he was merely the only of one amongst the four Targaryen dragonriders of Westeros appropriate for the task.

More competent then Aegon, stronger and more comprehensible than sweet Helaena and more disciplined of his rage than Aemond. 

“Ah, any particular reason you were so drawn to your ancient Valyrian heritage?” asked First Magister Zhaegar Vhassyl, the current leader of the council of seven who ruled Lys.

“Being so far from King’s Landing and Dragonstone growing up, I felt isolated from my Valyrian roots, the books were a way for me to connect with them I suppose,” said Daeron as looked to the First Magister at the head of the table, silver haired and of the Old Blood like many of the Lyseni. 

The Old Blood still ran strong in Lys, which was perhaps why Rhaenyra managed to recruit five Lyseni houses to her cause including the entirety of House Rogare, whose patriarch, Lysandro Rogare, the former First Magister of Lys who ran one of the most profitable banking families on the island. 

Despite his power and position, Lord Lysandro and the entire Rogare family sold off their lands, emancipated their slave and Lysandro surrendered his position as defacto ruler of the city and left for the east with Rhaenyra as no other had done.

Prince Reggio Haratis of Pentos had also abandoned his city to join Rhaenyra, but such was done in the name of self preservation after the city had turned on him.

Two of the four lords from Lys being sent as emissaries to Valyria was Lord Orsinion Pendaerys and Lord Aemar Dagareon. Lord Orsinion was the younger brother of the former Lord Pereno who had joined Rhaenyra and Lord Aemar’s cousin Marteros was the same.

Both had been chosen to reach out to their self-exiled kinsmen whom they had succeeded and use their blood bonds to begin diplomatic relations with the Empire. 

In the coming days when Daeron and Ser Tyland left Lys, they would be part of a convoy of ships with the envoys of Lys, Tyrosh and Myr, all suspending their bad blood and old fueds to journey onward to Volantis and then to Valyria so that they might treat with Rhaenyra and see what shape the world would take with this new regime as part of their world.
They had heard word that a similar joint delegation between Braavos, Pentos, Norvos and Qohor was travelling by a convoy of carrivans guarded by sellwords, traveling towards Volantis around the coast to avoid the Great Grass Sea.

“Well, it seems that your books of the Freehold will soon come to life before your very eyes, Good Prince,” one of the lords said as he raised his cup.

Daeron smiled in response.

“Since I first read Galendro, it has always been a dream of mine to see the Freehold, but never one I thought would come true until my sister’s messenger wyvern came to King’s Landing.”
“Ah, you’ve read the works of Galendro the Witness, then?” a Tyroshi envoy asked.

“As much of it as I could. The Citadel’s collection of the Fires of the Freehold remains incomplete with over twenty-seven scrolls missing from the collection,” Daeron explained.

“And you, Good Ser Lannister. Didn’t the histories say that one of your ancestors tried to conquer the Doom and claim Valyria?” Lord Ennar asked.

Ser Tyland was hesitant to answer, an embarrassed expression overtaking him for a moment and Daeron knew why.

They’d had a conversation about why Tyland was so aggrieved when he first discovered the survival of the Empire, how he and his brother Lord Jason had chided Daeron’s uncle, Prince Daemon and the Rogue Prince then making a threat against their house by despoiling and vandilisng a lost heirloom of House Lannister.

If any other man had made the threat then Daeron would have councelled Tyland not to fret for it was unlikely for most people to follow through on such a petty act of vindictive malice but Daemon Targaryen… well, he had a reputation for never letting a slight go unanswered. 

“Yes… my ancestor, King Tommen the Second. He was known as the great Lion King in his time. During the Century of Blood he sought to venture to Valyria with his mighty Golden Fleet and… our ancestral sword, Brightroar,” Tyland explained, seeming to struggle towards the end as his voice broke saying the sword’s name.

“Well then, fortune might favour you on this mission. If the Empress is magnanimous then perhaps the remains of your ancestor and his sword might be delivered to you,” one of the lords around the table suggested.

Tyland smiled weakly. 

“And gods willing in good condition,” he said before taking a swig of wine from his cup.

The dinner went well for a short while after that, making more general small talk and discussing their approaching journey to Volantis and Valyria after that.

At some point during the evening Daeron glanced down the length of the table and saw the First Magister Zhaegar being approached by a slave servant who whispered something in his ear. 

The First Magister then sat with a puzzled look upon his face and then turned and said something back to the slave.

The slave left his master’s side and Zhaegar excused himself from the table leaving the gardens. 

Daeron thought little of it at first, but then the slave came down the table to Daeron and Tyland’s seat and spoke to them.

“First Magister Zhaegar requests your presence,” the slave said.

The Prince and his brother’s Master of Coin exchanged concerned looks with one another before leaving their seats and following the slave out of the palace gardens.

It was a short walk through the Palace of Lys before they found Lord Zhaegar not far from the entrance of the palace.

“First Magister… this is a strange summons,” Ser Tyland noted as they approached.

Zhaegar nodded his head.

“Forgive me for being less than forth coming. I was concerned that this strange matter might be a bit of deception on your part. So soon after our War in the Stepstones, one cannot be too careful. About a day after your arrival, a curious letter arrived from the Stepstones, the contents of which were close in nature to that of your own. Five ships, originally from Blackwater Bay, claiming strangely to be unaffiliated to your brother’s kingdoms, wishing safe port and passage through our waters on their way towards Valyria,” Zhaegar explained, studying Daeron’s reaction and Daeron’s reaction was shocked and confused to say the least.

What have you done, Aegon? Daeron wondered.

His brother was an ever changeable man, a servant to his own flights of fancy and consistency in his life being derived mostly from inertia.

Had Aegon sent Daeron a small war fleet, expecting him to challenge the might of Valyria with six ships and one young adult dragon?

No, Daeron thought after a momentary silent panic. His grandfather would never allow for such foolishness and the ships had declared themselves westrosi in origin and yet not affiliated by their own admission.

“I was informed that the ships had been sighted off our coast shortly before our supper and asked to be fetched once their leader had been brought up to the palace,” Zhaegar explained.

“And pray tell, whose ships are they?” Daeron asked folding his arms.

“Well that’s the most interesting thing about it, my Prince. The letter had many similarities to your own as I had mentioned but the most interesting similarity was that both letters were signed with the same given name.”

Daeron arched an eyebrow and looked with confusion at an equally vexed Ser Tyland.

Zhaegar then turned to a pair of guards standing by a set of double doors and clapped his hands together.

The two guards opened the door, and Daeron was astounded to see who stepped forward, presenting himself to Lord Zhaegar and to Daeron and Tyland.

Now, Daeron understood the irony of Lord Zhaegar’s words.

Another Daeron, but this one was not a prince nor a Targaryen but a knight from another house of Old Valyrian blood. This one being the younger brother of Aegon’s Master of Ships and son to the late Ser Vaemond Targaryen.

“Prince Daeron Targaryen, I believe you are acquainted with Ser Daeron Velaryon,” Zhaegar said, introducing the visitor.

Following Lord Daemion’s rise to Lord of the Tides, Ser Daeron, their father’s second son, became the castellan of Driftmark Castle, the original seat of House Velaryon before Lord Corlys raised High Tide. Before the Sea Snake yielded the Driftwood Throne, the castle was held by Daeron and Daemion’s father, Ser Vaemond, who had been slain by Prince Daemon the same day Prince Daeron’s father had perished.

“Of course we know one another. We fought together in the Third Stepstones war,” Ser Daeron explained. 

“Much to the chagrin of my own people, as I recall,” Zhaegar said, making light of the opposite sides they had once been on.

“My Prince,” Ser Daeron greeted offering a hand but Daeron was hard pressed to take it.

“I did not think to find you here, Ser Daeron. Did your brother send you?” Daeron asked, folding his arms and remaining vexed by the matter.

“He did not, my Prince. We came here of our own volition, without the blessing of your brother the king nor my own brother the Master of Ships and Driftmark,” Ser Daeron replied, bowing his head in a somewhat apologetic manner.

“ We ?” Ser Tyland repeated, tilting his head and peering his eyes.

The Velaryon knight looked flushed and huffed through his nostrils.

“My cousins Rogar and Aethan are with me, along with all their children and grandchildren, as are the last few Celtigars who have finally abandoned Claw Isle. We sail for Valyria, to join the Empress and plead her acceptance,” Ser Daeron explained.

The Prince Daeron’s heart fluttered, and his eyes went wide. 

A fleet of five ships worth of Velaryons and Celtigars had decided to mount up aboard their ships and abandon the Seven Kingdoms for the Empire. 

Daeron was shocked to say the least but perhaps a little more shocked that he had not foreseen such an obvious course of action.

While it should have been predictable that a third wave of exiles was coming — not just in Westeros but in Essos too — wishing to join with the Empire while it was still young, Prince Daeron would never have thought that Ser Daeron would be among those who would join.

His father had been murdered by the Empress’s Consort, and his brother now ruled Driftmark, with Daeron having a good position as master of the old Castle Driftmark.

Why would Daeron leave that all behind to repledge to Lord Corlys and to Luke?

Lord Zhaegar cleared his throat, clearly sensing how heated the conversation was getting.

“It seems you have much to speak about. I shall take my leave. Please join us in the gardens for dinner when you are ready. Your allies, family, crew and household will be well accommodated by my staff,” the First Magister explained before leaving the chamber and signalling his guards to wait outside for the time being.

The two Daerons and Ser Tyland were then left alone in the chamber together.

“I would hazard your brother knows about this? And if you sailed through Bloodstone to get here, then doubtless your cousin, Malentine, had more then enough to say,” Prince Daeron stated.

Ser Daeron rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Daemion, Malentine and the rest can keep Driftmark and Bloodstone. Their choices are their own to make, just as me and mine will make ours.”

An answer, but not one that gave any reasoning to this sudden change of situation.

“And so you wish to abandon Westeros and pledge allegiance to this Empire of Valyria?” Ser Tyland asked, more angry in his voice than Prince Daeron had been.

The Velaryon knight peered sharply at the Lannister.

“Do you think we settled in Westeros by choice, Lannister? Valyria is our true home, and only the Doom has kept us from it. I will not let my family’s heritage be divided out amongst Andals and the people of the Free Cities without me when the blood of old Valyria runs through my veins. Yes, I wish to join this Empire, as is my family’s birthright,” Ser Daeron declared in a proud yet serious tone.

“Even if it means going before the man who killed your father and bowing to him as Emperor Consort? Even if it means becoming a cadet branch to Ser Harwin Strong’s secondborn bastard who flaunts himself around by your family’s name?” the Lion knight bit back.

“Dreams led the Targaryens away from Valyria, the Velaryons and Celtigars followed, the Doom came and they survived. Dreams then led the Targaryens back to Valyria, the Velaryons and Celtigars followed, the Winter Fever came, and they survived. It was not doubt in the dream that stopped me from following Rhaenyra, it was hatred for my father’s death. Had I put my anger aside and thought of my family, I would be revelling in the glories of the Empire right now and my wife would not have been taken by the fever. It was ambition that got my father killed. Lady Rhaena’s blood comes straight from the Sea Snake, and through her bond to the boy Lucerys, the name and blood of my house will be secure. My father was too greedy to realise that and I will not punish myself and my family any further out of our destiny in solidarity with his ambitions,” said Ser Daeron.

Tyland was furious, and Ser Daeron was not backing down but the Prince could do nothing but let the argument run its course.

“You would forsake your kin and liege lord, your house, your King and your country… to be a lackey to the Whore of Dragonstone in hopes that becomiong her lickspittle will grant you favour in her Empire. You are an honourless disgrace!” Tyland snapped.

Prince Daeron gently pushed Tyland back, trying to rein the Lannister in a bit, lest the two come to blows.

“I’m a father! A widowed father who is honour-bound to give his little girl the best life she can have. She lost her mother in the fever and House Velaryon has dwindled into a tenth of what it was under my uncle Corlys. If I must beg Rhaenyra to let Daenaera live her life in the bliss of the Lands of the Long Summer, then I will grovel on hands and knees. Take it from one whose house until recently outshone yours in wealth, Lannister, those we love are more precious than all the world’s gold and jewels!” Ser Daeron declared.

In truth the Prince could not fault him for his words, but he would suffer the argument no longer.

“That’s enough! Both of you!... Now Ser Daeron and his allies cannot be forced to return to Driftmark, they are of free will. But we are all men born of Westeros, regardless of whether our lineage is Andal or Valyrian, and that is what these other lords will see us as. If they watch us fight and squabble amongst ourselves, it embarrasses all of us. Let us comport ourselves with dignity on our journey to Valyria together, and the matter of where Ser Daeron ends up will be for my sister to decide. Now, let us put aside this bickering. Am I heard?” Daeron asked, looking to the two men, both decades his senior and yet squabbling like children.

“Yes, my Prince,” Ser Daeron said, stepping back and nodding his head.
“Am I heard?!” Daeron repeated sternly as he looked to Tyland.

“Yes, my Prince,” he finally said.

With the matter settled, yet the headache of the entire situation bearing down on him.

The three men returned to the gardens to rejoin the feast.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since the delegates from Volantis and the Gulf of Grief arrived in Valyria the Great. Thus far, the negotiations had gone good, or at least better than could be expected.
The Empress expressed her heartfelt desire to respect the sovereignty of their nations, and they, in turn, would return such respect. 

None had thrown themselves at the Empress’s feet and begged to join as the good Lord Traegar of Mantarys, but none of them were threatening war either — at least not directly.

Luke didn’t like the shape that the matter was taking, feeling that the emissaries were a bit too confident and sure of themselves and too questioning of his mother.

They played the part of gracious guests, offering gifts from their homelands as tribute, but during their dinners and lunches, when they discussed matters of state, they would often prod Luke’s mother, asking her intentions and why they should trust her.

One of the Ghiscari lords even dared to inquire about what wergild they could expect in compensation for the slave ships that had been liberated by the Empire over the years, eager to exploit the grand troves in the vaults beneath the palaces of the Empire.

Their motives of self-gain were clear; Daemon and Lord Corlys had whispered to Luke that it was a bluff as well. 

They saw it clear as day, the ounce of fear they tried to hide, but still visible in their eyes. Their feigned confidence and entitlement were a mere bluff of superiority, trying to hide how vulnerable their petty city states were and how threatened they were by the dragons of Valyria.

Such knowledge gave the Empirie a considerable amount of leverage over their visitors, knowing that while the emissaries plaid off a mummer’s confidence, trying to swindle the haggle the empire into giving favouritism to their cities in the negotiations in order to preserve peace, it was all mere theatre with the Imperial house knowing that all they need do was remain steadfast in their demands and offers and the foreign agents would accept their terms submissivly, beneath it all willing to accept anything short of subjegation and colonization.

But the theatre of diplomacy was nonetheless taxing on the Imperial house, for they were forced to placate the pagentry of accommodating the arrogance of their insufferable guests and would do so for weeks to come during the ambassador's stay in Valyria the Great.

While Luke was at his wits' end playing to the niceties with the barbaric slave mongers from the east, so were the rest of the dragonriders who shared his disdain. 

The second Prince of the Empire stood leaning against the railing of an outdoor dining courtyard where many of the ambassadors were having lunch, hoasted by members of the Imperial Council, chiefly among them was the Imperial Ambassador, Lord Simon Doronton, Lord Lysandro Rogare, Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, as well as a few other select courtiers who had been chosen to ingratiate their guests. 

Luke didn’t know why he was watching the guests since their arrival, when he was not partaking in the diplomatic pleasantries, sword practising or dragonriding, he often found himself watching the guests, looking for any false moves.

Since the War of Ravens, when Luke was sent fleeing from Storm’s End in shame and embarrassment, he had been working his hardest to remake himself and shed his fear and skittishness, to make a man of himself, one who could protect his family. 

In truth, Luke wanted to be like Daemon — not entirely, but enough to be someone who could protect the empire and have no fear, to half the burden that Daemon and Aerion held as Warmaster and Champion of the Empire.

As Luke vigilantly watched the foreign nobles gorge upon their lunch, he was forced to listen to them moan in delight at their introdcuiton ot Valyrian cuisine, which Luke could have done without.

For all the great wisdom that had been lost in the Freehold at the time of the Doom, from mighty architecture, sorcery, warfare, philosophy and other such subjects, one that had slipped through the cracks was the ancient valyrian techniques of nourishment and refreshment. 

The recipes of the valyrian freehold were extraordinary delicacies, and according to the sorcerers, they had only been enriched by the Doom no less.

According to the sorcerers, the ancient spells of rejuvenation of the first millennium of the Freehold, which had brought Valyria back to life, had also brought new vitality and special properties to the flora of the landscape. 

Already, hundreds of new plants, weeds and herbs had been discovered and catalogued by the loremasters of the Anogrion.

Through these plants, they had created new potions, tonics, salves of various properties, some Loremasters and sorcerers believing that in a few years, they could find cures and treatments for some of the most ruinous of diseases and ailments, even greyscale. 

Even historic and popular remedies and potions had been augmented with the new materials to refine and increase their effects.

Historically, the overuse of a potion such as moon tea could cause ruinous effects on a woman’s reproductive systems, but in its current form in Valyria, the potion could be used as regularly as one wished without side effects. Something which the promiscuous young couples of high status, too impatient to wait for their marriage vows, had taken great advantage of in the Empire.

But for all the wonders of new valyrian horticulture and botany, none was so greatly indulgent to enjoy as the spicing and seasoning of dishes combined with the ancient recipes of the Freehold, hence how noisy the lords were being as they gourged themselves rotten.

As Luke leaned over the railing of the walkway, watching with caution at their guests, the Prince heard footsteps coming from the doorway into the palace from the courtyard’s raised walkway.

When Luke turned his head, he saw the dragonriders Aerion and Alyn come out and join him.

“There you are, Lukey. Al and I were wondering why Ser Harrold was posted outside the doorframe,” Aerion noted.

Luke looked to the doorframe and saw the fringes of Ser Harrold Drake’s cloak as the Prince’s sworn knight stood guard inside the palace. 

The two older dragonriders joined Luke, patting him on the back and leaning along the railing.

“Still spying on our guests?” Alyn asked, noticing the ambassadors in the courtyard dining table.

“Keep this up and Lady Mysaria will have to start paying you,” Aerion japed. 

“Just concerned… and you both should be too,” Luke cautioned.

Luke glanced at Aerion, who nodded in understanding to the Prince.

“We are concerned. Just yesterday, Maekar, Visenya and I hosted my brothers Vaeron and Naelarr for a private supper. Naelarr was kind enough as he always was, but Vaeron started prodding us endlessly. He wanted me to use my position as Champion to allow the Volantene delegation to tour the Zōbriedōror and see how our military operates. Then he asked Maekar to let him see the forge towers. When we refused, he got angry and left the table,” Aerion explained. 

Luke snorted. “I’m surprised he didn’t ask for some dragon eggs for all your kin back in Volantis while he was at it.”
Alyn and Luke laughed at that, but Aerion just looked at the pair.

It took the two a moment to realise why Aerion wasn’t laughing.

“He didn’t” Luke said in disbelief, unable to fathom that one of Saera Targaryen’s sons actually thought he could swindle dragon eggs away from the Empire.

“He wanted a private viewing of the Dragonmount’s hatcheries,” Aerion explained.

Alyn scoffed. “Why didn’t he ask for the eight forbidden weapons, the heirlooms of power and the crown of the Empire while he was at it?”

“Given enough time, I think he would have,” Aerion replied. 

Vaeron Pementos and Naelarr Aertaris were two of Aerion and Hugh’s older half-brothers who lived in Volantis. 

They had arrived as emissaries from Volantis, clearly ordered to use their blood relations to Aerion, Hugh and Visenya to sway them to show favouritism to Volantis. 

They in the Empire had expected to receive Targaryen kinsmen from Volantis, but their expectations were to have specifically received Princess Saera Targaryen, who had acted as an intermediary between the Targaryens and the houses of Volantis when they first travelled to Valyria. 

Despite their expectations, such did not end up being the case due to an affliction that had claimed the Princess.

Apparently, half a year after they left Volantis, Princess Saera had been stricken by apoplexy during a party she had been hosting. 

The physicians attributed her condition to her advanced age, coupled with red meats and excessive use of wine, as well as her exertive activities, dancing and engaging in intercourse. 

From what they had been told, Princess Saera lingered in the world for another seven moons, bed-bound, paralysed on her right side and in a pitiful state. 

It seemed that her remaining children in Volantis were just as resentful of her as Aerion, Hugh and Visenya had been, not waiting until her death to carve up her estate amongst themselves.

Vaeron said that Princess Saera spent her last months in a small, bare chamber in one of their siblings’ palaces with a little window, no more than two slaves to keep her fed and swap out her chamber pots. Her children, grandchildren and the lords of Volantis visited her when she first fell victim to her affliction, but the visitors stopped after a while.

In truth, no one knew when exactly she had died. 

The slaves who tended to her were not given much oversight, and no one noticed when they had disappeared with the last jewelery box that had been left in Saera’s possession. 

Saera’s death was finally discovered when the reek of her corpse began to stink up the palace, and the physicians determined she had been dead for two weeks.

Whether the slaves had waited until she died before fleeing with her jewels or if she was abandoned, still living and died of starvation or thirst in the days that followed, completely abandoned by everyone… well, that was known only by her, the missing slaves and the gods themselves.

Aerion, Hugh, Visenya and Vaegon, all those who knew her better than others, weren’t upset by her death but merely had a sullen look that seemed similar to disappointment.

When some in the palace tried to comfort them, they recounted their personal experiences with Saera’s horrid selfishness or her occasional drunken abuse and claimed they had not lost anything in her passing. 

“Well, your brother can’t be any worse than that, Master Adreq zo Loraq,” Alyn said, gesturing to one of the Ghsicari nobles sitting at the table in the courtyard. 

The one who had been spied through the glass candles by the sorcerers as having been the instigator of the discovery of the empire.

From what they had investigated about him, he was very eager to conquer Valyria until recently, but had since recanted in fear of the power the Empire possessed. 

Luke still didn’t trust him, though. During the feast on the night of his arrival he prodded the Imperial house as though trying to suss out any threat they presented, so causally asking the Empress what her intentions were for the Empire and when Luke’s mother replied peace and prosperity, Master Adre q asked her if she did not desire Kostion Jaqiarzir — Power and Glory.

Luke had heard the words Power and Glory used plenty of times over the years since they had first endeavoured for Valyria, said in passing or in speeches. 

The mantra of the Freehold.

Master Adreq used the words as an accusation, trying to suss out if the Empire had any aspirations of further conquest or expansion, but they all maintained that expansion was not their intention. 

The declaration of loyalty by Lord Traegar of Mantarys was a… complex revelation to say the least. 

The emissaries did not like the idea of the Empire expanding its borders northwards so immediately after declaring it had no desire to expand, yet given that Mantarys had joined the Empire of its own volition and was regarded as an undesirable dominion by most others, the emissaries did not become too unruly in accepting Mantarys addition to the Imperial Realm.

“I hear that Daemon is commissioning a hunt in the next few days,” Alyn stated.

“So he says. Perhaps he wants to scare the emissaries to stay away from Valyria by showing the wild lindwyrms and chimeras that govern the wilderness,” Luke suggested.

“The Vejesari will frighten the life out of them if we can find a nest,” Aerion joked.

The three dragonriders laughed at one another.

The Vejesari had dwindled in number in the years since they were first discovered in Oros, becoming more and more rare with every passing year. 

The Empire had cleared out every nest where the Doomed resided within the ruins of the cities and towns of the Freehold, leaving the only remaining vejesari to be those who dwelled in the wilds where they had to struggle against chimeras and dragonkin. 

In truth, while it may have sounded a harsh thing to wish, it was the desire of all in the Empire to see the Vejesari exterminated. 

Their kind was mad, feral, untamable and incurably violent. Their path was not the same as the people of Mantarys, for those in the northern city had retained their humanity while their physical forms had deteriorated, but the Vejesari had been robbed of all of that by the Doom.

While centuries ago their ancestors were once freeholder lords and dragonriders, the flames of calamity had burned away all vestiges of humanity and civility and made them mad, with their descendants devolving into creatures that were more monster than animal. 

There was nothing prosperous or peaceful about the Vejesari, only rage and hunger.

They were still out there and probably would be for generations to come, their race dwindling with each passing generation. There was nothing pleasurable about hunting them, just a grim duty of decency and perhaps even mercy for the forsaken souls within the beast. 

“Well… I’m sure we will encounter some kind of chimera on the hunt,” Aerion stated.

Luke hung his head a huffed in dismay, disbelieving that his two friends were concerned with festivities and hunts meant to appease those who were plotting against them.

“What’s your problem?” Alyn asked.

Luke lifted his head and looked at the dragonrider from Hull.

“My problem? What’s gotten into everyone?! During the wedding games a short while ago, we were at a war council to defend our empire against our enemies, and now we’re entertaining them at a garden lunch,” Luke said, gesturing to the emissaries in the courtyard.

“We should be in Aqous Dhaen, preparing to defend our borders rather than appeasing these slavers with pleasantries and food. A messenger wyvern arrived yesterday to inform my grandsire that three of the tessarakontereses have been finished. With those vessels manned and added to the fleet, the naval powers of the Gulf of Grief will be rendered null and void. We should station our three dragons in Aquos Dhaen in case it comes to war,” Luke said eagerly.

Aerion smirked. “Valyrian oak and cedar are strong, Luke, but I think Vermithor’s a bit too big for the tessarakontereses we have on hand,” Aerion stated.

“Fine, then Addam, Jace, Baela or Nettles. The point is we should be balancing our magnanimity with a show of strength, lest these impertinent guests think they can rival us,” Luke stated.

The tessarakonteres was the largest form of ship built by the Freehold and very unique in its shape, using a two-hulled catamaran configuration with a large and sturdy square deck connecting the two ships together. While the tessarakontereses were counted as warships they were not designed to raid, ram or attack other ships directly, merely transporting large numbers of individuals, supplies, siege engines and one more thing that made them the most deadly vessels on the sea and this particular form of passenger was how the tessarakontereses got their layman's name, the dragon ferries.

The valyrians of the Freehold used tessarakontereses for thousands of years as a way of keeping their dragons with their fleets on the high seas, combining naval power with dragon power. 

It was the tessarakontereses that would allow Luke and Rhaena to remain rooted in the Velaryon ways without sacrificing their place as dragonriders. Ships large enough to carry dragons so that future generations of Luke’s lineage would never be forced to choose between the seas and the skies. 

“You’re starting to sound like Daemon, lad,” Alyn said, nudging Luke with his elbow.

“And what’s wrong with that? He’s the Warmaster of the Empire, my mother’s consort and my stepfather. Not to mention the most experienced war-weathered dragonrider alive,” Luke stated. 

It had been no secret that over the past couple years, as Luke had endevoured to grow in martial prowess and bravery so that he would never again be the pitiful little welp who fled from Aemond at Storm’s End, Daemon had taken an effort to mould and mentor Luke to become a skilled warrior and dragonrider.

Luke knew that Jace was always their stepfather’s true project, grooming him to become a great emperor, but he’d also taken plenty of time to help shape Luke as well.

He’d trained Luke at the Black Fort, teaching him how to fight hard, accept pain, command soldiers, and even advise him on dragon riding.

Daemon had also inspired Luke to enter the gladiatorial games last year as a mystery knight, earning his spurs the same way his great-grandfather, Baelon the Brave, had done.

In truth, Daemon’s mentorship not only bettered Luke’s relationship with his stepfather but also made him feel closer to his other fathers as well.

Ser Harwin Breakbones had served under Daemon in the Gold Cloaks of King’s Landing many years ago, and Daemon had taken Ser Laenor as his squire and later knighted him during the War of the Stepstones.

“Still, not exactly the kind of man your mother would have you idolising,” Aerion stated.

“I idolise my grandsire,” Luke corrected, gesturing to the Sea Snake at the lunch table. “But I trust and respect Daemon.”

Alyn and Aerion looked to one another and laughed.

“Still, Daemon’s wisdom is often two parts chivalry and twelve parts madness, so you might wish to pace how much of his personality you take in,” Aerion suggested.

Alyn then patted Luke on the shoulder.

“Come on. We’ll grow old hanging about here, spying upon foreigners. Grey Ghost, Vermithor and Arrax are probably board lounging about the dragonmount. What do you say we take them out and touch the clouds?” the dragonrider from Hull suggested.

Aerion patted his hands against the railing of the walkway in excitement.

“Yes, I want to hear Meraxes’s breezes singing in my ears,” Aerion stated enthusiastically, speaking of the Valyrian Goddess of the sky. 

The two dragon-riding knights had coaxed Luke, and he joined the pair, leaving the walkway.

Young Harrold of the Dragonknights followed the three of them through the halls as they walked through the corridors of the palace.

Through the dark stone twists and turns they went, striding ever towards the bridge that crossed into Blenon Valyriōs when the three Dragonlords crossed paths with Master Sirionir of the sorcerers. 

“Good day, Master Sirionir,” Aerion greeted, speaking in High Valyrian.

“My lords, Young Prince. A fine day indeed, you three seem to be in high spirits,” the masked mage noted.

“Heading to the dragonmount,” Alyn explained. 

“Ah… nothing more majestic nor sentimental than a bond between dragon and rider,” Sirionir stated.

“Not sure my betrothed would agree with that observation,” Luke japed, extracting laughter from those around him. “And what of you, good Master? What brings you to the palace?”

Master Sirionir presented a leatherbound book that he carried under his arm.

“Your mother, the Empress, requested to be updated as regularly as would befit us to the studies into the Mantarysi affliction. I am bringing the early findings from our study of Lord Traegar and his people for the Empress’s viewing,” Sirionir explained.

“How is Lord Traegar?” Luke asked, knowing that the sorcerers had invited the Lord of Mantarys and his household to the Anogrion for tests of their conditions so that the ancient mages might devise treatments for their long-standing ailments. 

“He is resting now. Our studies into the affliction of the Mantarysi have yielded much wisdom. We suspect that in the months to come, we can begin treating them,” Master Sirionir stated.

“Really? So soon?” Luke asked with amazement.
“Yes, though I’m afraid those in Mantarys who have lived with the affliction all their life, the treatments we can provide will be limited. Some might get close to a more traditional human shape, and their pain can be managed, but very few will be exactly the same as other people. For all our millennia of advancements from before the Doom, even our powers have limits,” Sirionir explained.

Luke nodded solemnly, feeling sad for the people of Mantarys, but he understood the pragmatic nature of the situation. 

Master Sirionir then wished the three dragonlords luck on their flight and continued on down the hall, bowing before taking his leave.

“A shame about the good people of Mantarys. They were all so moved when the Empress declared she would find a cure for them,” Alyn said sorrowfully.

“Not all is lost. Sirionir said they might never be fully cleansed of their ailment, but he still said that their conditions could be mitigated and managed. The quality of life for the people shall improve greatly, and he said that their children will be born fully formed. In an imperfect world such as this, that is not an outcome to be discarded,” Aerion noted.

“Hmm… I suppose so. Its just — before the Dragon Dream and Addam claiming Seasmoke, my family were just lowly merchants in a small consortium that we were in the midst of being fenced out of. Now we are prominent dragonriders in a great Empire built from the bones of the greatest civilisation in the known world. I suppose I just never considered there would come a day when even we were powerless to grant good people everything that they could possibly wish for,” Alyn explained.

Luke agreed with both of them, they were no gods, despite what the plebians would say of them, because of their dragonblood, yet Valyria had given them such unprecedented power that it was hard to think that it could ever be exhausted. 

Maybe that was why Luke was so paranoid about the visitors from the neighbouring nations, the idea that their infinite power would not prove so infinite in difficult situations and all that they had gained would be lost.

In any case, there was little to do about it in that moment, so Luke continued on with his two fellow dragonriders as thry made their way towards Blenon Valyriōs.

Chapter Text

The Emperor Daemon had made all the arrangements for a great hunt in the north of the central island of Valyria. They left the city of Valyria the Great in their large caravan of centaur-drawn carriages and horseback riders, as well as an escort of soldiers of the Dragon Legion, including the force of drake riders under the Empire’s command. 

The snarling, oversized lizards that they called drakes were menacing beasts, the like of which Adreq had never seen before. 

While their diminutive size and flightlessness should have made them seem less of a menace than their distant dragon cousins, their agile movements and sharp teeth and claws were nonetheless terrifying. 

Most of the Imperial party flew overhead atop their dragons as they made their way to the hunting grounds. 

After half a day's ride, the convoy met the dragonlords in the large glade of a woodland forest between the mountain range that encircled the Valley of the Dragonlords and the city of Telos to the north. 

Canopies and pavilions were erected in the glade, and the dragon was nested on a hilltop overlooking the woodland, not far from the encampment.

It was a nice and warm day with the sun high in the sky, with relatively few clouds. 

The scouts sent forth to find a mark for the hunt returned to them speaking of a great wild boar roaming the woodlands. 

The camp was surrounded by towering trees that filtered sunlight, casting dappled shadows on the ground. Tents, pavilions and canopies adorned with rich fabrics in deep reds and blacks were pitched in a semi-circle, each one spacious enough to accommodate the nobles and their retinue. 

In the centre, a large fire pit crackled, sending up wisps of smoke that mingled with the fresh scent of trees and earth. Around the fire, wooden benches were arranged for feasting and storytelling after a long day of hunting.

Hounds, sleek and eager, roamed nearby, their collars jingling softly as they playfully chased one another. A few skilled archers practised their aim with bows, while knights and lords of the empire dressed in riding garments examined their hunting spears and tended to their horses, preparing for the chase.

Tables laden with provisions—freshly roasted meats, fruits, and hearty bread—invited the hungry hunters. Nearby, a skilled cook stirred a bubbling pot over a small fire, filling the air with mouthwatering aromas. 

The Empress’s tent was the largest pavilion in the semicircle and located in the middle of the bending line of tents. 

Out the front of the curtained entrance to the pavilion were a pair of black banners marked with the three-headed red dragon upon them, the crest of House Targaryen.

While the Empress fashioned the black dragon-headed triskilion on the field of red for the Imperial symbol at large, the actual family crest remained the same as it had been when Aegon the Conqueror first fashioned it.

The emissaries were doing their best to socialise amongst the valyrian nobles, but they struggled with the distant murmurs of valyrian highborn who talked amongst themselves and gave cold glares to the visiting ambassadors and those who spoke with them were stiff and eager to move on. 

What really burned Adreq and the other envoys, especially the silver-haired Volantene who were kinsmen to the Empress through their late mother, Princess Saera Targaryen, was that while most emissaries were shunned by the valyrians, the only foreign procession being treated as equals by the Valyrians were those from Mantarys. 

The mutants — half-forms abandoned and shunned by nature were treated as equals to the Valyrian lords, while those same lords offered nothing but shunning neglect to the esteemed men from the Gulf of Grief and Volantis. 

There were still some amongst the Valyrians who kept their distance from the Matnarysi, clearly repulsed by the hideous forms of the creatures, but others spoke to them freely without any hint of disgust in their expression.

The emissaries were conflicted by the annexation of Mantarys into the Valyrian Empire. Part of the reason their processions had been dispatched was to scout for any aspirations of expansion and conquest the Empire might have that could threaten their cities and thus they were all unnerved to arrive in Valyria the Great to discover that the Empress had already expanded her territories to encompass the city directly north of her border and its surrounding territories. At the same time, of all the cities across Essos, Mantarys was coveted by none, and their choice of joining the Empire had been of their own request. The real question was why the Empress wished for the discarded halfbreeds of Mantarys to share in her power and glory rather than have them exterminated. Perhaps their old valyrian lineages, regardless of their deformities. 

Those of Volantis were especially dismayed by Mantarys' assimilation into the Empire. 

As grandsons of Jaehaerys the Consiliator, hailing from the city known as the First Daughter of the Freehold, they felt slighted by Mantarys — a city they held in low regard — joining the ancient glory of Valyria ahead of them.

That was not to say that Volantis was set on joining the Empire. As the sons of Saera described it, the prospect of joining Valyria and reclaiming the glory of the Freehold was alluring, especially to those of the dragonblood, but many agreed that surrendering their slave trade was too high a price. 

The emissaries, Vaeron and Naelarr, also voiced how many in Volantis would reject holding the mutants of Mantarys and the dragonseeds of the Blackwater as their equals or even see them ride dragons ahead of the Tigers of Volantis. 

As it stood, whether Volantis would join with Valyria or remain independent seemed to be determined by what consensus their oligarchy came to after the diplomatic procession ended.

It took Adreq a while to understand why so many of the Valyrians were looking with such disgust at the emissaries when they had been more agreeable in the previous days. Then it struck him, it was their slaves. 

For the most part of their stay in Valyria, their slaves had been kept in their chambers to service them in private and the nobles had walked the palace halls unaccompanied by their collared servants but when joining the hunt, they had brought their slaves out to tent to their needs and left them in full view of the Valyrian nobles. 

In the strict letter of the law in the Valyrian Empire, slavery was outlawed, and their processions had only been allowed to bring their slaves under diplomatic protection. 

The Empress had even offered up wergild for the slaves she had stolen from their cities in her raids and for the loss of ships and crews, too. 

Despite the disgust held in the eyes of the Valyrian nobles, Adreq took no shame, for he was a proud descendant of Old Ghis and owed no contrition to the soft-hearted would-be- Valyrians who gagged and winced at slavery as though it were an evil. 

Adreq felt no pity for his slaves as he felt no pity for a fly he swatted, a rat his catchers killed, a dog he collared or a goat he ate. 

While they waited for the hunt to commence, Adreq walked about the camp drinking from a brass cup of wine. He listened to the chirp of birds and the squawk of wild wyverns amidst the tree tops as he paced around the dirt ground of the camp. 

After a few sips, Adreq’s cup was empty and soon after, he craved another. 

Amongst those around him was a dwarf with messy grey hair and a short beard holding a wine jug in his hands. 

At first, Adreq thought him a servant in the service to the Lord of Mntarys due to his deformity, but his livery was instead that of House Targaryen, suggesting he was in service to the Empress.

Adreq approached the dwarf and held out his cup.

“Servent. Fill my cup,” Adreq commanded. 

The Dwarf looked at Adreq with a scowl of disgust as though he had just been offended by Adreq’s request. The short creature then snorted.

“Fuck off you Guady Grotesque Ghiscari Guttersnipe. This is my wine and only share with my friends,” the impertinent dwarf stated before putting the lip of the jug to his mouth and drinking from it.

Adreq was livid at being spoken to in such a manner.

“How dare you address me in such a manner, you vile Imp! I am a guest of the Empire!” Adreq snapped.

“Vile Imp? How dare you address me in such a manner? I am Mushroom the Magnificent! Balatro to the Imperial Court and Master of Jubilance. Did you not note my chain of office you insoclent fucker?” the Dwarf asked, jingling the chain that hung over his doublet. 

“If we were in Meereen, you’d be chained to a rock bareback and lashed two dozen times for even speaking to me in such a way,” Adreq grunted. 

“Then you can fuck off back to Meereen,” the dwarf retorted, taking another gulp of wine from his jug.

“Now you listen to me, Master whoever the fuck you are. I was making King Viserys the Peaceful’s belly burst with laughter when you were still fiddling with your short and curlies. So regardless of whatever the fuck you feel entitled to, the only thing you’ll get out of me is a good punch in the pisser unless you show some fucking manners,” said Mushroom.

Adreq gritted his teeth as his heart raced in fury.

“You are a very small and very rude little creature,” Adreq noted.

“Oh, nothing gets by you, does it. Did you figure that one out all by yourself?” Mushroom asked. 

“I’d cut your head off if I didn’t need to get down on my knees to do so,” Adreq replied bitterly.

“And perhaps after you’re done, I’d do the same to you,” said a deep voice coming from behind Adreq.

When the Ghiscari Master turned around, a chill went down his spine as he looked upon a giant towering over him. A big, ugly, hairy man with a long purple beard and clad in mismatched fine silks and many rings around his fingers.

Adreq could not help but step back in fear at the sight of the behemoth of a man.

“Is everything alright, my darling Mushy?” the giant asked, scowling at Adreq but speaking to the dwarf.

“I don’t know, Rack. Is it?” the dwarf asked, stepping to the giant’s side and folding his arms as he stared at Adreq.

“Of course… just a misunderstanding,” Adreq said fearfully before quickly hurrying off before he dared incur the wrath of the purple-haired giant. 

As the Master from Meereen walked off, he could hear the giant and the dwarf laughing at him in mockery, which made him frustrated.

As Adreq continued through the camp, he came closer to the Imperial Pavilion, where the Empress and many more courtiers were inside.

Adreq considered entering to try and converse with some Valyrian nobles and dragonlords, but his attentions were then caught by another, outside the tent.

Sitting upon a fallen tree log with a brass cup in her hands, looking out over the trees beyond the camp, was a woman.

A pretty woman with auburn hair dressed in green garments in the valyrian style, chaste with golden silk and a long dark green felt cloak clasped around her neck. 

Nearby, a pair of Palace Guard Legionnaires stood watching over her. 

The woman intrigued Adreq, for she seemed to be of importance if she had two guardsmen from the palace, and yet during Adreq’s stay in the Imperial Palace, he had never seen the woman before. 

She wore no crest upon her garments, nor did she strike any particular resemblance with any of the Empress's retainers that were known to Adreq.

The Master from Meereen made his approach towards the fair maiden wishing to know her identity, even if she were only to shun him and turn away in disgust for his Ghiscari culture, but Adreq would take conversation with any in the camp no matter how obstinate if it granted him escape from the dwarf and his tall purple haired friend who were still looking and laughing at Adreq from across the camp when he turned his head back.

“Good day, my lady,” Adreq greeted respectfully, raising his cup to the lady as she turned her head to face him.

“Good day,” she replied, not reviled at Adreq’s greeting like other valyrians would be, but rather surprised and off guard as though she were not used to receiving pleasant greetings. 

“I do not believe we have been acquainted,” Adreq observed as he extended his hand, with the fair maiden took it respectfully.

The legionnaires who guarded the woman closely looked sternly at Adreq as he shook the woman’s hand, which made her seem uneasy.

“No, we have not. Though I would hazard that by your attire, you are one of the emissaries sent from the Gulf of Grief to parley with Rhaenyra. Those garbs are Ghsicari, yes?” she asked.

“Good eye,” Adreq responded, looking down at his baggy, robe-like tunic with a decorative harness of fine fabrics woven together through golden rings that wrapped around him. 

“Adreq zo Loraq of the Great Masters of Meereen,” Adreq greeted, bowing low.

The woman managed a smile.

“Ah, so you are the one I have heard of, the one who discovered the Empire’s survival. My name is Qu—Alicent Hightower, Queen Dowager of the Seven Kingdoms,” she replied. 

The Mother of the Green Dragons, Adreq pondered, surprised by whom he had just introduced himself to.

One of the ring leaders behind the rise of King Aegon II, her eldest son and the subsequent exile of Empress Rhaenyra. Many believed she died in a sea storm off the western coast of the Doom months after Rhaenyra and her fleet had disappeared beyond the mists. 

Adreq had contemplated the fate of what had become of Queen Alicent, though only briefly. When he investigated the survival of the Valyrian Empire, he wondered if the reports of Queen Alicent’s ship being swept up by the Doom meant she might have been captured by Rhaenyra. In Adreq’s wondering, he thought that the Green Queen would have been killed by Rhaenyra or shackled to the walls of her dungeon, not let free and brought along on an imperial hunt.

“The mother of King Aegon the Second,” Adreq noted.

Queen Alicent smiled weakly to herself and took a sip from her cup of wine.

“My greatest accomplishment,” she said in what sounded like a facetious tone.

“I had heard tell that you had disappeared in the Doom not long after Rhaenyra. I suppose I never considered that you would be taken in peacefully by the Empress. Given your reputation as her adversary, I’d of thought you might have been executed,” Adreq contemplated aloud, prompting the Queen Dowager to give further information on the matter.

“That was a preferred course of action amongst many within the Empire. Luckily for me, the Empress yielded to a more politically sound approach. Even before your discovery of the Empire, she concluded that eventually Valyria would need to reveal itself to the world. I was designated as a suitable form of leverage to bargain for peace with the Seven Kingdoms. I have lived here in the Empire these past years as a political hostage,” Alicent explained, looking about the camp.

“You do not seem a hostage to me,” Adreq noted, seeing how free the Queen Dowager was in the open woodlands of Valyria, but then again, where would she run to if she chose? Furthermore, she was kept closely watched by two legionnaires who Adreq was beginning to surmise were her captors rather than her protectors. 

“Empress Rhaenyra has given me a variety of privileges, but traditionally, I am kept confined to my chambers in the palace, which makes me all too happy to be out in the fresh air on occasions such as this. Yet still, the advanced powers of the Empire salvaged from the Freehold have been employed to grant flexibility to my imprisonment,” Queen Alicent explained, pulling back the sleeve of her green dress and revealing a golden armband around her wrist. 

One that Adreq saw was a second one around the wrist of one of Alicent’s captors. 

“An enchanted cuff. If I move more than thirty feet from my gaoler, then I shall be rendered immobilised in a state of agony. The Emperor Consort’s idea,” the Queen explained, showing the gilded band around her wrist.

Such magical power used so casually for convenience, Adreq pondered once again, jealous of the power that Valyria held but he would nonetheless remain silent on the matter. 

Adreq’s attentions were then caught by the nearby sounds of children’s laughter. 

The Empress’s brood of young children and that of her cousin, the bastard Lord Maekar, who mastered over the Smithing Guild, were playing together outside the pavilions under the watchful eye of one of the many white cloaked knights clad in bright silver valyrian steel armour. 

Each and every single one of those children was a potential dragon rider, and their kind would only spread as the other dragon riders sired more children and the lesser valyrian houses married dragonriders into their lineages. 

A few other children were there from other noble houses, but Adreq did not know many of them.

One of Rhaenyra Targaryen’s silver-haired children went running towards Queen Alicent into her arms, branching off from the other Targaryen children who were running about. This one, however, was not in fact one of Rhaenyra’s children but rather her baseborn dragonseed ward, the boy called Gaemon.

“Easy now, Gaemon,” Queen Alicent greeted through laughter as the boy came into her arms. 

“I brought you this,” the little boy said, presenting a white petalled flower to the Queen Dowager.

Queen Alicent took the flower with a gasping smile.

“Its beautiful, thank you, Sweetling,” Alicent said, kissing the boy on the cheek, making him giggle before she ran off to rejoin the rest.

Adreq found the interaction odd. 

“You seem to hold a strong familiarity with Rhaenyra’s ward,” Adreq noted as he peered at the dragonseed running off.

“These past years, I have had few outlets in my imprisonment. It has been made abundantly clear that very few amongst the Empire want me here. Rhaenyra, however, has been kind to me and spent time with me and even brought her youngest children to spend time with me. Aegon, Viserys and Daenys have become very dear to me in recent years, and Gaemon… he holds a special place in my heart,” Alicent explained with a smile. “I shall miss them greatly when I leave.” 

Adreq’s interest was piqued further.

“Do you mean that you shall be departing soon?” Adreq asked with an arched eyebrow.

“In time. My youngest son, Daeron, has been dispatched by my eldest, the King, to begin a diplomatic dialogue with the Empire and retrieve me. Rhaenyra has assured me that once the peace process is initiated, I shall be free to return home,” Alicent explained. 

“My congratulations to you,” Adreq said, raising a cup.

While Adreq feigned happiness for the Queen, he was slightly embittered. The prospect of radicalising the dragonlords of Westeros against the Empire was the last possible method of seizing the Empire.

The negotiations fall through, the Targaryens on both sides succumb to paranoia and mistrust, and the last two factions of dragonriders slaughter one another, and the alliance of the Gulf of Grief wait for the two nations to soften each other before taking the Empire’s power for themselves. 

But the Queen Alicent’s survival had fucked such prospects out of posilbity. Unless King Aegon and his brothers were heartless men who had no love for their mother, then Rhaenyra had all the cards to dictate the terms of peace between the two factions and worse still, it sounded as though she intended to be more than fair with her estranged brother.

Had Queen Alicent perished beneath the waves outside the Doom as many suspected or somehow met her demise under Empress Rhaenyra’s imprisonment, then Adreq could whisper diseptions in this Prince Daeron’s ear about his mother being tortured and murdered by the Empress, and the tragedy had been covered up. 

That would have been enough to start a civil war amongst dragonlords that would buy the Masters of Old Ghis their advantage over the valyrians. 

Queen Alicent had been nothing but pleasant since Adreq introduced himself, yet beneath his feigned smile that he now presented, he well and truly rather that she was dead. 

Adreq took his leave from Queen Alicent and continued to wander around the camp until a few minutes later, when the hunting horn sounded, gathering the nobles together. 

The crowd gathered around a box where the impertinent half-form that had slandered Adreq stood with the horn in hand.

The Empress and Emperor were nearby with the rest of their court, having emerged from their pavilion all dressed in their riding garments.

The dwarf explained that a great boar had been spotted east of the camp, and the hunt was underway. 

Everyone then mounted on their horses and took up spears and hunting horns.  

The children and many of the women, as well as some of the older or fatter nobles, stayed at the camp while the rest rode out. 

Soldiers, hunters walked with them, kennel masters were led on by their barking hounds who were tracking the beast and hunting horns were sounded when someone found signs of the animal or fresh droppings. 

This is how the Westerosi hunt? Adreq wondered to himself and traded words on the matter with the other emissaries who were equally vexed by the foreign sport that the westerners seemed to take pride in.

The Masters of Ghis did not have any taste in hunting animals, only paying professionals to hunt them so that they could eat them. Adreq did however have an uncle who liked to hunt slaves with his friends, a prey that could try to outthink his opponent, but those hunts were nowhere near as big as the one Loraq was participating in. 

An hour passed as they went aimlessly through the woods, and Adreq was getting bored.

In the lush, sprawling forests of Valyria, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of damp earth and the rustle of leaves, a foreign land to one who had grown up in the sandy, barren lands of Meereen. 

It seemed almost unjust for the Valyrians to have such lands both before and after the Doom, after how they had savaged the lands of Ghis with their forbidden weapons, yet they had the gall to detest him for his slavemongering, a practice that they were once well-versed in during the time of the Freehold.

As the party of nobles advanced deeper into the woods, their laughter and banter echoed through the trees. Adreq observed his companions, clad in ornate hunting attire, their faces alight with excitement. He felt like an outsider as he and the other emissaries trotted behind the valyrian nobles who led the hunt. 

Adreq had branched off from most of the rest of the host as they hunted for the boar, fanning out across the area. After finding fresh boar droppings, one of the nobles blew the horn to summon the others, and they followed the tracks from there, heading further through the forest.

“Let’s try and wrangle the boar if we can. Let the Empress or the Emperor enjoy the kill,” One of the lesser valyrian nobles, Adreq, had been paired with suggested.

The accompanying hunters pulled out lassos of rope as they walked through the forest, heeding the lord’s command.

They continued on for a short while longer until, suddenly, they came across a gruesome sight that they did not expect. 

The remains of a large boar, mangled and torn apart, lay amidst the underbrush. Entrails and blood were scattered everywhere, and the scent was foul.

Adreq was so unsettled by the gruesome sight that he barely noticed the beast’s size.

Now he understood why valyrian boars were often called great boars, for their great size. Much larger than any pig Adreq had seen yet, smaller if only by a small amount than a bear.

The shock of the brutal scene sent a chill down Adreq’s spine. He exchanged wary glances with his companions, all men, both hunters, soldiers and riding nobles reaching for their spears and bows. 

What could have done this? Adreq wondered. 

Before they could collect their thoughts, a low growl echoed through the trees, causing Adreq’s heart to race in fear. Out of the trees, a monster appeared. 

It looked like a giant lion or tiger for the most part, but with long addax horns, a barbed spine, scales across most of its body, slit serpent eyes and a giant scorpion’s tail.

Adreq also noticed that the beast's maw was red from the blood of the boar.

“Chimera!” one of the hunters shouted.

A real chimera, the like of which Adreq had only ever heard of in legends and stories. 

Adreq's heart raced as the chimera lunged toward them, its roar splitting the air. Instinct kicked in; he tightened his grip on the reins and drew his curved sword, ready to defend against the beast that had interrupted their hunt. The fear surged through him as he prepared for the fight of his life.

The hunting horns blared out again, ringing through the forest.

The chimera was a whirlwind of fury, it pounded like a kitten atop one of them men and started ripping him apart with its long talons another came lunging towards it with a spear but the creature’s barbed tail came swinging around first swiping the hunt of his feet then stabbing him twice in the chest with the vemous tip of the tail.

The beast then crawled towards one of the mounted men with its head low. The beast then reared its head up, driving its horns into the belly of the horse, shredding it from within.

The horse squealed in agony and collapsed, crushing the rider as it keeled over and ripped free from the creature’s horns.

The blood-soaked beast then leapt upon another man, clawing at him and biting. It was a spectacle unlike anything he had ever witnessed—brutal and savage.

The man was shredded in mere seconds, and Adreq’s horse began to panic, rearing back and sending him toppling off his steed and landing in the forest.

Nothing seemed broken, but the impact of the ground left Adreq winded.

As Adreq’s steel galloped off into the wilderness, he looked to the Chimera, which came prowling towards him from one of its victims, wrath and murder in the beast’s eyes.

Adreq was terrified, frozen like a statue as he felt the fragility of his own mortal life in the murderous serpent’s eyes of the Chimera.

As Adeq felt his life, his plans, his entire fucking world fade away, his pleas to the gods, to fate, chance, luck or any other forcer to spare. 

The monster was only a few paces away from Adreq’s feet, reading to pounce, with no escape.

Just at that moment, another creature came out of nowhere, grabbing the Chimera by the neck with its maw.

A Drake, saddled and mounted with one of the drake riders.

While the drake bit down on the Chimera’s throat, the rider speared its tail at the base, keeping it from stinging the drake from the side.

Another drake rider came from the other side, spearing the Chimera through the torso.

The other hunters joined in shooting the skewered Chimera with arrows until the beast was dead, falling limp and lifeless.

A calm settled in as Adreq caught his breath. 

The rest of the hunt assembled at the scene of the carnage, with the event being brought to an abrupt end. 

Adreq was helped up and sitting on a log at that point, trying to catch his breath. 

When the Empress arrived, she dismounted her horse and spoke with Captain Denys of the drake riders. It was two of Denys’s subordinates who had saved Adreq’s life.

After speaking with the Captain, the Empress and her husband approached Adreq.

“Are you alright, Master Loqar?” Rhaenyra asked gently, standing before him.

Adreq nodded.

“Thanks to your riders,” he admitted reluctantly, never having thought a day would come he’d owe thanks to commoners from Westeros, especially not discarded baseborns of lost valyrian lineage. 

“That thing was a Chimera… a real one. It was wild like in the ancient legends of old mythology. But I remember the only real creatures of such likeness were the ones created in the fleshpits of Gogoross, kept in manageries for the amusement of our ancestors,” Adreq recounted.

“Yes, well… at the coming of the Doom, all animals, birds, beasts and the enslaved crossbreeds of the Freehold sensed the coming calamity and fled. The salvaged records from before the Doom speak of the creatures in the manageries panicking and breaking free of their cages to flee into the wild. Many clung to life after the Doom befell the land, becoming mutants — well, even more so than they already were — their descendants adapted with time and what was once unnatural evolved to become a new form of natural,” Rhaenyra explained.

“A shame about the boar. It was a fine beast. This breed of Chimera has too much venom to make a meal out of,” Emperor Daemon noted as he looked at the beast.

The way that Daemon talked about the Chimera was with such a casual tone as though it were a common mountain lion. The way all of them seemed so unfazed by such a beast, aside from the other emissaries who were struck with awe at seeing the creature.

Adreq realised that the Valyrians' indifference to the creature's death reflected a deeper cultural divide that had developed in the short span of three years since their disappearance — one that left him questioning his place among them and their place in the wider world. 

The way dragons, magic, and monsters were so common in their lives was unnatural and somewhat humbling. 

Now the Master from Slaver’s Bay was starting to see how much he had underestimated them, concerning himself with the potential of what they would be and ignoring the dangers of what they already were. Already, even at the infancy of their Empire, even if they had a ways to go to match the power held by the Freehold, now, when Adreq looked at Rhaenyra, he had no doubt in his mind that he was speaking to the single most powerful woman in the known world.

Chapter Text

It was an unexpected yet nonetheless joyous day in Valyria the Great, as were every previous occasion on which such an event occurred. 

Rhaenyra was both surprised and pleased when one of the Dragonkeeper acolytes sought her out to tell her one of the eggs in the heating chambers was beginning to hatch. 

After the havoc that was wrought by the hunt, which almost cost one of their Ambassadors his life, the Empress hoped that the birth of a new dragon would be a much better spectacle to entertain their new guests and show them the wonders of the Empire. 

A dragon hatching was considered a wondrous and celebratory event back in Westeros but in the recent years of the Empire with every passing hatching and the exponential growth of their population in Valyria, their birth remained celebrated and treated as spectacles but now dragon hatchings were considered a rarity that occurred a few times a year rather than a few times a decade. 

The two youngest dragons to date were Abris and Onixa, young hatchlings born three weeks apart, roughly four months ago. Natural-borns rather than awakened ones hatched from revived eggs restored from stone by the sorcerers.

When word was spread throughout the palace, all the nobles, courtiers, and ambassadors followed the Imperial household across the stone bridge that connected the palace to Blenon Valyriōs.

They all piled into one of the stone balconies that overlooked the volcanic dragonmount chamber of Blenon Valyriōs, the midday sun shining down through the main vent of the volcano, illuminating the inside of the mountain with natural light. 

The Dragonkeepers had brought out a hollowed out stone plinth column with a grated lid and an opening at the bottom where a fire was set to send heat up the shaft of the column and on top of the grated lid was a red velvet cushion with a purple and silver egg on top being warmed from beneath.

With two of the Dragonkeepers standing vigil over the egg, the imperial court gathered around in a semi-circle, facing the egg with the backdrop of dragons of varying size flapping about and nesting in the open cavernous vent of the dragonmount.

The Empress then stood apart from the rest of the gathered crowd, turning to face all those looking on towards her. 

“My Lords and Ladies. Honoured friends and guests of the empire,” she noted as she looked to the ambassadors from beyond their borders. “We gather here once again on such a joyous day for such a hallowed occasion. Today, gods willing, we welcome another dragon into the Imperial thunder, bringing our number to thirty-three in total,” Rhaenyra stated as an applause rose from the assembled courtiers. 

“Now, for those who have not attended such an occasion before, I warn you. Dragon hatching ceremonies can be very unpredictable affairs and can range anywhere from minutes to days in their happenings. So let us all wait patiently and give our silent prayers to the Fourteen to hasten this new hatchling into the world so that we might welcome it with open arms,” Rhaenyra stated as another chorus of applause rang out and the Empress rejoined the crowd of onlookers, standing with the Imperial House. 

Hatching ceremonies were such a fickle thing. Sometimes the egg would hatch within the hour of the first signs of its coming and other times it would take much longer. 

When Midnyte was hatched, it took three days, with the imperial household visiting the volcano for a few hours each day and watching the egg tremble and kick before the dragon finally emerged. 

At Windfury’s hatching, they spent a day waiting for the egg to hatch with no avail and then he sprouted out of the egg two hours after they left the mountain.

As for Starchaser, the morning her egg started to shake, the dragonkeepers reported it to the Empress but by the time they arrived at the Dragonmount, she had already sprung from her egg.

While they all stood waiting patiently, the two dragonkeeper acolytes sang dragon hymns that reverberated off the cavernous walls of the volcanic chamber. The songs were prayers to the gods of valyria to summon worth the dragons but also doubled as tunes that kept the waiting crowd of nobles entertained while they awaited the hatching.

The first hymn they sang was for Zaldrizar, the first dragon, created by Aegarax and gifted as an egg to Valyrion the Founder. When Valyrion died, the demigod’s dragon died of heartbreak, and their two souls were untied together with Zaldrizar ascending to godhood and becoming the patron deity of all dragons. 

The next hymn was for both Shrykos, goddess of beginnings, endings, transitions and for Meleys, Goddess of Love and Fertility, with the two goddesses sharing dominion and prayers over childbirth of all living things.

The third hymn they sang Aegarax, god of all creatures that walk, run, swim, or fly, including dragons - his finest creation. 

Throughout the hymns, the egg would wobble and tremble like the baby dragon inside was kicking against it from within, but all were false alarms thus far. 

The little ones amongst the crowd were getting restless and bored as they waited for the egg to hatch, and their little legs were beginning to tire.

Rhaenyra was just about to send the little children of her own off with their nursemaids to prompt other nobles to do the same, but then the egg started to crack.

An audible gasp filled the chamber, and the dragonkeepers ceased their songs of prayer.

The shell of the egg began to chip from within as the exterior of the egg was pushed out by the baby dragon. A tendril of steam began to rise from the shell’s opening, and then a small purple snout began to push out through the hole, further breaking away the outline of the hole as a small head began to emerge.

The hatchling let out a high-pitched wailing, a beautiful howl like a bird’s song, similar to Syrax’s, but Rhaenyra had never heard a hatchling so young howl so majestically. 

Many among the gathered crowd let out sounds of wonder and clutched their hearts in humble astonishment.

The dragon continued to break away at its steaming shell around it, pushing it outward and sending the shell fragments collapsing onto the ground like loose stones on the battlements of a castle wall.

One of the dragonkeepers approached the podium and gently scooped the baby hatchling up and cradled it in a blanket, wiping the egg fluid off the dragon's soft, scaled skin.

After letting the dragon babe rest nuzzled in the dragonkeeper's arms for a few minutes, with others coming close to look at it, the elder then examined the dragon. 

Rhaenyra could already tell it was a zolka breed from its head shape, its scales were purple with silver highlights and membranes, and its tiny eyes were blue. 

It yawned and howled, letting out more high-pitched draconic songs that astounded the onlookers.

“Zolka breed, healthy, slender and it is… female. A fine young dragon,” the Elder said in High Valyrian, concluding his examination. The crowd applauded, and the hatchling was offered over to Rhaenyra, who held the young purple dragon in her arms, holding it as she would her own newborn child.

Newborn dragon hatchlings responded similarly to human babes, though they were much warmer upon first leaving the eggs and were a lot less traumatising to bring into the world.

In past dragon hatching ceremonies when they had to wait days for the dragons to be sired, the men and younger women were quicker to irritance than those of them had been mothers for sore ankles from standing and waiting for an egg to hatch was nothing compared to the terrors of childbirth, redeemed only by the coming of their beloved children.

Rhaenyra walked slowly around the balcony, showing the dragon hatchling swaddled in a blanket to the nobles as she had with her own Daenys after she had been born. 

As Rhaenyra showed the small dragon to the courtiers, no bigger than a lizard, she continued to let out her howls.

Among the many nobles whom Rhaenyra passed by, showing off the new dragon to, one that she crossed was Master Adreq zo Loraq of Meereen.

Master Adreq’s arm was now in a sling after his near-death brush with the Chimera, but he had been lucky to be saved by Rhaenyra’s drake riders and had shown great gratitude to Rhaenyra for the matter.

“Master Adreq. I trust you are feeling better?” Rhaenyra inquired pleasantly.

“Much so, thank you. Your healers are most expert in their craft,” Adreq noted as he glanced down to his wounded arm.

“In any case, I am glad enough I lived long enough to see this. I must say seeing a dragon born before my very eyes is an honour I never would have thought to have,” Master Adreq said as he looked to the little dragon leaning forward and pointing out his finger from his uninjured hand and wiggling it under the dragon’s nose. 

The dragon then snapped its jaw, barely missing Adreq’s fingertips as he jerked his arm back in fear.

“Vicious little snapper, isn’t it?” Master Adreq noted, looking at his finger, remaining uninjured.

“ She is just protective of herself,” Rhaenyra explained, correcting Master Adreq’s referencing of the young hatchling as it .

“She? Hmm… and does she have a name?” Adreq asked.

Rhaenyra looked at the small purple dragon.

“Well, usually we wait a few days or even some weeks before we give them names, but I think I already have an idea of what I’d like to have her called… Elenirya,” Rhaenyra said, looking into the blue eyes of the dragon in her arms.

“Elenirya? A valyrian goddess, yes? One of the lesser ones beneath the Fourteen Flames,” Adreq recounted, and Rhaenyra nodded her head in conformation.

“The goddess of music and singing, daughter of Vermithor and Tessarion,” Rhaenyra said, explaining the lore of the goddess for which the dragon would be named.

The hatchling then let out another song-like howl, which only further solidified what Rhaenyra would have her called and made the Empress smile in amusement.

Master Adreq cleared his throat.

“Hmm. A lovely name. If I may, your Majesty, perhaps later today at some point, you and I might talk; there are some matters of state I would speak to you of in private,” Adreq explained.

The Empress was surprised by the request. The seriousness in Loraq’s voice suggested it was of a pressing matter, but of what nature she could not guess.

“Yes, of course,” Rhaenyra replied as she cradled the young dragon in her arms. 

“Very good, I shall wait on your call,” Adreq said before bowing and leaving the Empress’s presence as more courtiers gathered around to see Elenirya.

For a while longer, Rhaenyra remained in the Dragonmount, showing off the new dragon to the court and to the gawking emissaries from across the water. 

Pleasantries and congratulations were exchanged with the courtiers, saying prayers and blessings to the gods of Valyria and wishing a thousand more dragons to fill the Volcano. 

When the crowd began to disperse and head back to the palace, Rhaenyra returned the hatchling to the dragonkeepers, offering up her suggestion for the dragon’s name. 

After leaving Blenon Valyriōs, Rhaenyra’s name was fairly relaxed and standard.

At her desk, signing laws into effect as Lord Bartimos’s cleric brought them into her solar, consulting about food distribution amongst the cities from the farms and hunting fields in the lands of the Long Summer; attending the Imperial Council and going over the day’s topics of importance. 

As the day slipped away and the evening came in, Rhaenyra’s handmaiden Dyana reminded her of her meeting with Master Adreq.

Rhaenyra had logged the meeting with her majordomo, Ser Robert Gerguese, who had in turn entrusted Dyana with ensuring Rhaenyra attended it. 

As the evening rolled in, the Empress had some time after supper and went to visit Master Adreq in his chambers, escorted by Ser Harrold and Ser Steffon. 

Two Unsullied slave guards opened the door for her and allowed her in while Ser Harrold and Ser Steffon waited outside. Inside the chamber, more slaves in brown ragged clothing, collars and with shaved heads were attending chores around the chamber.

The fact that Rhaenyra tolerated such sheer barbarism in her own palace was something that had disturbed her sleep since the emissary's arrival, and rightly so, but she was forced to make the concession for the sake of diplomatic relations, but which did little to dampen her shame in the affair. 

Master Adreq was sitting at his desk and stood up when Rhaenyra entered, holding a cup in one hand and the other still in its sling.

“Your Majesty. Thank you for coming,” Adreq greeted, welcoming the Empress in.

“Leave us,” he then said to his slaves in a steely tone, and the imprisoned servants scurried off out of the chamber.

Rhaenyra forced a smile, showing her diplomatic amicability towards Master Loraq, but in her heart, she knew that no matter what peace treaty they could arrive at with the Masters of Slaver’s Bay, they could never be allies so long as they subscribed to the abhorrent practices of slavery.

“Can I get you anything? Wine?” Adreq asked, motioning with his good arm to the pitcher on his table.

“No, thank you,” Rhaenyra replied.

“Very well, then we can begin,” Adreq replied.

The Empress and the emissary sat across from one another on a pair of settees next to the chamber’s fireplace.

“Now, what is it that you would like to discuss, Master Adreq. Your tone early made it seem that it was important,” Rhaenyra explained.

Adreq nodded solemnly. “It is indeed, Your Majesty… Firstly, I wanted to thank you. No doubt your sorcerers were able to divine my meeting with the Masters of Meereen and see my plots and schemes through their mysterious glass candles, hence how you foresaw our venture into your territories and responded with your messenger wyvern,” Adreq said, showing accurate deductions of the Empire’s conduct before his arrival, but Rhaenyra was not sure what she was being thanked for.

“Earlier today I saw more dragons than I could count, some as small as birds perhaps, but plenty enough to bring the hellfires of Valyria down on the three cities of Slaver’s Bay worse than the wrath your ancestor visited upon the castle of Harrenhal. You knew that I was plotting to drive my people into war against you to seize your empire for ourselves and rather than crush us as was your right, you spared us and offered us a humbling glimpse into your Empire’s might,” Adreq explained.

“I do not wish to be a wrathful conqueror burning cities to the ground, Master. My only desire is to consolidate my territories that my people may enjoy the long splendour of peace and plenty,” Rhaenyra explained. 

Adreq nodded his head.

“I see that now, and I am glad that I realised that on this venture. Which is why I wanted to summon you here to tell you that while my compatriots and I will be remaining here and enjoying the novelties of your Empire and its hospitality for a few weeks longer. When we return to our respective cities, the nine of us have agreed to advise the cities of Slaver’s Bay to seek peace with you and begin diplomatic relations,” Adreq explained with a smile.

Rhaenyra felt as though a weight had been lifted from her and let out an audible sigh of relief. 

The three cities of Slaver’s Bay were three of the core powers in the east that posed a threat against them; without their support, New Ghis, Tolos, Elyria and Volantis could not mount an offensive against the Empire alone. 

In their brief conversation thus far, Adreq had just confirmed for her that the threat of war had been negated entirely.

“Master Adreq, you have no idea how glad I am to hear you say this,” Rhaenyra said with a genuine smile upon her face.
Adreq patted his leg and rose up.
“Let us have a toast. I shant accept no for an answer,” Master Loraq said in an upbeat tone.

On such a celebratory occasion, Rhaenyra would not refuse. 

First, Adreq brought over the cups, collapsing two of them from inside the lip with his fingers, having only one arm available and then brought over the pitcher of wine separately and poured the wine into the cups. He made a few spills, but Rhaenyra did not begrudge him for it. 

“A toast, to peace in our time,” Adreq said. 

Rhaenyra happily raised her cup, but she was not sure that Adreq could make such an assertion.

“I’m not sure we are quite there. At the end of the day, you and your eight compatriots are but emissaries and must convince the councils of your fellow masters to accept our peace, and then there are the other city states beyond your own,” Rhaenyra explained.

Adreq snorted in response. 

“Now that you’ve earned the favour of my nine, we can spend the rest of our time here in Valyria convincing the other emissaries to do the same, but in all honesty, they are practically there already. As for the rest of our people back home, doubtless they’ll heed the words of all their emissaries when they speak as a united voice. Besides, the treasure you are sending with us to repay the damages and losses from the slave ships you took will be more than enough to ease the peace process,” Adreq said, making Rhaenyra smile.

“After seeing what you are willing to pay in reparations for the slaves you liberated, I’m sure my fellow masters will soon be bringing slaves to your doorstep,” the master added, clinking his cup with Rhaenyra’s.

As Adreq sipped from his cup, Rhaenyra did not, feeling rather unnerved by Loraq’s chosen words. 

“Beg your pardon?” Rhaenyra asked, wishing to hear elaboration on Adreq’s words.

Adreq quickly swallowed his mouthful of wine and responded.

“Oh, think nothing of it, Your Majesty. I only meant, your wealth here in the Empire is so exorbitant that I imagine in the coming years with your raiding of our slave ships at an end, I imagine that our slavers would visit your ports and allow you to buy slaves from us that you can purchase and liberate. We care not what our clients do when they buy our slaves, so long as they pay for them. Hell, we’d sell you every slave we own across our three great cities and probably not even make a dent in your treasury,” Adreq japed.

“You think I could… buy an end to slavery in the Gulf of Grief?” Rhaenyra asked, wondering if it would be that simple.

“Oh by the Harpy, no. Yes, we’d happily trade every last slave we owned to you for some of those mountains of gold, silver and jewels you no doubt have hidden away, but we’d just wrangle up more folk across Lhazar and buy them from pirates, dothraki and flesh merchants and make back our slave population in a couple years. Perhaps after a few centuries of selling slaves to you and your descendants to liberate, we might end up richer than the empire,” Adreq said with a laugh, but Rhaenyra did not find it funny. 

Her heart quickened inside her chest, but she did her best to retain a pleasant and gracious tone towards Master Loraq. 

After their drink, Rhaenyra excused herself and left the chamber, but the weight she thought had lifted when she learned that the Masters of Slaver’s Bay would seek peace had come crashing down on her even harder.

The remarks made by Adreq on the continuation of Slavery had unnerved her. She had been so concerned with her own borders and her Empire’s safety, she did not stop for one moment to consider the implications of making peace with Slavers’ Bay.

Ghiscari slaving vessels would now freely use the shipping lanes through her maritime territories and the demon road, which went through her city of Mantarys, to transport slaves. 

The slaves brought to Valyria as attendants and guards to the ambassadors had been an exception — a very lenient exception — but what Rhaenyra now realised was that the peace agreement she had been striving for was altogether unacceptable. 

When Rhaenyra left the chamber, followed by her two Dragonknights, she did not go back to her chamber. It was late at night, but she needed advice. 

Rhaenyra had many councillors throughout the palace she could call on, but not all of them were equipped to deal with the matter she wished to discuss, for it was grave indeed.

Despite having peace across the Gulf of Grief handed to her on a silver plate, now that she had gained what she had hoped for, she was now considering casting it away and quite possibly plunging the empire and perhaps the known world into war. 

Rhaenyra did not need Melisandre’s devoted affirmations of Rhaenyra’s divinely endowed will nor the cryptic wisdom of her sorcerers. Alicent would be too passive and push Rhaenyra to find diplomacy at all costs, and Daemon would all too eagerly push for war. Rhaenyra could ask Mysaria or Corlys for their counsel on this matter, and perhaps she would, but she knew who it was she wanted to talk to at this pressing moment. 

Rhaenyra needed someone with the wisdom of a ruler, someone fair, balanced, wise, brave and gentle, neither Rhaenyra’s sycophant nor a negator. Of all those that Rhaenyra sought for guidance, there was none that she cherished the wisdom of more so than that of the Princess Rhaenys, her friend, mentor, guiding light and wisest confidant. 

“Ser Steffon. Go to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys’s chamber and fetch the Princess to me. Have her brought to my private study,” Rhaenyra requested.

“At once, Your Majesty,” Ser Steffon replied, peeling off while Rhaenyra and Ser Harrold continued on to the study.

Rhaenyra entered the study alone and sat there in the dark, the moonlight outside the chamber window illuminating the room.

Rhaenyra sat on a settee near the window and looked out into the open skies. Some of the adult dragons were flapping about in the shadows of the night, their silhouettes sometimes eclipsing the moon as Rhaenyra was left with her thoughts. 

The Empress was everything at that time that she wished not to be: conflicted, terrified, confused, lonely, and so many other sensations.

She tried to convince herself that she was mad and that the pull within her heart to reject the peace offered to her by Slaver’s Bay was just exhaustion whispering deceptions into her mind, but Rhaenyra could not escape her doubts.

A short while later, Princess Rhaenys arrived, still dressed as she was earlier that day, so not roused from bed by the time Ser Steffon summoned her.

“You summoned me, Your Majesty?” Rhaenys asked as she entered the chamber, looking vexed by the darkness that shrouded the chamber.

“Yes, thank you for coming so late, Princess Rhaenys. My apologies for not preparing the lighting for your arrival,” Rhaenyra said.

Rhaenys took a nearby candle holder from a drawer near the door and took it back to the door.

“Ser Harrold, some light if you will,” Rhaenys requested.

The Lord Commander removed a hallway torch from a sconce ring and used it to light the candle in the Princess’s hands.

“My thanks, Ser,” Rhaenys said.

The Princess then closed the door and walked towards Rhaenyra, sitting down next to her and setting the candle down on a table in front of them, illuminating the two women in the orange glow of the candle.

“Now what’s this about, Rhaenyra?” Rhaenys asked softly, dispensing with formalities and clearly sensing Rhaenyra needed the counsel of a friend, not a courtier. 

Rhaenyra took a deep breath before she spoke.

“I just came from a meeting with Master Adreq zo Loraq… and he has given me every assurance that the various factions from across the Gulf of Grief will accept our peace terms. Everything that we desired is now ours to have,” Rhaenyra explained, her tone not properly characterising how positive an outcome it truly was.

“But?” Rhaenys prompted, astutely observing that there was more to be said rather than questioning the Empress’s glower tone. 

“But… though it was not his intention, almost immediately after telling me this, Master Adreq convinced me that I no longer wanted it, that I never wanted it despite what I initially believed,” Rhaenyra explained.

“How?” Rhaenys asked, taking Rhaenyra’s hand.

How indeed, for even Rhaenyra was vexed by what conclusion she had come to, or perhaps too scared to admit it to herself.

“Master Adreq made a quib about how the wergild we have offered up as reparations for the slave fleets we’ve raided and liberated these past few years. He said that the slave masters would happily sell slaves to us for generations to come so that we might free them. He even suggested that we buy all the slaves in Slaver’s Bay,” Rhaenyra explained.

“It sounds like a crude joke, but go on,” Rhaenys urged softly. 

“We have enough treasure to buy the freedom of all those shackled and collared in Slaver’s Bay, but it would solve nothing for the Ghiscari would just go about carving more people into slavery, and we could buy them all again, and they’d just enslave more. Our defiance of their slavery may help those we free, but is a useless gesture of futility to all those we do not free. The more we buy and emancipate, the more innocent people will be condemned to slavery to replenish their flesh markets in extension of our actions,” Rhaenyra explained. 

Rhaenys nodded.

“Your concerns are admirable, and forgive me if these words sound cruel… but no one expects you to save the entire world, Rhaenyra. No Targaryen King before you ever challenged the slave mongers across the Narrow Sea. You have done exponentially great deeds in emancipation these past few years since you left Westeros, deeds to be proud of. It would be completely understandable if you discontinued your emancipation efforts and simply left Slaver’s Bay to its own devices,” Rhaenys suggested.

“But it does not end there. Even if we do nothing, the stench of slavery would continue to dog us. The Slavers would use our shipping lanes, use our roads, to transport their slaves to the Free Cities, and we’d be left to tolerate it. To tolerate slavery is a stepping stone to the possibility of acceptance. Certainly not in my lifetime, nor Jace’s, but in ten or twenty generations, what happens when some Emperor or Empress looks upon the slave ships that sail through our territories and decides that rather than just facilitating, they would also like to participate. Raegoth told me once that for us to go back to what we once were, remake the Freehold in all its conquest and brutality, then it would be like casting a stone in the river. The water would ripple, and the currents would correct themselves. If I lead us back into the old ways, then one day inevitably we shall return to the Doom,” Rhaenyra explained.

Rhaenys seemed fearful in her expression. “What is it that you are suggesting?” she asked.

Still, Rhaenyra did not have the strength to say the words out loud and continued to list her reasons before admitting what was in her mind, not sure if she was trying to convince Rhaenys or herself.

“We are valyrians. Our forbearers were the villains who spread the abhorrence of slavery across the Free Cities and used it to make our vast fortunes. When we founded the Empire, we swore to be better than the Freehold, but how can we keep that oath if we turn a blind eye to the evils that the Freehold instilled that remain in the world today? To let the Ghiscari carry on and use our borders to peddle their trade while we ignore their cruelty, then are we not complicit in their vile acts?” Rhaenyra asked.

Rhaenys' expression suggested she now understood what Rhaenyra was contemplating — what she was struggling with.

“You wish to wage war on our neighbours to end slavery,” Rhaenys surmised.

Rhaenyra shook her head.

“I wish to enforce what I have already outlawed and end any tolerance for slavery. To bar any use of our shipping lanes or the Demon’s road through the Imperial territories for slave trade. But I am no fool, I know that the inhabitants of the Gulf of Grief will not be able to run their slave trade through the Dothraki Sea or the open waters infested with pirates. If I do this, I will force their hand and give them no other alternative but to declare war on us. They will not willingly give up slavery, nor can they survive without passing through our territories. A war will be their only path,” Rhaenyra explained.

Rhaenys was silent, seeming to be contemplating Rhaenyra’s words.

To try and further sway her mentor, Rhaenyra continued to press her point.

“I love the Empire with all my heart and I would defend it at the cost of the blood out of my veins, but if everything the Empire stands for is built on a lie… if the foundations of all of this are on the bodies of slaves whose deaths we ignore then what difference is there between us and the Freehold? I never wanted to be a conqueror. I never wanted to unleash dragonfire on cities and hear people scream… but if I don’t do this then how many more generations of slaves will suffer for the practices our ancestors perpetuated?” Rhaenyra asked.

Rhaenys seemed like she had finally found an answer.

“You can’t… which is why you must do this— why we must do this,” Rhaenys said, resting her hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. 

Rhaenyra was surprised, for she had hoped Rhaenys would find a way to talk her out of it, but in the end, she was relieved that she instead supported her.

“My husband once cautioned your father many years ago, to avoid a storm, you can either sail into it or you can sail around it, but you must never await its coming. If war can be avoided, then avoid it. If it is inevitable, then it must be faced. But whatever you do, you must be resolute in your actions. This is not something you can turn a blind eye to and find excuses for to avoid conflict until Jace or his child or grandchild comes of age to deal with this. You've made it clear you want peace, and now you must make it clear that slavery will never be tolerated in the Empire under even the most minimal circumstances. If this is good enough and our visitors promise to keep their realms in line and keep their horrid practices away from our borders, then that is the optimal outcome. But if they will not tolerate losing their shipping lanes and access to the Demon Road, and they turn to war, then you must answer with war,” Rhaenys assured her.

“Even if it makes a tyrant of me in the histories,” Rhaenyra contemplated aloud as she seemed to now be recanting what she had maintained since the Empire’s inception of avoiding conquest and expansion entirely.

“Tyrant? You think neutering threats makes you a tyrant? Say you are thrust into war, and the only way to end the war is to abolish the governance that opposes you and install new leaders in their place, either allegiant to you and the Empire or independent. Do you plan on killing every man, woman and child that defies you? Do you wish to make slaves of their children and force them to live on their knees? Motivations matter, and you seek to be a liberator and an equaliser, not a conqueror,” Rhaenys reassured her.

“This will not be a war of ambition or greed, and it will not be cloaked in notions of a victimless war. People will die on both sides, people with families and innocents will be caught in the war. But part of wearing the crown is making the cruel calculations of human life. A hundred die to save a thousand. A thousand die to save a hundred thousand, and on and on. How many thousands of generations of people to come will be enslaved by the Ghiscari if you do not do this?” Rhaenys reassured her.

Rhaenyra took a shallow breath.

“I’m terrified,” Rhaenyra admitted hesitantly and truthfully.

“Good,” the Queen Who Never Was replied, “It means you're not stupid.”

Chapter Text

All the preparations and arrangements were well in hand in the Red Keep. The carriages were prepared, the retinue was assembled, and the dragons were being readied. After half a year of preparation, Aegon's royal tour to the North was finally prepared.

The King and Queen would fly out atop Sunfyre and Dreamfyre while their children were transported in the carriages. 

Yet despite it all, the planning, the arrangements, even on the day that Aegon was to depart, he was standing before the mirror in his chamber having his cloak clasped around his neck by one of his pages while his grandsire continued to ceasesly berate him and plead with him to change his mind even at the final hour. 

“This again?” Aegon groaned, bereft at his grandsire’s endless pestering. 

“There is still time. Simply tell the court that there has been a change of plan and send ravens of apology to Lord Cregan and the other lords you intended to visit on your progress,” Ser Otto Hightower pleaded to the King.

The Lord Hand had been pleading with Aegon to postpone the royal progress since the messenger wyvern from Valyria arrived, but Aegon had no intentions of putting it off. 

“Grandfather, please. My father and the Old King Jaehaerys went on plenty of royal progresses in their day. Half a year ago, when I first proposed it, you said it was an astute idea. You’re always complaining the Northerners are too distant and that we haven’t properly reassured their loyalty since my sister left,” Aegon responded, shewing away his page once the cloak was securely fastened. 

“It is because of your sister that I am protesting. It does not do for the King to leave the capital on a glory tour in such restless times,” Otto protested. 

“What restless times? Rhaenyra sends a little stunted dragon-like bird as a messenger, and my councillors are all up in a fit. Daeron and Tyland have been dispatched to treat with her, and according to Rharenyra’s letter, she wishes for peace. All of a sudden, you make her out to be a villain again? When my father still lived we said we were kin and allies even when her second brat maimed Aemond, then we were enemies when we both pressed our claims to the throne, then we were friends again when she bowed to me and left the Seven Kingdoms and enemies again when she declared herself Empress and I was expected to mourn her when she was thought to be lost in the Doom. So much back and forth, friend, enemy, friend, enemy. I’ll admit there were times that I hated her, but in truth, after so many years without sparing her so much as a thought, I’ve lost all interest in that silly old conflict. Blacks and Green, so boring and meaningless now,” Aegon admitted out loud.

“You think I do not wish for peace. It was I who insisted that we seek peace and get your mother back safely. I still have hopes for peace, but I cannot deny the truth that is Daemon Targaryen. He is a hard and ruthless creature and a host unto himself. Long before your birth, I maintained he would be a second Maegor, and I cannot ignore the likelihood that your sister is not but a cock-struck puppet that serves his designs and no others. Let us hope for peace, yes, but let us hope for it from the safety of the Red Keep, where we can prepare defences if this new Valyrian Empire betrays our trust. Not to mention that the emergence of this new Empire might very well embolden our potential rivals to panic and act out. The Dornish, the Iron Islands, the dispossessed and unbridled pirates no longer united under the Triarchy’s banner. These possible threats need to be closely observed,” Otto insisted.

“That is why I have left Aemond as my regent and you his hand. He’s a seasoned warrior and the rider of the largest living dragon in the world. He will be able to handle whatever threat challenges us while Helaena and I are away. You’ll survive, come what may,” Aegon said as he reassuringly patted his grandsire’s shoulders.

Many in court questioned why Aegon had elected Aemond as a regent to sit the Iron Throne when such responsibilities already fell to the Hand of the King. But with Ser Tyland away on the emissarial procession to the Empire of Valyria, Aegon feared that his grandsire might be understaffed, and Aemond was loyal as a hound, Aegon’s closest blood, best sword and largest dragonrider.

For the coming months, while Aegon and Helaena travelled with their children and dragons all the way to the Wall, Aemond would sit the Iron Throne in Aegon’s absence with his pregnant wife Floris by his side and their little rascal boy Aerys as prince in the Red Keep.

“Aemond is not the King. It would suit better if the King dealt with his foes directly,” Otto explained.

“And the King may very well do so in the North. I already told you, one of the matters I shall be discussing with Lord Cregan is about this new King-Beyond-the-Wall who is stirring out there. If we agree it is necessary, then mayhaps Cregan might call his banners, and I’ll take Sunfyre with his armies to join the Night’s Watch in a great ranging against this Branulf Bloodteeth if his numbers are as big as people say,” Aegon explained.

It had been more than fifty years since the last King-Beyond-the-Wall had perished during the time of the Old King Jaehaerys, with this new barbarian leader emerging a little over two years ago. According to the reports from the Night’s Watch, Branulf Bloodteeth had summoned together scores of Wildlings in numbers the likes of which they had not seen in centuries and was building a grand army of all different petty tribes. 

Aegon had kept a vested interest in the North since he’d learned of his glorious destiny inscribed upon the conqueror’s blade sheathed at his hip and in recent years between the Winter Fever, new King-Beyond-the-Wall, Lord Cregan’s request for the King to visit, it seemed like destiny was drawing him closer to the North.

“Now, Grandfather, let us play a game… a game where we pretend that I am the King and you are but my humble Hand who must do as I command,” Aegon teased. “And in this game, I leave for my royal progress to the North, and you let me. Doesn’t that sound fun?” 

Aegon then strode past his grandsire, who hung his head in defeat. 

As Aegon stepped out of his chamber, he was joined by the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, Ser Criston Cole, one of Aegon’s closest friends and allies, known far and wide for his loyalty by his epithet, the Kingmaker . 

With Cole at his side, Aegon walked along the passage of Maegor’s holdfast, the sounds of the bustling Red Keep enveloped him—the clattering of armours, the murmur of servants, and the distant squabbling of men making ready for the King’s journey. The sun streamed through the tall windows, casting a warm glow upon the stone walls and the green banners marked with the three-headed golden dragon.

Waiting outside the door of the Queen’s chambers was Aegon’s sister-wife Helaena with her sworn protector Ser Rickard Thorne and her three nursemaids in travelling cloaks behind her, each of the three nursemaids was attending to one of their three children. 

Jaehaerys and Jaehaera standing by their mother holding onto the skirt of her dress like window curtains, and little Maelor in the arms of one of the nursesmaids.

The Queen wore a long pale blue cloak lined with white fur over her dress with arm slits, leather riding gloves and her silver hair was done kept in a blue threaded snood pipped with little silver beads.

Heleaena did not ride Dreamfyre often, but she did love her dragon, though she preferred to pet her bond rather than fly upon her back. In any case, Helaena had agreed to accompany Aegon on dragonback while their children were taken in the carriages. 

They had even commissioned dragonkeepers to accompany them, bringing young Shyrkos and Morghul with them in horse-drawn cages the like of which were fit to transport adult lions from Casterly Rock.

Aegon spread his arms out to his family and smiled.
“Everybody ready for an adventure?” he asked joyously, leaning on his knees and looking to his children.

Yes, father! The little twins exclaimed as they jumped up and down on the spot, full of zeal and joy.

Aegon laughed and pinched the cheeks of his little ones before standing up and facing their mother.

The King and Queen’s marriage was not like the great romances that had come before them. They were no Jaehaerys and Alyssane, nor were they an Aegon and Rhaenys.

Aegon had a score of women in the Red Keep that he was fond of, three favourties among the women of noble houses who he had accepted as his mistresses — not publicly, of course — and he had a slew of serving girls he was fond of, though some less grateful for his favour than others.

Then, on days he was bored with his usual lovers or feeling hungry for something more exotic or adventurous, he’d dally down to the brothels on the Street of Silk or Flea Bottom. 

Madam Sylvi always had a fine girl for him to be entertained with.  

With Helaena, on the other hand, there was no romance there. They did their duty for the realm in their early years of marriage, and sometimes, when he was drunk, Aegon took a fancy to the marital bed, but these days their relationship was more cordial. 

They sat with each other at dinner, at feasts when Helaena was feeling up for it and spent time with one another when they were with the children. 

Before Aegon was king, spending time with Helaena felt like a chore with his mother and grandfather always pestering him to be attentive to his wife, but now that he was King with three heirs, there was no longer any pressure for them to be together; they could now be comfortable around each other sometimes. 

They weren’t in love or any of that nonsense, but they almost felt like friends when they sat together in the gardens with their children as they played, but they still didn’t fully understand one another.

“I appreciate you coming along, Wife. I know long journeys and public ceremonies are not your preference,” Aegon said honestly, trying to be amiable with his Sister-Wife.

Helaena shrugged and avoided eye contact with Aegon.

“It is my duty,” she said awkwardly. 

Aegon nodded. 

“There will be plenty of wonders of Westeros that we shall finally get to see. We’ve never seen the Harrenhal before, nor the Twins, nor Winterfell, nor the Wall,” Aegon explained, trying in vain to coax some excitement from his wife.

“The cold eyes of death stalk the south,” Helaena said, another of her peculiar phrases that she said at odd times. 

The King glanced at Ser Criston, Ser Rickard and to his Grandsire, who had followed him out of the chamber. All of them were unsure how to respond to Helaena’s strange statements that came and went.

“Indeed, they are,” Aegon said, nodding his head and unsure of how else to reply. 

Aegon then took little Maelor from the wetnurse’s arms and carried him all the way through the Red Keep with his other hand holding Jaehaera’s as they made their way out of the Red Keep to the outdoor courtyard where the convoy carriages were waiting. 

The royal court was all gathered together in the courtyard, though cleaved in two between those mounted upon their horses or piled into carriages as part of the party leaving with the King and Queen and the rest who would remain behind, lined up in a small crowd gathered to bid their Liege King farewell.

Standing front and centre amongst the crowd was Aegon’s brother, Aemond, wearing an iron livery collar with a red ruby set upon the chest, designed in the matching fashion of the Conqueror’s crown as a chain of office for the King’s Regent. 

His pregnant wife, Floris, was by his side, dressed in black and yellow, and her hand rested over little Prince Aerys, smaller and younger than Maelor. 

The small council was all gathered behind Aemond and his family, Clubfoot, Orwyle, Ironrod, Daemion and Aegon’s uncle Gawayne, all of whom would help Aemond and their Grandsire administrate the city in Aegon’s absence. 

Aegon walked up to his brother and stood before him, and all the court who bowed to the King at his approach.

“My brother, I grant you the keys of the city and permit you to sit the Iron Throne in my absence and hold court until I return. Only my own word delivered by letter, messenger or any other means may contradict your own,” Aegon announced ceremoniously. 

“I accept with pride and gladness, your Grace,” Aemond replied with a bow of his head.

The two then embraced as brothers as the crowd applauded, something Aemond was begrudging to perform but had agreed to for the good of the royal image. 

“The Seven Kingdoms have been in the family for generations, Aemond. Try not to break them while I’m gone,” Aegon teased as he patted his brother’s arm.

“In your absence, I intend to set examples of how a King should rule that you might learn from upon your return,” Aemond bit back. 

The king responded with a smirk, taking Aemond’s remark as a friendly jape between brothers.

“Keep a tight hold on this one, Grandsire,” Aegon said to the Lord Hand, shaking his finger at Aemond.

“Your Grace,” Ser Otto said, nodding his head in confirmation of the King’s request, his expression still a bit glower. 

The royal household then said their farewells to each other as they prepared to part ways before mounting up. Aegon entered the carriage with his wife, children and the nursemaids while the six knights of the Kingsguard mounted their horses, while the seventh white cloak, travelled east with Daeron and Ser Tyland.

Aegon had offered to leave two knights of the Kingsguard behind in King’s Landing as a tokenary guard for Aemond and his family while he remained there, but Aemond took offence at his brother’s offer and insisted that his sword and Vhagar were all the protection he needed.

The trumpeters then played the royal fanfare bidding the King farewell, and the convoy of carriages and horses departed from the Red Keep, passing through the main gates where the green banners marked with the three-headed gold dragon hung.

As the royal retinue made their way down the main road, the streets were lined with adoring townsfolk throwing white rose petals at them and cheering their names. Jaehaera and Jaehaera waved from the window of the carriage while Helaena sat quietly and held Maelor.

Aegon too waved to the adoring crowds of subjects as their carriage wheeled all the way down to the main square of the city and then turned onto the street of sisters, following it all the way to Rhaenys Hill where the Dragonpit stood.

As they drew closer to the Pit, Aegon spoke to his children.

“Now, little ones. Mummy and I will be flying on our dragons during this journey, so it is important you listen to the wetnurses while we’re up in the sky,” Aegon explained.

“How long will this journey be, Father?” Jaehaerys asked.

“Oh, weeks and weeks. But don’t worry, we’ll make plenty of stops at all the towns and castles along the way. Our first stop will be at a place called Sow’s Horn, where we’ll be guests of House Hogg,” Aegon explained, making pig-like snorts to amuse his giggling children. 

After Sow’s Horn, they’d push onto Harrenhal, where what was left of Lord Larys Strong’s depleted household would put them up and Aegon could show Jaehaerys and Maelor the chamber in which the Great Council chose their grandsire as the rightful King.

Then they would bounce from Darry, to Sallydance, to Fairmarket, to Oldstones, to Seagard, and their first long stop in which they’d remain for a week was at the Twins.

Lord Forrest Frey and his Lady wife Sereena had written to them promising feasts and a hunt during their stay. Lord Forrest was also keeping Lady Alyssane Blackwood in his household, who was due to ride north with the King’s host to Winterfell, where she was intended to be wedded to Lord Cregan. 

When the King made his intended royal progress to the North public knowledge, he received a raven from Raventree’s regent, Wilbert Blackwood, who ruled in the stead of Lady Alysanne’s nephew, the young Lord Benjicot Blackwood, after Benjicot’s father, Samwell, perished in the Winter Fever.

Wilbert requested that the royal convoy take Lady Alyssane North for her upcoming nuptials and the King agreed, adding Raventree to the royal tour, but then the Bracken’s insisted that the King visit them in Stone Hedge and then an argument sprung up about who the King would visit first and how long he’d stay. It all became such a headache that the King opted to visit neither of them, and instead, Wilbert Blackwood had sent Alyssane ahead to the Twins to rendezvous with the royal tour. Apparently, young Lady Alyssane had spent much time at the Twins as a childhood friend to Lord Forrest’s daughter, Lady Sabitha. 

Upon arriving at the Dragonpit, their carriage pulled around to the cliffside gate into the pit, since Dreamfyre was too big to exit through the main entrance into the pit.

The Dragonkeepers were already waiting outside with their long sticks as Sunfyre and Dreamfyre stood proud in colours of gold and pale blue.

Aegon and Helaena, then, farewell to their children, left the carriage and approached their dragons. 

After Aegon exchanged some words with the Dragonkeeper elder, he went to Sunfyre.

His gilded bond playfully nudged Aegon’s chest with his snout as he always did, yet now he was big enough that his nudge nearly knocked the King over.

“Come on then, lad. Make me look good in front of the children,” said Aegon, as he stroked Sunfyre’s snout. 

The King and Queen then mounted their dragons and took to the skies, circling over King’s Landing a few times, giving the convoy some time to reach the Old Gate. 

As Aegon circled the city, he spotted Vhagar nesting beyond the Iron Gate as Aemond’s Hoary Old Bitch let out a bellowing roar in greetings to Sunfyre and Dreamfyre.

When the convoy was finally out of the gates of the city, the two dragonriders set off, onward to the North.

Chapter Text

The Zōbriedōror was alive with the sounds of the Dragon Legion training in the valyrian ways of war. The hammering of the local smithies, repairing and remaking the legion's wargear along with horseshoes and barding, a far cry from the master smithing of the forge towers in the city, but they got the job done.

The clinking of blades as the legionnaires crossed swords in the training yard, and the sounds of arrows flying from bows and hitting the targets at the archery range.

There was also the sound of sergeants, drilling their men in formation training as they practised for battle.

The Warmaster Daemon watched from the ramparts of the fortress as an Unsullied Sergeant within their ranks drilled the new recruits in the different formations of the dragon legion below. 

“Sombion qogron!” the Sergeant cried out in High Valyrian as the men formed up their ranks. The Legionnaires organised themselves into a two-rowed square, the front row of men knelt down with their rectangular-shaped scutum shields positioned side by side forming the panels of the square-shaped wall of the formation and their spears were angled diagonally up and outward. The second row of legionnaires behind them stood up straight and held their shields over the heads of the legionnaires in front of them with the ends of their shields diagonally angled down at the ends like a roof to the wall of shields and their spears were held in reverse grip like javilins with the tips reaching out.

The fortify formation, a defensive positioning that could throw back even the most fearsome charge of Dothraki horsemen. 

“ Qintir qogron!” the sergeant shouted, and the formation reshuffled. 

Soon, the legionnaires had reshaped themselves into a large box of interlocked shields, bristling with spears. The turtle formation it was called in the common tongue.

An arrow-proof formation that relied on each brother of valyria to guard the men beside him and be trusted to do the same for them.

Daemon’s eyes soon drifted from the formation training to a commotion nearby in another part of the courtyard. When Daemon’s eyes settled on the area, he saw a ring of perhaps fifteen shirtless legionnaires with two more in the middle of the circle punching, kicking and wrestling while the rest watched on, then every once in a while, a man from the circle would approach the two sparring legionnaires and land a punch or a kick at one of them and then return with the man to his right then repeating the proecess when he saw fit.

A blood circle, Daemon thought with a smile as he watched the fight unfold. 

A blood circle was an old valyrian training method used by the Dragon Legion during the age of the Freehold. A circle of anywhere from seven to twenty men, shirtless and unarmed. Two amongst their number would be chosen to fight and wrestle, bare knuckled, fighting to beat the other one into submission, all the while their comrades went around in the circle one after the other and interfered in the fight. Whoever’s turn it was amongst the circle would step in as a saboteur and wait for the right moment and then deliver some form of interference to whomever had the upper hand in the fight, be it a punch, a kick, sweeping their feet out from under them, shoving them, spitting in their eyes or just about anything else. The two fighters were powerless to stop the intervening attacks and could only focus on fighting each other.

The exercise was meant to keep either opponent from maintaining the upper hand for long and continuing to fight without end, all the while enduring pain and sabotage.

It taught the legionnaires endurance, persistence, focus, resilience and made them into hard bastards. 

Daemon recalled with amusement the first time Lucerys participated in the blood circle. They gathered up a ring of squires and lordlings of the same age and had them redden their knuckles against one another, while the adults watched on, drinking wine and placing wagers. 

Daemon stood with Jace, Aerion, Alyn, Addam and a few others and cheered Luke on and either by his own bold determination or by the fear of some of the young squires to give a proper hit to the second prince of the Empire, Luke ended up winning his fight. 

That night, they went drinking in a drinking hall established near the Zōbriedōror’s barracks as a recreational facility for the legionnaires. 

That night, they all got wildly drunk to the point that the dragonknights had to have them carried in a carriage unconsciously back to the palace.

Rhaenyra reserved her rage and fury at Daemon for the drinking and Luke’s fighting until he awoke the next morning, rendered hideously greensick from the night’s drinking, and then she unleashed all her anger upon him at loud volumes while his head was violently thumping.

Daemon had been shaping and honing his Dragon Legion for years, putting more time, effort and devotion into them than he had ever done with his Gold Cloaks, many of whom were now officers and legionnaires in his legion.

Yet despite his time and effort it was proving to be all for nought, since the prospect of war was all but unlikely given what a superior negotiator his wife had proven to be, though she had been strangely uneasy the past two days since the new hatchling Elenirya was born, though Daemon could not guess why .

While Daemon did wish for peace and prosperity in his Empire, he did not want his Dragon Legion to go too long unbloodied.

Daemon worked hard to keep his legion rigorously drilled and regimented, but should Daemon die of old age or some form of injury or ailment without seeing his men tested in warfare, his successor might be more laxed towards a peace time legion and the armies of Valyria might grow fat and bored and make a fool of themsleves in their first real war, tarnishing the reputation of the Warmaster.

Daemon comforted himself with the assurance that sooner or later, someone would pick a fight with the Empire, and Daemon may yet have the glory of seeing his men slay in battle.

If not the Ghiscari or the Free Cities then perhaps the Dothraki, but it seemed unlekly at this point it would be the estranged Westerosi, for it was not in Prince Daeron’s reputation to act as an agitator of violence the way his one-eyed brother might, especially when the fate of his mother hung in the balance.

They had received word from Volantis — or rather, the ambassadors had and then relayed the information to the Imperial House — that Pricne Daeron and Ser Tyland had arrived in Volantis along with delegates from across the Free Cities. 

It seemed as if they would conclude their dealings with Volantis and the Gulf of Grief, a new batch of emissaries would arrive to take their places and begin a whole new range of diplomatic proceedings. 

Daemon stood there along the ramparts a bit longer, watching his armies train, until a messenger came running up to him.

“Your Majesty,” he called out, as the young lad stood before the Emperor. Clearly, he had ridden from the city, given his shortness of breath, and as there was no parchment in his hand, it was clear that his message was brief and oral.

“What is it, boy?” Daemon asked the young man.

“A message from her Majesty the Empress. You have been summoned back to the palace immediately,” the messenger explained. 

Daemon huffed and rolled his eyes.

Despite having been hiding away in the Black Fort in efforts to avoid the palace, choking on all the ceremony and watching the ambassadors fatten themselves on valyrian dining as they talked in riddles of peace, he had been drawn back by his wife’s wishes.

Daemon was of a much better use in his fortress, shaping up the legions under his command, no matter how slim the prospect of war was becoming with the passing weeks that the ambassadors had been in the Empire.

At first, Daemon had rather enjoyed being at the palace during the ambassadors' visitations, finding amusement in their gobsmacked faces as they beheld the greatness of the Empire and all its wonders that they had grown accustomed to, but soon the novelty wore off, and Daemon grew weary of the guests.

“Very well,” Daemon grunted before departing the battlements. 

The Warmaster made his way through the training fields of the fortress towards the front gates as the legionnaires trained around him.

As he made his way through the Zōbriedōror, the men he passed by stopped and saluted him as they saw him walk by, addressing him by his title of Warmaster.

When outside the fortress walls, Daemon walked a short distance to where Caraxes was nesting just beyond the walls.

The Red Wyrm lifted his head as Daemon approached, having been resting in his rider’s absence. The dragon then propped himself up and wagged his serpentine tail as he let out a loud, high-pitched howl, but then he began to settle as his rider got closer and lowered his head. 

Daemon approached his mighty mount, running his hands along the snout of his dragon and resting his head against the red scales beneath the old boy’s nostrils. 

“Lykiriī, Carakses,” Daemon said soothingly as the Red Wyrm jolted his head and snarled.

Caraxes would never hurt Daemon, for their bond transcended even the closest and brotherly friendships between men. The old red dragon was merely a temperamental creat ure, fierce and hostile, much as Daemon was, which many owed to why they had such a close bond. 

Daemon then walked along Caraxes’s side, letting his fingers drag along the scaly skin of the dragon over his face, his neck and his body until Daemon ducked under the dragon’s wing and climbed atop him and sitting upon his saddle. 

After buckling his saddle to the harnesses on his legs, the Warmaster took the reins of the Red Wyrm and urged him into the sky. 

Caraxes then spread out his wings and gave himself a running start like a lizard on its hind legs, letting the wind collect under his wings before he flapped himself into the air, climbing the skies with each flap.
The great emperor then crossed over the Valley of the Dragonlords and drew closer to the city of Valyria the Great.

A number of dragons were circling the smoking summit of Blenon Valyriōs, and as Daemon drew closer, they became clearer to him. Silverwing, Sheepstealer, Arrax, Moondancer, Syrax and Seasmoke.

Three years he had dwelled in the Empire, and yet it still exhilarated him every time he saw so many dragons flying freely together in the ancestral homeland of the mighty dragonlords of old. 

As Caraxes drew nearer to the mountain, Daemon urged him down,  both steering the reins and giving him commands in High Valyrian. 

Caraxes entered the dragonmount through one of the vent tunnels on the upper slopes of the volcano. 

As Caraxes entered the dark tunnel into the mountain, he drifted from flight into a crawl through the mountain until he was perched upon the edge of the tunnel overlooking the open caverns of the mountain.

The Red Wyrm then dipped over the edge into the open caverns below and allowed the wind beneath his wings to soften the fall into a glid with Caraxes bringing Daemon the the stoen pier that extended out from one of the series of tunnels and walkways used to get around the mountain, like the one back on Dragonstone.

Daemon then dismounted Caraxes and approached his head, petting him once more before letting him depart so that he might rest and gorge if he so wished.

When Daemon left Caraxes, he ripped off his riding gloves and stuffed them into his sword belt, which carried Anogarys.

As Daemon left the stone pier, he was approached by a pair of Dragonkeeper elders.

“ Rystas, Dāriorys Daemon. Dāriorys Rhaenyra said that you would soon be returning. She asked us to tell you to attend her in your chambers,” the Elder explained, bowing his head to his Emperor.

“Very good, Urnerys,” Daemon said in gratitude to the elder before moving on. 

The Emperor then made his way up and through the palace until finally he arrived at his chambers and entered them. 

Inside, he found Rhaenyra sitting at her desk with a mirror set up as she put on a pair of ruby-encrusted earrings. 

She was all dressed up in a red linen fabric dress with a black and silver trim, styled with valyrian patterns, and Daemon noticed Rhaenyra’s handmaiden Dyana bring over the small black wooden box, which contained the Imperial crown.

The Empress caught Daemon in the mirror and looked at him.

“You summoned me, Your Majesty?” he asked in an insincere tone. 

“I am going to address the ambassadors, and I want you by my side. Switch into something formal that does not reek of Caraxes and be ready to come with me,” Rhaenyra commanded in a commanding but kind manner. 

The Dyana girl then brought a black tunic and red sash, presenting it to him for his approval. 

When Dameon nodded, the girl left the garments on the bed and dismissed herself with a bow, leaving the Emperor to change in privacy. 

“Throne Room?” Daemon asked as he got dressed.

“Audience Chamber,” Rhaenyra replied, referring to a smaller throne room they had no bigger than a dining r oom or a council chamber. It was reputed for being more suitable for smaller court holdings and used as a less grand and formal alternative to the throne room basilica.

“Who else will be there?” Daemon asked.

“Aside from us and the ambassadors? The Imperial Council. Beyond that, I would rather keep this matter quiet until we see the ambassador's reactions to what I have to say, I must measure their responses,” Rhaenyra explained.

After Daemon changed his garments, Rhaenyra, fully dressed and crowned, came to him and brought his valyrian steel circlet and set it upon Daemon’s head.

“So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Daemon asked. 

“You’ll know soon enough. I’d rather let you find out later since you’ll probably be smiling like an idiot when you find out the implications of what I am about to do,” Rhaenyra said, her words intriguing Daemon greatly.

When the circlet was properly positioned on Daemon’s brow, he retrieved Anogary’s still sheathed upon his swordbelt and fixed it around his waist once more.

“So it's a mystery, how intriguing,” Daemon teased. 

“Not a mystery to all. I’ve sought counsel with Rhaenys on this matter, and she alone knows my intentions,” Rhaenyra replied.

Daemon stared down his lady wife with a raised eyebrow.

“Trust my cousin more than me, do you?” Daemon asked, acting all offended.

“Indubitably,” Rhaenyra replied, pecking a kiss upon Daemon’s lips before walking to the door.

“Oh, bless your wicked heart,” Daemon said with a smile, following behind his wife.

The two then left their chamber, joined by the Dragonknights who followed behind. 

After a few flights of stairs and the twists and turns of the corridors, they arrived.

The Audience Chamber was a wide and open chamber consisting of two rows of pillars on either side of the double door entrance spaced out towards the opposite wall with tall lattice-covered windows and a wide and squad throne.

Its spine was only a little taller than the large block armrests adorned with dragon heads upon them, and the seat seemed wide enough to fit two people. 

A recreation of the Archon’s throne, which once stood where the great dragonglass mountain of a throne was now built.

Already waiting for them there was Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys, Lord Bartimos, Lord Simon and Lord Lysandro. 

Rhaenyra greeted the councillors and dismissed their inquiries about the nature of the meeting, and then the Empress sat upon her second throne and awaited the rest of the Imperial Council. 

Jace and Baela were the next to arrive, hand in hand with their Dragonknights trailing behind. 

The Heir and his wife took positions next to the Emperor, and the Dragonknights all formed together behind the seated Empress.

Soon after, Lord Gormon, Lord Gunthor, Lady Mysaria, Grand Master Raegoth and Grand Wisdom Gerardys all arrived, the latter carrying a scrolled up piece of parchment in his hands, which he told the Empress he had prepared just as requested.

Soon after, the fourteen ambassadors from across the Gulf of Grief and from Volantis were all gathered together, dressed in their resplendent robes and all seeming rather merry.

“Thank you for coming, my esteemed Lords and Masters,” Rhaenyra began, opening this odd meeting with pleasantries. 

The Ambassadors bowed or nodded their heads respectfully to the Empress in response. 

“It is my understanding that over the course of the coming two weeks, you all plan to return home to your respective dominions and report on your time here in Valyria this past month. So, here today in a formal capacity, I would like to offer my gratitude for your time and effort to build good diplomatic relations with the Empire, and it is my sincerest hope that all future conflicts between our nations can be avoided. If nothing else, you must believe me on that,” Rhaenyra said in an almost pleading tone towards the end.

The Ambassadors did not seem to notice it and simply spoke out their praises and gratitude to the Empress and her court. 

Rhaenyra nodded her head solemnly and then turned and nodded her head to Grand Wisdom Gerardys, and he readied the parchment in his hands.

“In the spirit of our flourishing diplomatic relations, I have summoned you all here so that I might make an opportunity to share something with you, my lords. Something I believe it is integral you bring with you back to your homes and those you serve. With the assistance of my council, I have finalised the matter of defining the borders of my Empire. Grand Wisdom Gerardys has drawn a map, showing the borders we claim. You shall all have copies that you might give to your masters in your respective homelands when you leave here in the coming weeks,” Rhaenyra explained as Grand Wisdom Gerardys turned around the unravelled parchment showing a map of Valyria between the Summer Sea and the Gulf of Grief with and outline marking the territories of Valyria.

Master Gerardys then stood next to the Empress and allowed Rhaenyra to use her finger to point out parts of the map to the Ambassadors.

“Henceforth, our dominion shall extend to all the lands south of the peaks of the painted mountains up to this point known as the seven ringed peak,” Rhaenyra said, pointing to just beyond halfway along the Painted Mountains’ range. “And all land up to fourteen leagues eastward and westward of each of the outlying channels of the Sea of Sighs shall be claimed as our territories as well. I also claim the regional territories of the ruins of Nolos along the Demon Road as they were during the reign of the Freehold, so that my people may resettle the city when we see fit.”

Rhaenyra’s finger then tapped the little dot sitting just west of the city of Mantarys, another outlying city of the Freehold, but one that had been made a ruin; however, in time, they intended to recolonise the ruins of Nolos and restore it to glory as the ninth city of the Empire. 

“Furthermore, as it was during the days of the Freehold, we claim all maritime territory that surrounds the lands of Valyria. All ocean tides within sixty-five leagues of the Empire will be subject to Valyrian law and Valyrian rule, and we reserve the right to stop, board or seize any vessel that we suspect to be in violation of our laws and traditions.”

Rhaenyra then traced her finger around the red line that went around the coast of Valyria to emphasise the maritime territories. 

The ambassadors all looked to one another, shrugging and nodding, seeming to regard the Empress’s declaration as fair.

“I can say with great merriment and open-handedness that you may use our waters and our Demon Road to cross between the Gulf of Grief and the Summer Sea, and to you, Lords of Volantis, I say vice versa. Your ships and caravans will be under the Empire’s protection, and as of yet, we are happy to let you travel into our borders without taxation for the time being. You may even sail through the smoking sea to effectively cut the time of your voyages by a third of what you would have sailed by circumavigating the peninsula. And of course, we will happily open trade with your cities,” Rhaenyra said to the joy and compliments of the Ambassadors. 

Daemon looked across to Lord Corlys, the scepticism in the Sea Snake’s eyes suggesting that just like Daemon, he too was not sure if the Empress was being a bit naively open-handed to the foreign guests, but neither would question her authority in front of outsiders.

“Your generosity shall intrench deep ties with the city of Tolos, Your Majesty,” said Lord Jaenor Ageneos.

“My Lord Berralis back home will be most pleased,” added Lord Maeharon Qohlaeris of Elyria.

It seemed Rhaenyra had won the favour of all who had come to visit their Empire.

“However. There are conditions to these boons I offer you. In exchange for our friendship, trade, coexistence and travel through our Imperial territories, a simple, single concession must be made by you in return. We will not abide by any form of slavery passing through our territories. Not by land and not by sea, with no exceptions. Any slave we find being smuggled or openly carted through our territories shall be immediately released and granted citizenry within the Empire, and penalties shall befall those who participate in such barbaric practices,” Rhaenyra asserted, silently shocking her councillors, save for Princess Rhaenys and audibly shocking the ambassadors. 

“Your Majesty, you can’t be serious,” Master Gamdar zo Ullhor of Astapor scoffed, but Rhaenyra’s expression was of no jesting mood. 

Daemon, on the other hand, was smiling, not because he thought anything was funny but rather because he was astounded and impressed by this sudden yet adamant turn that Rhaenyra had made and judging by the looks on many of the other councillors, they too were impressed with her steadfastness and assertions of strength.

“Slavery is a brutish and abhorrent practice. Once beloved in Valyria, as it remains by our neighbours, the Ghiscari. Our forebearers, the Dragonlords, embraced slavery as a way of intrenching their own superiority and inflicting cruelty on those less fortunate than themselves, and as the Freehold expanded, they brought slavery wherever they went. Volantis, Myr, Tyrosh, Lys, Pentos, Qohar, Norvos, Lorath and so on. So blinded by the power and ego of the practice, our forebears allowed themselves to devolve into the monsters feared and disgusted in children’s stories told in Braavos and Dorne. In the Doom of Valyria, slavery was one of many aspects of my ancestors' blind greed that saw the Freehold collapse. I cannot — I will not — allow my people to fall to the same evils nor perpetuate the sins that we entrenched in the Free Cities and allowed to fester amongst the Ghiscari when we ruled over them. Therefore, I will have no complicity in any form in the practice, not even to placate the cultures of those whom we wish peace with.”

Rhaenyra's speech, while probably inspiring to those who shared her values, was received with offence by the Ambassadors who felt slighted and targeted by her words.

“What you call brutish savagery is what we call a way of life, Cousin!” said Vaeron Pementos, raising his voice. “We in Volantis rely on slave shipments from the east, as do many of the other Free Cities. Furthermore, they rely on us as customers for their trade.”

“How are we supposed to transport our slaves if you shall not allow us to use the Demon’s Road or sail along your coastline?” one of the Ghiscari Lords snapped. 

“If you wish to transport slaves between the Gulf of Grief and the Free Cities in the west, you must take a greatly extended sea route that circumnavigates the maritime borders of the Empire, or alternatively, you may travel around the Painted Mountains through the Dothraki Sea.”

Growls of disgust rose up from the Ambassadors, dissatisfied with the Empress’s ultimatum.

“Surely you jest. Our fear of the Doom prior to your Empire’s creation kept our voyages around the Valyrian coast greatly distant from your coastline but these new maritime borders pushes our trade routes even further into the open sea. To give your maritime borders such wide births would add several days and possibly weeks to our voyages around the peninsula. And sailing in the open waters leaves our ships vulnerable to the hazards of storms, becalming, pirates, disease and malnutrition. For our slave galleys to be at sea for longer periods of time circumventing your borders it would mean that we would need to have more fewer slaves to feed and hydrate and more food and fresh water in our stocks, so not only would it greatly slow the speed at which our slaves are transported to the Free Cities, but it would also give our ships smaller capacity. It would drain the productivity of our slave trade immensely, ” Master Adreq zo Loraq explained angrily.

“This is unacceptable, Your Majesty. You would the efficiency out of our slave trade and put our ships and caravans in direct routes of the Dothraki, Pirates and sea storms, all to make you feel comfortable?” asked Master Remdaz na Myraq.

“These are my terms, and you would do well to respect them,” Rhaenyra said in stern composure. 

A few more words were thrown about until finally the disgruntled Ambassadors left, saying words like disgrace, you will not be forgiven, and wait until my masters hear of this.

Lord Zaklir zo Ghaen of New Ghis even spat on the floor in rage.

When the Ambassadors were gone, Rhaenyra pinched the bridge of her nose, looking tired and stressed from the confrontation.

It seemed as though all the diplomacy she had worked so hard to shape had disintegrated like a mound of sand in the wind. 

She clearly did not wish to prompt conflict with the outsiders, but nor could she allow herself to compromise on one of her most central principles. 

Rhaenyra then tried to explain her reasoning to the council, but she did not need to, for they were all behind her in the matter, though still concerned about what came next.

“Outside our Empire, slavery is one of the most lucrative trades in this part of the world, and our new stance against it combined with the position and borders of our Empire, makes us an unavoidable source of cost and hindrance in the eyes of our neighbours,” Lord Corlys cautioned. 

“We should mobilise the fleet and the legions at once,” Lord Bartimos suggested.

“We should send at least two dragonriders north with a sizable detachment of the legion to hold Mantarys,” Jace suggested. 

“No,” Rhaenyra said, raising her hand.

“We shall prepare and plan, but we shall do it quietly and raise no suspicions yet. I am still hoping that the fear of our dragons will be enough to persuade at least a handful of them to accept our terms and take the slave trade disruption on the chin. Master Raegoth, keep your sorcerers vigilant with the dragon candles when our guests return home,” the Empress commanded. 

After that, Rhaenyra dismissed her assembled council and told them they would meet later to discuss the matter further. 

Daemon and Rhaenyra then left the audience chamber and returned to their own private chambers.

When Rhaenyra sat at her desk and removed her crown, she let out a sigh like she was removing the weight of the entire empire from her weary head. 

“So that was my surprise, eh? My very own war,” Daemon teased, trying to cheer up his wife.

Rhaenyra snorted and shook her head.

“After spending so much time grooming your legions, I figured you might get moody if I did not get to play with your toy soldiers,” said Rhaenyra. 

Daemon walked up behind Rhaenyra and rested his hands on her shoulders, feeling how tense and upset she was by her declaration, clearly filled with anxiety about the prospect that she had just made a great mistake that would cost the Empire. 

“If enough men with common sense hold power amongst the rulers of Essos, then very few should challenge us and those who do challenge, we can cut down with great ease,” Daemon declared, trying to reassure his wife and kissing her on the back of the head.

Rhaenyra seemed to be relaxing and loosening up, but then a sharp knock came at the door. 

Ser Harrold poked his head in with a grim expression on his face.

“Master Adreq zo Loraq to see you, Your Majesty,” the old knight said.

Rhaenyra rose from her seat. 

“Send him in,” she said with confidence. 

Daemon adjusted his footing at peered at the Ambassador as he entered the chamber and approached Rhaenyra with a stern look in his eyes.

A moment of silence passed between them as Rhaenyra and Adreq stared at each other until the Master from Meereen finally spoke.

“What have you done?” he asked with a cold and bitter tone.

“Only what I felt was right,” Rhaenyra responded with her head held high. 

“I came to you! I told you that all the Ambassadors from Slaver’s Bay had agreed to seek peace with you. Now this? I offer you an olive branch and you entitle yourself to the entire fucking olive grove! Is this a ploy to prompt us to violence? A trick to make us attack you to give your history book a reluctant pretext to our conquest and subjection?” Adreq asked.  

“I promise you, Master Adreq, everything I have said to you was real. I desire peace as much as you do and wish no ill will between your people and mine. You wish for your cities to be safe, I wish for my Empire to be safe. If you wish for peace, I shall grant you peace. If you wish to trade materials, minerals or treasures with the Empire, I shall open trade with you and let you use our trade routes and roads to transport your goods, but I cannot abide by slavery. I will not travel to your lands and force you to give it up; I only demand that it never enter the borders of my Empire. Is that not more than enough to choose peace over war?” Rhaenyra asked.

Adreq snorted.

“When I first suspected the existence of your Empire, all I wanted was to tear it down and take its power for myself. Then I arrived here and saw your power with my own eyes, and it made me fear. Your dragons alone made you seem next to godly in your power and such a force to be reckoned with that I chose to quell my ambitions and seek peace with you for fear of the devastation you might lay at our feet. Yet now that we offer you peace, you manifest addendums, forbidding us from using your maritime trade routes nor the Demon’s Road for transporting slaves as we have done since the twilight of the Century of Blood. Why? To accommodate your andalised sensibilities,” Loraq spat. “Who are you? Dragonlord? Who are you to dictate the way of the world? To undo centuries of status quo in this region of the world to make way for your Empire and its beliefs?”

Rhaenyra shook her head and sighed.

“We need not be enemies, Adreq. I have told you repeatedly, we have no prospects on your lands, nor do we wish to enforce our values upon you. We understand it is not our place to dictate your own nation’s practices, despite whether or not we agree with them,” Rhaneyra responded.

“And there in lies the crux of it. We are safe from you so long as you believe yourself to have no right or no cause to fight us. You can dictate that our time-honoured practices be forced to circumvent your borders through the open seas and the great Dothraki-infested grass plains, and we will accommodate you for fear of your power. Our survival, our independence, our very existence will become believed to be dependent on the Empire’s fancy of us, and I, too, was almost fooled by it. You act so disgusted in the face of slavery, and yet you wish to enslave all the known world, using fear as a shackle. Well, I say no… we are the proud sons of Ghiscar, the blood of the Harpy! We were here long before you dragon riders crawled out the hellfires of the Fourteen Flames and with the gods ass my witness we shall outlast you yet,” Adreq declared.

“Careful how you speak to us. You are in the dragon's den now, little Harpy,” Daemon cautioned, holding Anograrys by the throat of the scabbard and pushing the crossguard up by his thumb, revealing the red and black rippled valyrian steel blade within. 

Adreq gulped in fear, then looked to each of them with a dirty glare before storming out.   

Rhaenyra then went into Daemon’s arms and held him tight, and he reciprocated the embrace. 

Daemon then took a deep breath and swallowed his pride before speaking to Rhaenyra and saying something he felt he’d regret. 

“You know… no one wants this war more than me. I’ve long held that the best way to solidify our Empire’s sovereignty is through the old manner, Power and Glory, Fire and Blood. But… if you wish it… If it is what you truly want. You could just as easily reconvene the ambassadors and tell them you have reconsidered, and tell them you will accept, allowing them to travel through our seas and roads to transport their slaves. No one expects you to save the entire world, Rhaenyra. If you wish to secure our Empire with passivity, then no one would begrudge you. After all, a tolerance does not equate to participation,” Daemon explained, for while he so wished to humble the known world with a righteous war of dragonfire and the spears of his legions shattering the lesser regimes of the Gulf of Grief and expanding the Empire, he would not let Rhaenyra, his beloved wife and Empress, be made to feel powerless in anyhting she did.

Rhaenyra looked to him for a moment, the glint of appreciation for his gesture in her eyes, but then she shook her head and turned away. 

“Tolerance may not be participation, but tolerance leads to acceptance, acceptance to indulgence and sooner or later… participation. We have worked too hard and too diligently to retain all the wonders of Valyria without allowing ourselves to embrace the corruption and vulgarities that the Freehold was built on. If I allow slavery to pass through my lands unchallenged, whatever mandates I set against the practice amongst my citizenry will eventually be repealed by future generations of the Empire, tantalised by the prospects of supremacy and dominance. And then, how long until the mines beneath the Fourteen Flames and the fleshpits of Gogossos are restored? No, I can leave no chance for the Freehold’s embers to spark a flame in the Empire… What is the point of protecting what we have if it all devolves into everything we detest in the coming generations? We must hold to our principles even if we must fight to keep them,” Rhaenyra declared, resolute in her choice.

Daemon then rested his chin on Rhaenyra’s head as the two held each other, united as one in protection of the family and the Empire. 

While Daemon remained silent, he wanted to say to Rhaenyra that she need not fear, for he would be by her side through all of it and whatever might come from her choices that day, he would be there to face all that came next with her.

Chapter Text

Daeron had always wanted to visit Volantis in his youth, after all, back then Volantis was considered the last bastion of Valyrian society, at least by the Targaryens and the Volantine in return thought the Targaryens to be such. 

Now they had both been dethroned as the last holdouts of Valyrian culture, and now Valyria was considered to be such. 

The ships from Lys had arrived a little over a week ago; the royal ships from King’s Landing; the self-exiles from Driftmark and Claw Isle led by the Velaryon and Celtigar branches that wished to reaffirm themselves to Lords Corlys and Bartimos, along with Empress Rhaenyra; and the emissarial ships sent by the former triarchy cities of Lys, Myr and Tyrosh. 

Ambassadors from Braavos, Pentos, Norvos and Qohar had arrived in the city as well, travelling by land and would join the rest of the Free Cities’ and Westeros’s ships on their journey to Valyria, where they would all go before the Empress together and hopefully begin diplomatic relations. 

Only Dorne had refused to send an ambassador, instead opting to remain out of the Empire’s affairs as of yet, due to the bad blood between the people of the Rhoyne and the Dragonlords of old as well as their more recent bad blood in the past century with the Targaryens during the several Dornish wars that had come and gone since the time of Aegon the Dragon.

Volantis, on the other hand, had already sent off their emissaries, being but a stone’s throw away from the Empire and were there now. 

When the current Triarchs of Volantis received them, they explained that their two ambassadors were due back to the city soon, declaring that as a new wave of emissaries arrived in Valyria, the ones already there would be leaving.

When sorting out their accommodations for their brief stay in the city, several different houses within the black wall of Volantis offered their palaces as lodgings to the ambassadors. 

The westerosi delegates had been offered to stay in the palace of Lord Venghar Sortarys, who introduced his wife Rhaelle as a kinswoman to Daeron, citing her as the daughter of the late Princess Saera. 

Lord Venghar and Lady Rhaelle were gracious hosts to them, as were their three children. Lady Rhaelle explained that she had two older boys named Valerion and Aegor, both of whom died trying to claim Vermithor and Silverwing alongside their uncle Maegor Vhoscas when Empress Rhaenyra passed through Volantis on her way to Valyria.

Due to Ser Daeron Velaryon and his people being of Westrosi origin, they too were offered lodging in Lord Venghar’s palace, but they instead they took their accommodations elsewhere in the city out of respect for the inappropriateness of sharing a dwelling with the Prince’s procession, for while they both came from Westeros, they were not untied in common cause, nor were they countrymen to one another any longer.

At midday, Prince Daeron and Ser Tyland were enjoying a stroll through one of the courtyard gardens of the Sortarys family palace with their hosts while Ser Erryk was nearby watching over the Prince.

“I trust your visit has been satisfactory thus far, Cousin?” Lady Rhaelle asked, looking to Daeron as they walked.

“It has. Your brothers and sisters have all visited with me and shared kind words, and I am glad to know that the bonds with the descendants of the Conqueror remain strong,” Daeron replied, testing his skills of being diplomatic before they headed to Valyria.

“Indeed. I have spoken with my siblings and their families, and they have all reported you as a charming young man. Your dragon Tessarion is beautiful and much more appealing than some of the dragons we played host too a few years ago. The ones they called Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost were rather common-looking things… at least by dragon standards,” Rhaelle explained.

Daeron never got the chance to visit Dragonstone as a boy and thus never saw the wild dragons like Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost when they dwelt there, and when Daeron did visit Dragonstone on his way back to King’s Landing after the War in the Stepstones, he dared not seek out the Cannibal, for he was no madman.

“Perhaps the wild dragons were of lesser stock than the others, hence why they took such inferior riders as their masters,” Lord Sortarys remarked.

Daeron winced but kept his composure, offended on two counts by the Lord’s words. First, his suggestion that there could be such a thing as an inferior dragon, such words were heretical, especially from someone of the old blood such as he. 

Secondly, Daeron was offended at the concept of a dragonrider being in any way a master for a dragon was not a pet nor a servant, but a companion through a deep and powerful bond. 

“By inferior riders, doubtless you refer to the baseborn dragonriders,” Ser Tyland suggested with a sneer in his tone. 

“The two young men, Alyn and Addam, were bastard fishermen or merchants before they claimed their dragons. How one so low caste as that Addam boy got control of a proper dragon like Seasmoke, I know not. And the girl, Nettles, was the daughter of a whore and lived as a street urhcin and a thief before being taken in by the other lowborn dragonseeds. No wonder she took that vile beast Sheepstealer as her own, for no respectable dragon would want her. At least Silverwing and Vermithor were claimed by true purebloods… though I still wish it had been my boys,” Lady Rhaelle stated with lamentation in her eyes.

Daeron lowered his head and cleared his throat.

“I understand that the two who claimed Vermithor and Silverwing were of Saera’s line as you are,” Daeron said, trying to get Lady Rhaelle’s mind off of her two late sons. 

“Indeed,” said Lord Sortarys. “Rhaelle’s half-brother, Aerion Nestaar, claimed Vermithor and her niece, Visenya Doreneos, claimed Silverwing.”
Lady Rhaelle then smiled, though whether it was genuine or forced, Daeron could not discern.

“I was always fond of Visenya’s father, my brother Rhaenar, when he died at sea with his wife I considered taking Visenya in as my ward, but instead my mother took her in, though more so because it gave Seara control of Visenya’s family’s estate until she came of age than for any reason of maternal love. It was a proud day when two Dragonlords emerged from Volantis, pure in valyrian stock on both sides, unlike those three lowborn bastards.”

Daeron wished to question his hosts' rather disparaging remarks against the dragonriders, for they had been chosen through the magic of the great dragon dream, yet he knew it would be unwise to so readily speak out against his hosts.

“Well, I am sure that I shall be seeing your niece when I visit the Empire. Would you like me to pass on your regards to her?” Daeron asked.

Lady Rhaelle waved her hand in the air dismissively.

“Don’t bother. I considered making her my ward when she was young, but we weren’t that close when she got older. She was always very moody and had very opposing views to the culture in Volantis. She was always a good artist, though.”
“An artist?” Daeron repeated. 

“Painter, story writer, poet and a skilled harpist for one so young,” Lord Venghar stated.

I play the lute, Daeron thought to himself, though for what reason he could not be sure. Perhaps he was contemplating the possibility of finding common ground with one of Rhaenyra’s sworn dragonriders, a toehold into diplomatic relations, which was Daeron’s intent. 

Daeron had never been an ambassador and wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to do beyond retrieve his mother and hopefully not start a war that would ravage Westeros, Valyria and all the Free Cities in between. 

The conversation continued to unfold as they walked amidst the flowers, shrubs and small shrine-like statues that decorated the garden. At a certain point, Ser Tyland was talking about his visit to the Long Bridge and the city outside the black walls.

“Actually, Lord Sortarys, there is something I wanted you to elaborate upon. During my walk through the city yesterday, I witnessed a peculiar sight. My guards and I were passing through a rather rundown area where we found some commoners all gathered together on their knees in some form of worship, and when I looked, they appeared to be gathered around an alcove. When I got closer, the alcove they were praying to bore a small portrait painted with what appeared to be Rhaenyra Targaryen. They were kneeling and waving their arms at her and chanting the same two words over and over again in reverence to Rhaenyra’s painting… Azor Ahai, ” Ser Tyland noted with a concerned tone.

A shrine to Rhaenyra, Daeron pondered with concern. 

Lord Vehngar snorted and shook his head.

“Think nothing of it. 'Tis but a shrine of the Red Worshipers, one of many in this city. Three years ago, when Empress Rhaenyra first visited us, that red comet had just streaked the sky, and many of the R’hllor worshipers took it as a sign of their coming messiah, thinking it to be Rhaenyra. They believed her conquest of Valyria would establish her as their Princess that was Promised. When she and her followers disappeared beyond the Doom and were believed dead by most, the red worshipers forgot her and looked for another idol to lead them. Rhaenyra still retained a sizable sect of worshippers here in the city, about a third of those who venerated her when she visited Volantis remained loyal. We’ve even had some trouble in the city with riots and unrest between Rhaenyra’s fanatics and the fundamentalists who reject her as a false prophet after her supposed demise. Eventually, the factions were settled by their red priests, and since Rhaenyra’s revealed survival, her following has grown heavily in the past few months. What you saw was a cluster of repenters, R’hllor followers who thought Rhaenyra dead and now reaffirming her as the Princess that was Promised and begging her forgiveness,” Venghar explained.

Daeron jerked his neck and furrowed his brow, unsure how to take having some form of messiah or living god for a sister, not that Daeron actually believed it. 

“And do you not worry? These Red Priests have a powerful following within your city. Should diplomatic relations between Volantis and the Empire fall through, do you not fear them causing trouble in the city out of solidarity to Empress Rhaenyra, or perhaps fleeing the city to join her empire?” Ser Tyland asked.

“Not at all. We lords of the city have long instilled assurances to defeat the Red Priests if their fanaticism grows too unruly and should they wish to form a great exodus and join Rhaenyra then good riddance to them,” Lord Venghar stated.

Ser Tyland let out a sycophantic yet clearly forced laugh meant to flatter Lord Venghar.

Soon, a slave approached Lord and Lady Sortarys and called them away on a matter.

“Forgive us, Prince Daeron, Ser Tyland. This matter must be attended to. We will take our leave,” said Lord Venghar before departing with his lady wife.

With their hosts gone, Daeron and Tyland continued to walk about the garden, but not to admire the flowers, but instead to discuss matters in private.

“We sail for Valyria in three days, my Prince,” Ser Tyland noted aloud, something that Daeron was not oblivious to, but the Lannister knight was trying to prompt a response from the prince.

The Prince breathed deeply and exhaled. 

“If you wish to discuss how we will present ourselves, then our objectives are simple. We seek diplomacy and establish good will with my sister, retrieve my mother and when peace with the Empire is established, we return home,” Daeron declared. 

Ser Tyland shook his head.

“That would be the ideal outcome, but I should warn you that your expectations might be a bit… idealistic, my Prince. You speak of Rhaenyra as your sister, as though you would be as close to her as you are with your true siblings, but that is not the case. You have not lived amongst her since you were a small child, and by your own admission, you did not speak with her when she surrendered her crown three years ago. By all rights, you are a stranger to her. She knew your brothers better than you and counted them as her enemies,” Tyland stated.

“The war of succession ended before it even began, and has been done with for three years. Rhaenyra seems to have carved a good life for herself out here and built a fine home for herself and her people. We cannot expect her to cling to old grievances from three years ago at the risk of all she has since built. Westeros now sits half a world away from her Empire and is no longer of any consequence to her,” Daeron assured the Lannister knight.

“I suppose,” Tyland said with a sigh. “Mayhaps myself, Lord Jasper and your Grandsire spent so long preparing for the eventuality of war with Rhaenyra in order to put your brother on his rightful throne that all this seemed too good to be true. The pretender leaving without incident and finding her own place in the world. Or perhaps I feel a bit slighted by your sister’s new dominion. For so long, your sister — a woman — paraded herself about as the rightful heir while she had three trueborn half-brothers, including yourself, and put her own bastards forth as her successors with impunity. For her to finally be humbled for her impertient mockery of tradition and law, only to be rewarded with a dominion arguably even grander than the Seven Kingdoms. It just feels so… wrong that she gets to win in such a way, with no long term consequences for her actions,” Ser Tyland remarked.

Daeron stopped and turned to Ser Tyland with cold and steely eyes.

“She lost a daughter,” Daeron declared.

Ser Tyland lowered his head meekly. 

“Forgive me, my Prince,” the Lannister knight replied.

Daeron nodded.

“We are here as peacekeepers, Ser Tyland. Judgements on our actions are matters reserved for the gods. Whatever you think our side is owed or whatever you think Rhaenyra does or does not deserve, put it out of your mind and focus only on bringing peace between our nations,” Daeron stated.

“You are wise and prudent, young Prince,” the knight complimented.

Daeron then tried to refocus the conversation.

“So, almost the entirety of the Gulf of Grief and Volantis already have emissaries in the Empire, and as they leave, we shall enter alongside the rest of the representatives from across the Free Cities. Will this expanse of diplomatic focus affect our relations with my sister?” Daeron asked. 

The Lannister nodded in reply.

“We are in the midst of countless different nations clustered around this part of the world, all concerned with the prosperity of their own realms and weighing which alliances and which adversaries suit their ends best. A hurricane of competing interests that we must navigate to find a way to press our own advantage. Perhaps if fortune favours us the people of these regions of Essos will be so caught up in their own messes that both they and the Empire will be too distracted amongst themselves that they will have no time to bother us,” Tyland counselled the young Prince. 

As Daeron walked with Ser Tyland through the gardens, he contemplated how real all of this was starting to feel and wondered if his half-sister and her faction felt the same when they were in Volantis, only days away from setting out for Valyria. 

They must have been more terrified, for they knew not what waited for them, only the vague promise of dreams to guide them.

Since Daeron arrived in Volantis, when he went to see Tessarion beyond the city limits and looked out to the southeast horizon of the sea, he felt like the shores of Valyria were calling to him, and now that call was about to be answered all too soon.

Chapter Text

It was a lovely day in Valyria. One of countless lovely days that blessed the Empire, but this particular lovely day was one that Nettles and Baela took as an excuse to take to the skies and embrace the joys that were the prerogatives of the dragonlords. 

To be a dragonrider was unlike anything else in all that Nettles had experienced in her life.

When she tried to make sense of it in ways that she could describe, the best she could do was to think of it as a cross between riding a horse and sailing a ship.

Like a ship, the wings of the dragons worked somewhat like sails in their own way, allowing Sheepstealer to glide over the winds that blew through Nettles’s hair and brought a cold rustling noise to her ears.

It was also like riding a horse in the loosest terms that to ride a dragon was to command and ride a living creature of its own mind, a connection that required trust, respect and intuition to anticipate one another the communicate accordingly, though Nettles would insist that her relationship was Sheepstealer was more profound and intimate that any horse she had ridden. 

The two dragonriders were soaring over the mountain ranges that encircled the valley of the dragonlords, dancing, diving and chasing one another in a playful manner as the more nimble and smaller Moondancer bobbed and weaved around Sheepstealer, taunting Nettles to pursue.

“Naejot, Bianorlaodī!” Nettles shouted to her dragon, urging her dragon forward as they followed Moondancer through the sky. 

The two riders chased one another around for a while after, outmanoeuvring and swooping over each other’s heads in a playful manner.

Soon, Nettles spotted Moodnancer descending down along the mountain range and landing upon the lower slopes in an area where the surface was not as steep.

“Embrot, Bianorlaodī! Tegot!” Nettles commanded as she brought Sheepstealer around in a circling back as the dragon began to descend. 

Sheepstealer came down near Moondancer and dropped onto the slopes of the mountain with a strong thud that jolted through Nettles’s body, bouncing her in her saddle while she was kept in place by her riding harness which hooked her to the saddle.

After unhooking herself from her saddle, Nettles slid down the side of her dragon and dropped down onto the ground.

By the time Nettles landed on her feet, Baela was already dismounted and petting Moondancer’s snout.

As Nettles walked along the side of her own dragon, she ran her leather-gloved fingers along the prickly neck of her dearest Sheepstealer. 

When she came alongside her dragon’s face, she reached out and scratched his snout which he tended to enjoy, making him riggle and let out a gleeful purring noise. 

Nettles giggled at Sheepstealer’s glee.

There were many who liked to mock Sheepstealer and say that he was ugly, claiming he had the head of a lion lizard, he was far too prickly, the long curled hooks at the end of his wings were unappealing and the various colours of different shades of brown were all unappealing individually let alone blotched all over him.

Nettles once caught some noble lady, whose family was originally from Myr before joining their fleet, speaking insults about Sheepstealer and Nettles punched her square in the nose. 

She got a strong scolding from the Empress, from the High Chancellor Corlys and from Marilda for her troubles, but received an approving wink from Daemon, and no one ever insulted her dragon again while she was in earshot. 

After giving some love and attention to her boy, she left Sheepstealer and approached Baela.

“Any particular reason we landed here?” Nettles asked her companion as she glanced around the range of rocky mountain peaks that surrounded them. 

Baela shrugged.

“Thought we might take a small reprieve before heading back. Take a chance to savour the view and smell the mountain air without the wind flying in our faces at great speeds,” the Princess explained.

“Sound perfect,” Nettles replied.

Nettles and Baela walked out to the slopes and overlooked the vast range of mountains that encircled their beloved valley, where the capital city sat in blissful seclusion. 

“Thanks for coming out here with me, Baels. I really needed this,” said Nettles, slinging her arm around Baela’s shoulder.

Baela had always been welcoming and kind to Nettles since they met at Dragonstone, but the night they snuck out of Saera Targaryen’s palace in Volantis and explored the Long Bridge together was the night they truly bonded and became close friends.

The bond was not exclusive to Baela alone, for she also had it with Rhaena, Visenya and over the past year wit h Lady Valena Celtigar, Addam’s betrothed.

She was a good and kind girl, exceptionally spirited and sharp-minded, which was what drew Addam to her when all the nobles of the Empire presented their daughters. He knew from the start that he would wish to take a Valyrian-blooded spouse, so that their children would not be common-haired, but Valena stood out to him, apart from all other women whose fathers bade Addam take their daughter for a bride.

Nettles too had been propositioned by many a suitor who wished to bind with her valyrian blood, even though there were many within the Empire that spoke ill of her behind the back. Her dragonblood alone was what she knew to be her only appealing feature to the noble prospects of the Empire and even that was the only compensation for any to be persuaded to wed someone so lowborn. 

Amongst the streets of the Empire, those of valyrian descent, be them dragonseeds from Blackwater Bay or common valyrians from across the Free Cities in Lys or Volantis, many were coveted for spouses to embue their families with valyrian blood, but Nettles’s past, her mother’s profession and her plain features and dark hair made her an undesirable dragonseed redeemed only by the favour of the Empress and her claim of Sheepstealer.  

Nettles knew the way people looked at her. She heard the whispers and comments. 

Visenya and Aerion were raised in the palaces of Volantis, and their blood was noble and pure in Valyrian lineage. Alyn and Addam were the sons of the Sea Snake and even their mother was respected in the Empire, even though she was lowborn. As Guild Mistress of the Mariners and the daughter of the Shipwright who fashioned Lord Corlys’s finest ships, she had earned the respect of the people.

But Nettles was not so favourably looked upon.

An orphan thief from the back alleys of Spicetown spawned from shanty brothel where her mother worked as a whore. Nettles would probably have been dead long ago if Merlida hadn't taken her in all those years ago, hung or starved most likely.

If only the people of the Empire knew the truth. 

The hidden truth that few knew. 

It took Nettles a while to figure out… though a part of her suspected deep down longer than she had consciously suspected.

Perhaps it was always there since they first saw one another’s faces in the great dragon dream which began their great fable. Or perhaps it was something that manifested from oblivion as they spent time together.

He knew… he knew since the night Nettles claimed Sheepstealer.

He claimed it was her laugh that made him realise, the laugh of exhilaration and joy as she climbed the skies on Sheepstealer’s bare and unsaddled back. He said it awoke him, like a familiar scent, taste or sound that lights an old forgotten memory. 

When Daemon heard Nettles laugh for the first at time, her mother’s face flashed before Daemon, and he went back to the seaside brothel where he met her.

She danced atop a table for the Velaryon sailors and goldcloaks who went out drinking with the Prince before the morrow when they would sail south with Daemon and Lord Corlys to do battle with the Crabfeeder. 

Daemon painted a rather beautiful and somewhat poetic story for Nettles, perhaps true or perhaps a merciful gilding to an otherwise lowly story about paying to fuck a common dockside whore. 

Daemon said that as he sat back in his chair and watched as she danced atop the table, the Rogue Prince was enraptured by Nettles's mother, held by the ecstasy of her alluring movements. In that moment, all the women Daemon had enjoyed before faded away, he forgot his Bronze Bitch whom he hated and Lady Mysaria who he had taken as his paramour and then there was only Nettles’s mother.

At that moment, she became the object of all Daemon’s desires and at that exact moment, the whore spun twice, titered over and fell right into Daemon’s lap and laughed.

The same laugh which Nettles inherited, the one she had let out when she first mounted Sheepstealer. A pretty story and perhaps half true, but no doubt riddled with embellishments to make Nettles feel like there was more to her conception beyond a short while of grunting and thrusting solicited by four copper coins of halfgroats. That was what Nettles’s mother was paid when Daemon lay with her, so said the madam of the Brothel to cruelly tease her when she was a child. Four halfgroats they charged her that night the soldiers and sailors came down and by the end of the evening she had forty copper coins bundled up in her skirts.

Four halfgoats, that was what Nettles was worth. A four halfgroats amount of a dragonrider. 

When Daemon first worked it out that night, he was clearly ashamed of those four halfgoats he had spent since he then after avoided Nettles like a plague in the months after that despite the good night they’d had together in Braavos.

It was instead Princess Rhaenys who mentored Nettles as a dragonrider during the early months.

It was not until after they had reached Valyria that he warmed to her once again.

He helped her acclimate to a ladylike manner that she had been shirking since being raised to a Dragon Mistress. While Addam and Alyn had aspired to their knightly stations from the day they had arrived on Dragonstone, while Nettles clung hard to the ruffian sailor she had been since Marilda saved her from the streets.

While they were scouting the lands of Telos and Tyria, Daemon taught her common courtesies of nobility, taught her how to dress and wash her face and impress those at court and all the good a reputation could do her. 

He had even gifted her a curved single-edged valyrian steel short sword that she currently had at her hip.

It took Nettles a long while to figure out why Daemon went through shifting moods of affection and coldness towards her, but eventually, she pieced it all together.

Eventually, she confronted him, and he couldn’t bring himself to deny it. In the privacy of just the two of them, he showed pride and adoration to her as his daughter, but he’d dare not speak a word of her affectionately in public, for she was still a secret, hidden from the world around them. 

Only Rhaenyra alone knew Nettles’s true linage, she alone had noted Daemon’s favour for Nettles and the gifts she had received from him and for a time there was strife between Nettles and the Empress, for Rhaenyra believed that Nettles was having an affair with Daemon.

Gross , she had thought when she had first heard it from Daemon. Not only was he her father, but he was over fifty years old and while there were still some women who said Emperor Daemon was a handsome man, Nettles saw no such appeal. 

In the weeks that the Empress laboured under the delusion that Nettles was a whore like her mother wishing to seduce her husband, she had not plotted Nettles’s death — as far as the young dragonrider knew — but merely shunned Nettles and gave her cold stone hearted stares when no other was looking.

When Daemon finally revealed Nettles’s lineage to the Empress, Rhaenyra came before Nettles and pleaded her forgiveness, offering herself as a confidant and a friend if Nettles ever wished to talk about her struggles with her lineage.

“So the emissaries will be heading off soon,” said Baela, making conversation. 

Nettles snorted.

“Off home to start their malicious plots to wage their wars against us no doubt. Meanwhile, we must make preparations to receive another batch of emissaries from further west,” Nettles recounted as she folded her arms and overlooked the mountains. 

“They should be on their way in the next couple of days if not already,” said Baela.

“So this Prince Daeron… he’s the one you haven’t met, right?” Nettles asked, recounting which of Queen Alicent’s sons had been sent to parlay with the Empire.

Baela nodded in response.

“He’s the youngest of the brood. Jace and Luke knew him in their early youth but he was in Oldtown by the time I first met them. If he’s anything like his two brothers, then he’ll undoubtably be a cunt,” Baela said, causing Nettles to snicker. 

Baela didn’t often sware in such a way but when she did it was often in the presence of Nettles who was a disruptive influence on her younger sister.

Sister, Nettles thought. Baela and Rhaena had used sister to describe Nettles half a hundred times before in passing as a way of conveying familiarity and affection, but neither of them knew how truly the word rang, for Nettles was, in fact, their sister.

It was all so frustrating and confusing when she tried to make sense of it. 

Baela, Rhaena and little Daenys were her sisters. Aegon and Viserys were her brothers. Rhaenyra is her cousin and technically her stepmother. Jace, Luke and Joff were all her step-brothers as well, with Jace also her good brother through Baela and soon Luke would be the same through Rhaena.

Visenya too was her cousin, both of them granddaughters to the Old King Jaehaerys’s children and strangely enough, so were Alyn and Addam. 

Nettles knew not the exact points of where Velaryon and Targaryen blood intertwined beyond both the Conqueror and the Conciliator, as well as their sister-wives hailing from Velaryon mothers, but somewhere in all of it, she was bound to have some distant common blood with the two men she had always known as her foster brothers.

Her whole lineage was a confusing mess that wracked at her mind, she wanted to scream but it was all a fucking secret. 

She was her father’s shame and she knew it. 

He could barely look at her when she was in the same room as his real family and only ever acknowledged her when they spoke in private. 

The only thing that consoled her, the only thing that gave her direction and peace was Aerion. Another distant cousin through their lineages, but that was not the way she saw him. To Nettles, he was the only thing that made sense sometimes, her guiding light in the mists and her anchor in the rough waves.  

Their hidden trist was her solace where she could escape the games of faces and identities and just be herself. She wasn’t hiding from being Daemon’s daughter, nor facing the scorn of those who saw a baseborn thief sired by a whore. 

He loved her, he made her smile and laugh, and feel safe and whole.

Nettles recalled half a year ago she and Sheepstealer went flying with Aerion and Vermithor.

They found a small clearing in the mountains — the northern mountains in the lands of the Long Summer — there was a waterfall, a small lake and a grass field cut off from the outside world. 

Aerion made a blanket with his cloak and they lay there in the field all day. Nettles wanted to stay there forever, just the two of them with all the complications of the rest of the world left behind, a place that was just theirs. 

All she wanted to do was hide away with Aerion and that was why she turned him down every time he proposed. 

She knew that the second she and Aerion announced their intention to wed, the whispers would flood around them. Aerion, the pure-blooded son of an ancient Volantene noble house and a Princess of House Targaryen, the most prestigious form a dragonseed bastard there was, would share the city of Tyria with the daughter of dockside whore who began her life as a street urchin and a thief before becoming a merchant’s ward and finally rider of the ugliest dragon in Valyria. Not even Alyn or Addam was intended to rule any of the great cities of the Empire. 

Nettles, a high lady of the Empire worth four halfgoats.

She was a scandal waiting to happen, and if ever someone found out her true lineage, that would make things worse, not better. 

Nettles could not bring Aerion down in such a way.

More than just that, Nettles had already been so blessed already. She started her life eating scraps in a whore house and now she was a dragonrider in the greatest empire the world had ever seen, she felt like to ask for any more out of life would be an atrocious act of gluttony that would surely visit overdue tragedy upon her in some form or another.

Everything that Nettles was just told her that she couldn’t be Aerion’s wife and lady, no matter how much she wanted to be.

Nettles’s silent self-pitying was then interrupted by the dragons becoming on guard, drawing Nettles and Baela’s attention away from the horizon.

“Look, out there,” said Baela, pointing out to the distance. 

Nettles followed Baela’s direction to the slopes of the mountains a fair distance from them and their dragons where they could see creatures prowling about the mountains.

Quickly, Nettles was able to discern the creatures by their shapes. 

“Chimeras,” Nettles stated, gripping the hilt of her valyrian steel short-sword.

Sheepstealer clearly sensed Nettles’s worry, as he raised his head and snarled at the distant chimeras who noted their presence but kept their distance, fearing the dragons.

The specific breed they’d come across were mountain chimeras — cousin beasts to the forest chimera which had almost killed Lord Adreq zo Loraq during the recent hunt.

They were fairly common in shape, lion-like for the most part with scales, caprinae horns and scorpion tails, but their features were still distinct.

Forest chimeras had addax horns, their scales were a mix of grey, brown and dark green that helped them blend with the forests and black scorpion tails with yellow slit-pupil eyes.

The mountain chimeras instead bore Ibex horns, their scales were various shades of brown and grey and their tails were a golden yellow colour, similar to amber in certain lights. 

Sheepstealer let out a roar and the two mountain chimeras moved on, pouncing up the mountain’s steep and rocky slopes with the kind of agility found in both a lion and a mountain goat.

Baela and Nettles let out sighs of relief.

“We should probably head home,” Nettles suggested with Baela nodding in response. 

“Three āeksiaposse says I make it back before you do,” Baela teased as she raced off towards Moondancer.

Nettles laughed.
“Your on, Princess,” Nettles replied running towards Sheepstealer.

The two sisters then mounted their dragons and prepared to race back towards the dragonmount of Blenon Valyriōs.

Though it was only a race between friends for Baela, while it was a race between sisters for Nettles. 

Maybe one day she might have the heart to reveal herself and who she was, maybe one day she might have the heart to be Aerion’s wife, but for now, she was still just a fatherless dragonrider begotten from a dockside whore for no more than four halfgoats.

Chapter Text

They had left Volantis just before the light of dawn, a convoy of ships from Westeros and the Free Cities with Tessarion as its spear tip. 

Daeron could have easily flown off ahead of the fleet of ships and reached the shores of Valyria in a few hours, seven hells, he could have flown straight to Old Valyria and be addressing the Empress and hugging his mother before nightfall. 

Alas, it was Daeron’s duty and common courtesy to accompany Ser Tyland and all the rest of the emissaries at the pace that their ships restricted them to, thus Daeron kept Tessarion’s pace with their vessels.

When Daeron first spotted the lands of Valyria on the horizon, beyond the misty haze that smelled of burning embers, there were no words that even a self-proclaimed poet like Daeron could come up with to describe the ecstasy, the disbelief or the wonder at seeing the shores of Valyria for the first time and the hills and forests beyond. 

It wasn’t wonderful or special in comparison to any other coastline that Daeron had looked upon, but what it was… what it meant that someone like Daeron could even approach it, let alone seeing it alive and vibrant rather than a barren land scarred by flames and ashes.

This impossible wonder to behold it was a gift to Daeron.

They made landfall in Jaedos Villinion, where they were welcomed by Lord Simon

Henemon, the Lord of the formidably sized port town.

Lord Henemon was of Westerosi origins as his given name suggested, but his surname was a Valyrian one, and when the Lord last lived in Westeros, he was a Bar Emmon of Sharp Point, one of the oldest allies to House Targaryen in Blackwater Bay, their solidarity predating the conquest itself.

Now a servant of the Empire, Lord Henemon welcomed the various emissaries from Westeros, Lys, Tyrosh, Myr, Braavos, Pentos, Norvos and Qohar, and hosted them all in the great hall of his keep, which was draped with the banners of House Bar Emmon, now redone in the Valyrian art style to accommodate the new lifestyles of the Henemons . 

They feasted and were given lodgings to rest in.

In truth, Daeron got barely any sleep that night, too enraptured to at long last be in Valyria.

His guest chamber in Lord Henemon’s keep alone was something that ensnared his wonder, admiring the valyrian brutalist architecture of dark stone scarcely found in the world today outside of Dragonstone. 

When Daeron arrived in Jaedos Villinion, he was surprised by the small citizenry there, for he had never seen so many silver-haired people gathered together in one place. Lowborns from across King’s Landing, Dragonstone, Driftmark, Claw Isle, Lys and Volantis, the old blood of Valyria outcrossed to the lines of the common people through valyrians consorting with commoners. 

The idea that there were likely thousands more people of such lineage across the rest of the Empire amazed Daeron.

There was something… warm about it. 

Growing up in Oldtown, silver hair made him feel isolated, but to be around so many of his people, even if he did not share a nation nor an allegiance with them, was a comfort in its own way.

Furthermore, when Lord Henemon toasted the arrival of the emissaries, he raised a cup to their good health in the language of the dragon lords, speaking High Valyrian with fluency. 

All his family and his retainers understood him clearly, while Ser Tyland relied on Daeron to translate it.

When Prince Daeron looked across the table to Ser Daeron Velaryon and his fellow Velaryons and Celtigars that had travelled with him, the prince saw pure and vulnerable joy as they spoke with Lord Henemon who encouraged their conversion to the Empire with glee, saying that Valyria was a blessed place that had brought joy and gratitude to all its people, sighting that Lord Corlys Velaryon and Lord Bartimos Celtigar would be all too happy to have more of their kin join in Valyria’s prosperity. 

When Ser Tyland asked of Lord Corlys and Lord Bartimos’s stations, Lord Henemon conveyed that the Velaryons were now rulers of the mighty port city of Aquos Dhaen and the Celtigars were the rulers of the city of Rhylos. Furthermore, Lord Corlys was the Empress’s Lord Chancellor — a rank of equivalency with the Hand of the King — while Lord Bartimos was also on the imperial council as the Lord Magistrate, one of two roles that covered the duties of the Master of Laws alongside its counterpart, the Lord Justicar. 

The next day, Lord Simon Henemon personally readied his ship to take them all to Valyria the Great — the new name they had fashioned for the city they knew as Old Valyria — wishing to be at the Imperial court alongside the many other nobles that had gathered for the emissarial matters.

Lord Henemon’s vessel was a magnificent and resplendent quinquereme with a swordfish figurehead and sails emblazoned with his family’s crest. A vessel fashioned from valyrian cedar wood, lighter and stronger than most known woods, which allowed valyrian ship builders of the Freehold to not be forced to choose between speed and larger size in their craftsmanship. The hull was also resin-coated to keep the sea from leaking into the vessels, and the resin was mixed with a specific concoction formulated by ancient valyrian loremasters, which made it harder for barnacles to encrust along the ship. 

When they set out from Jaedos Villinion, in truth, Daeron was grateful to be flying on Tessarion’s back, for the emissarial vessels looked so much — lesser — in comparison to Lord Henemon’s ship as they sailed along the Valyrian coast.

They passed through the smoking sea on their journey, a wide reaching channel of water where the north and south coast were so far from one another that they were almost out of sight from one another and throughout the stretch of open water, an archepelego of islands, the largest and grandest of which bore the legendary volcanic mountain tops of the Fourteen Flames, though some of the Fourteen Flames were either on the north or the south shore as well. 

The southern half of the Valyrian peninsula had not only been cleaved from the north by the creation of the Smoaking Sea, but it had also been fractured into three main land masses, and it was down the channel between the central and eastern islands that the fleet of ships sailed with Tessarion following along. 

The convoy of ships then turned inland at a river that ran into the central island. It took a while for Daeron to realise what river he was sailing up, but then he recalled what he had read about Valyria in the libraries of the Citadel.

The river was the Trūmaqelbar, one of the five entrance points into the valley of the Dragonlords and the only one that gave maritime access, while the other four passages were the straight roads from north, south, east and west. 

When they reached the great encircling mountain range that held the valley within, the river cleaved through the mountains between two great stone dragons of gargantuan size that stood as guardians to the valley.

Daeron followed the ships along the river, perching Tessarion on the mountain cliffs over the edge of the gorge where the river cleaved through, too nervous to continue on to the city without all the other emissaries. 

Everything that had been tantalising his mind for so long, the legendary city of Old Valyria, all the dragons thought lost to the world, the beating heart of the Empire and his mother, alive and well. 

Daeron and Tessarion meekly stalked the vessels as they sailed through the river gorge, following them as they continued until finally they reached the end.

Beyond the gorge was a grand vale of rich grasslands encircled by a wall of mountains that ringed around it, the glorious valley of the Dragonlords, more majestic than the children’s stories and the legends had ever portrayed it to be.

Daeron could not believe that he was there at that moment with Tessarion in the place where both his and his dragon’s ancestors dwelled for over two hundred generations throughout the duration of the Freehold.

Daeron followed the ships as they sailed further up the Trūmaqelbar as the river ran through the valley until its mouth let out to the Lēdanāvar, known in the common tongue as the Lake of Abundance. 

There were many ships already in the lake of varying size and model and along the coast of the lake was a stone port and that stone port was connected to a large ancient stone city with high walls and resplendent craftsmanship, the great city stretching from the lake’s edge to the foot of the volcanic mountain behind it, taller than the other mountain peaks of the encricling mountains with a smoking peak and at least a dozen dragons of varying size and shape flying around it. 

For a moment, Daeron felt like he had fallen through time, or perhaps he had fallen asleep upon Tessarion’s saddle and fallen victim to some form of dragon dream which showed him the past rather than the future, for all he saw was the Freehold made alive once more. 

As Daeron flew over the city of Valyria the Great, his envy made him greener than the garments he wore, for he was enraptured by the grace of this majestic dominion of which his kinsmen had been granted rulership over by the will of the gods themselves. 

When Daeron noted the emissarial ships coming into the port, he steered Tessarion towards the lake. 

Daeron’s Cobalt Queen descended gracefully as her wings glided over the air while the young Prince tried to scout a landing location. 

A city built by the dragonlords of old, the Prince imagined that there would be plenty of room in any given section of the city for a dragon to land, but to Daeron’s chagrin, there was no such space on the docks that seemed significantly large enough.

Tessarion was slender and still youthful, but she was large enough to be regarded as an adult dragon. She could easily land anywhere on the dock if it were cleared of people, but the docks were very busy and filled with sailors and dockworkers.

As Daeron circled around the lake, he saw that one stone pier in particular was cleared mostly, save for two rows of what looked like soldiers and perhaps some nobles or officials of some kind and then Daeron saw small boats rowing to shore from the emissarial vessels bringing Ser Tyland and the other ambassadors, as well as Lord Henemon, to the closed-off pier in question.

Now, Daeron was sure that he was meant to be down there to be formally received. 

Daeron then steered Tessarion’s reins and took his dragon down to the heart of the port, a large stone open area along the shore from which the piers stretched out from. 

At the time of Daeron’s descent, it was filled with people, but they had plenty of space to spread out to make way for Tessarion, and it was not like they were unable to see the Cobalt Queen coming in from the skies. 

Daeron could not afford to make a fool of himself in front of the people of the Empire by not being able to find a spot to land, stuck in the skies while Ser Tyland made the greetings to the Empire without him. 

As Daeron and Tessarion began to descend upon the docks, the people there began to scatter about the place to make way for the dragon’s landing, though their voices that Daeron could hear more clearly as he got closer to the ground were far more panicked than the Prince would have liked.

As Tessarion was just about to touch the ground of the port, Daeron made a silent prayer to the Seven that the ground beneath them be clear and Tessarion do no harm to any of Rhaenyra’s citizenry lest he cause a diplomatic incident upon his arrival.

Upon landing, Daeron heard no screams of horror, which was a good sign that no one had been crushed underfoot by his dragon.

Daeron leaned forward and patted Tessarion on her deep blue scales and taking a moment to relish in the bliss of being in Old Valyria, the beating heart of civilisation across the known world for over five thousand years now reborn as the central dominion of one of the two great dragonlording dynasties in the world today, and both those dynasties were of Daeron’s father’s lineage. 

Alas, Daeron's glee at being in Valyria lasted for not but a moment before a gruff and hoarse voice cried out to him.

“Oi! You can’t just land your dragon there all willy-nilly!” a man shouted out from below.

Daeron looked to who it was that had spoken and saw a burly bald flat-nosed sailor, grimacing at Daeron. 

The Prince was caught off guard, for he had never been spoken to in such a manner in regards to his dragon. 

Back in Oldtown, when Tessarion was large enough to ride, people were often reverent and astounded when they got to see her up close, often cowering in awe at her glory on the rare occasion he’d land her in the city. 

Usually, she was nested beyond the city limits, but every once in a while, he’d bring her down to Oldtown to be revered by his cousin, Lord Ormund’s people or to be studied by the Maesters of the Citadel. 

In recent years, since Daeron had returned to King’s Landing, he found that the people in the capital were less enthralled by the majesty and wonder of the dragons, being more familiar with their comings and goings in the city. 

It seemed, here by the comments of the disgruntled sailor, that dragons in the capital of Valyria were seen so commonly that to see one up close was not as reverent as it was in Oldtown. 

“Wha? Are you dim or somethin? You’re spossed to stable the dragons in the mountain! Evere’one knows dat,” another man snapped, pointing to the volcanic mountain of Blenon Valyriōs, which stood proudly behind the palace of the Dragonlords. 

“Come on! I’ve got to get out to my fishing boat, you blighter! Shake a wing,” another man mourned. 

The Prince was rendered abashed and confused. 

He hesitated in his actions and stuttered his words as he tried to explain himself, and then he noticed that the Tessarion had landed right in front of one of the stone piers that extended out from the port.

As a handful of other sailors from amongst the crowd began to snap at Daeron to move his dragon, his face began to feel flushed with embarrassment as Tessarion snarled at those who demanded they move.

“Back! Back I say!” A stern voice shouted as the soldiers from the pier that was receiving the emissaries came along the pier and started corralling the crowd of sailors back, blocking them with their shields.

Then, Ser Tyland, Ser Daeron Velaryon, Lord Henemon, and the emissaries were led from the pier to the port by an Andal-featured man who clad himself in valyrian attire.

The man who led the emissaries approached Prince Daeron, still mounted on Tessarion’s back.

“Hail, Prince Daeron Targaryen, son of King Viserys the Peaceful. As Majordomo to the Imperial House of Targaryen, it is my humblest honour to welcome you and your retinue to Valyria the Great. Ser Robert Gerguese, at your service,” the man said with an ingratiating bow.

His accent was clearly westerosi, but Daeron did not recognise the name Gerguese and thus assumed it was another Valyrian name taken by a formerly westerosi house.

“Thank you for receiving us, Ser Robert. May I first extend my apologies for my… problematic landing,” Daeron apologised, looking at the dock workers and sailors he had inconvenienced. 

“Think nothing of it, My Prince. I suppose we could have sent ahead instructions on how you could manage your dragon’s accommodations. You are welcome to use the Dragonmount within Blenon Valyriōs. The Order of the Dragonkeepers is based there, and their brotherhood shall tend to your dragon’s needs. The mountain is connected directly to the Imperial Palace, and you shall be escorted to your accommodations from there. In the meantime, shall see to it that the rest of the emissarial procession is delivered to the palace by carriage,” the Majordomo declared.

“Very good,” the Prince replied before glancing over to Ser Tyland and Ser Arryk and giving them a knowing nod to say that said all will be well to the two of them.

Daeron then gripped the reins of Tessarion’s saddle and urged her into the sky, flapping her wings and climbing into the air until she took flight.

Tessarion soared over the city of Valyria the Great, so alive and vibrant with people flooding the streets below like ants. 

Tessarion flew above the streets and districts of the great metropolis and then over the grand palace built upon the rising slopes of the volcano’s base. 

It was hard to find a point of entry into Blenon Valyriōs at first, for if there were multiple entrances into the volcano from varying angles, as was the case with the Dragonmount on Dragonstone, then Daeron knew not where they were, but eventually he settled on entering the volcano through the main vent at the summit of the mountain.

Tessarion began to flap in a controlled descent down from the lightly smoking vent of the volcano, slowly sinking into the shadowy mountain’s heart.

The dragons that Daeron had seen flying around the summit of the mountain had disappeared upon Daeron’s approach on Tessarion’s back, perhaps returning to their nest at the arrival of a foreign dragon they did not know, waiting to see if Tessarion was friend or foe. 

Within the depths of the Volcano, as Tessarion made her descent, what Daeron found was a place of pure wonder.

A Dragonmount, twice or even thrice the size of the one hollowed into the volcano on Dragonstone, filled with dragons, almost too many for Daeron to count.

Some were as small as seagulls, some as big as or bigger than Tessarion. 

The smaller ones, which were numerous, fluttered about the volcano freely while many of the grown ones stood perched upon the boulders, cliffs, and cavernous tunnels hollowed through the walls of the volcanic vent.

Some Daeron recognised from the Dragonpit from his youth, when he still lived in King’s Landing. Syrax and Seasmoke, which were his sister’s and Ser Laenor’s, though now Seasmoke served one of the lowborn dragonseeds from Blackwater Bay.

Vermax stood proud upon a boulder and roared out, Jacaerys Velaryon’s dragon of olive green scales and pale orange membranes. Half a year older than Tessarion and yet much bigger than Daeron expected, given such a relatively short age difference. Even Arrax, whom Daeron had last seen as a hatchling, looked almost as big as Tessarion and perhaps even a slight bit bigger. Could Valyria have somehow affected their growth cycles? The Prince wondered to himself, but was unable to be sure how exactly such could be possible.

Some of the other dragons that Daeron spotted, he recognised by reputation. 

Vermithor the Bronze Fury, Meleys the Red Queen, and Caraxes the Blood Wyrm amongst them. 

The dragons seemed standoffish and defiant at Tessarion’s coming, roaring at her with their heads held high and their chests pushed out, as though they were trying to project strength in case the outsider dragon proved to be a threat.

As Daeron looked around the Dragonpit, he saw balconies, staircases, stone pier-like platforms and a large stone building like a temple or a monastery built into the face of the volcano wall. 

When Daeron saw the Dragonkeepers, the same monastic attire and appearance as those of the order on Dragonstone and in the Dragon Pit of King’s Landing, the Prince took it as a good place to land his dragon.

Tessarion fluttered her wings to soften her descent as she came in for a landing next to one of the stone piers. Once she touched down onto the stone floor of the volcano, she crawled along the side of the stone platform like a ship sliding into port. 

Daeron then dismounted and unhooked his fastenings that connected him to his saddle and stepped off Tessarion’s back onto the stone platform.

“Gevī, Tessarion,” Daeron said, petting the snout of his dragon, who had done well throughout their journey.

A small group of Dragonkeepers began to approach Daeron on the stone platform, but they were not alone; two dark-haired young men led them.

Nobles, well-dressed and armed with swords at their hips.

The one leading them from the front was a man about the same age as Daeron, or so he would hazard, with lightly curled dark hair parted in the middle, dressed in a black tunic with a red shoulder cloak fastened with a pendular brooch. 

The second young man was slightly taller, his hair cut short around the sides and back and dressed in a dark greyish-blue tunic emblazoned with the silver seahorse of house Velaryon badged on the chest and a dark blue cloak over his shoulders.

It took Daeron a moment to realise who they were, for they had changed exponentially since Daeron had last seen them, but then again, so had Daeron.

The one clad in the old Targaryen colours of black and red was Prince Jacaerys Velaryon — or rather, now it was Prince Jacaerys Targaryen from what Daeron had heard — and the other in the Velaryon garb was his younger brother, Prince Lucerys Velaryon.

Behind them were three Dragonkeepers bearing the long wooden sticks they used to guide the dragons, clearly there to serve Tessarion.

The Dragonkeepers then stopped as Jace and Luke continued to approach Daeron, and then the two Princes stopped in their tracks five or six paces away from Daeron.

A beat paced between them, young men who had not seen each other since they were small children, studying each other's faces from a short distance apart.

Daeron then smiled and initiated the conversation with the Targaryen Prince of the Empire.

“Prince Jacaerys,” Daeron greeted, more formal an address than he had ever given the dark-haired prince from the time they had known each other, but Daeron wished to assume nothing and meant to gauge his response. Daeron could not be sure if the strife and bitterness that had been between the two sons of Rhaenyra and with Daeron’s own brothers had somehow spread to a corrupting force that had infected the joyful memories of their youth.

“Prince Daeron,” Jace replied, matching Daeron in tone and seeming to choose the formal path. The Prince of the Empire then stepped forward, slowly, and stood before Daeron.

A smile then curled at the corner of the Prince’s face, and he spoke again.
“It has been many years,” he noted with the familiarity of an old friend. 

Prompted by the olive branch that he heard in Jace’s tone, Daeron responded in kind and smiled.
“I remember that were were good friends before we parted ways. I have many fond memories of our shared days of youth together, studying, training and our games. Those were good years,” Daeron declared.

Jace nodded and took a deep breath in and out through his nose.

“When King Viserys passed, and your brother took the throne. The prospect of war convinced me that you and I would only ever see each other again as enemies across some battlefield. But after the War of Ravens and my mother’s abdication… I can see no reason we need not pick up where we left off… and be friends as we once were,” said Jace, offering his hand.

Daeron smiled and took his nephew’s hand.

“I can ask for nothing more,” Daeron replied. 

The two kinsmen then embraced, reaching around and patting each other on the back while their other hands were clasped together.

A good start, Daeron thought to himself, happy to find at least one friend in the Empire.

The two then released from one another and turned their attention to Prince Luke behind them.

“You remember my brother, surely,” said Jace.

“Surely this cannot be, Luke. When last we saw one another, Aegon had hair longer than your legs,” Daeron japed, kindly and remincently. 

The two princes clasped hands, smiling. 

“And we used to tease you that you sang like a girl,” Luke remarked, and the three let out a small but sincere chortle amongst themselves.

Jace then cleared his throat and held his head high as he spoke to Daeron.

“As the Crown Prince of the Empire of Valyria, it is my honour to welcome you, Prince Daeron Targaryen to Valyria the Great and extend to you the hospitality of her Majesty, Empress Rhaenyra of the House Targaryen, first of her name,” Jace announced in an official matter, clearly reciting his ceremonial greeting he’d been sent to give. 

“I gladly accept the Empress’s hospitality with great gladness and humble respect for her Majesty’s kindness,” Daeron replied in the same tone Jace had spoken, cobbling together an official-sounding reply to Jace’s greeting. 

Jace then gestured for the Dragonkeepers to step forth, and the three approached.

“These dragonkeepers shall tend to your dragon and see all her needs are met,” Jace assured Daeron. 

Daeron nodded in gratitude to the Dragonkeepers as they passed him to tend to Tessarion.

“Come. Your compatriots will be arriving at the Palace in a short while. We shall take you to your chambers to get settled in,” Jace explained, patting Daeron on the back gently as he led the Prince from the platform.

“Shall I be presenting myself to the Empress upon my retinue’s arrival in the palace?” Daeron asked, walking alongside Jace as an equal with Luke close behind.

“Not immediately. When the first wave of emissaries arrived together from across the Gulf of Grief, we received them all at once, and the end result proved to be a lot of confusion, talking over one another and interruptions. To that end, we have sought to remedy such outcomes by staggering your presentations to the Empress. You shall have time to rest and refresh yourself before my mother receives you in the basilica,” Jace explained. 

“Understandable,” Daeron said with a nod. “But what of my mother?”

The Prince had been waiting for months on end to be reunited with his mother, whom he thought lost forever, and he would see her as hastily as possible if it could be helped.

Jace looked back to Luke and smiled before returning his eyes to Daeron.

“My own mother suspected you would inquire about as much. All has been prepared in your chambers,” Jace explained. 

The words of his nephew made Daeron’s heart flutter in his chest first with surprise and then with giddy and gleeful anticipation as he was lead through the dragonmount, up stairs and through corridors until they went out to a great long bridge that connected the rear of the Imperial Palace to the lower slopes of Blenon Valyriōs.

The Palace was more extravagant and beautiful than Dragonstone or the keep of Lord Henemon, but it was not an ornate or gaudy beauty; it was that valyrian brutalist style that Daeron found so fascinating.

They led Daeron through the halls and the twists and turns of the palace past guards, servants and courtiers who all gave Daeron a variety of looks, very few of them flattering ones. 

They finally reached a door in a section of the palace which Jace referred to as the guest quarters. At the door were a pair of soldiers standing guard with shields and spears.

“Are these men for me?” Daeron asked, wondering if he were to be a prisoner in his sister’s palace.

“These men are your mother’s guards. As a political prisoner until such time as diplomatic relations with the Seven Kingdoms are naturalised, your mother is obligated to be chaperoned,” Jace explained awkwardly.

Daeron’s heart skipped a beat as he looked at the wooden doors.

“Does— does that mean she’s in there?” Daeron asked, looking at Jace.

Prince Jacaerys nodded. 

“Take all the time you need. The guards can take her back to her chambers when she is done, and you will be summoned when the Empress is ready to receive you,” Jace said, resting a hand on Daeron’s shoulder. 

“Its good to see you again, Daeron,” Jace said as he and Luke departed to give Daeron a chance to catch up with his mother.

Once the two Imperial Princes departed, Daeron approached the door and reached for the handle, hesitant for a moment, but he gulped a sore lump in his throat and opened the door.

Inside the furnished bedchamber, Daeron found a woman in a blue dress with auburn hair pacing back and forth, only to turn to the door and face Daeron.

Their eyes met and they recognised one another instantly.

The Virtuous Queen Alicent Hightower, as she was called in the Seven Kingdoms after her believed demise, alive and well and standing before Daeron.

Once the initial shock of being in the same room wore off, the two struggled to speak, unable to find the words to say as both their sets of eyes reddened with tears welling up.

Eventually, they mutually agreed not to share any words in those first moments and instead reached out to one another and drew each other into an embrace in which they melted together, Daeron’s mother sobbing as tears streamed from Daeron’s own eyes.

“My dear sweet boy,” she said ever so softly as she ran her fingers through his silver hair. 

At the end of their embrace, Daeron and his mother pulled apart, and she took his face into her hands, telling him how handsome he was and how he looked like a strong and noble prince. 

After that, the two sat on the end of Daeron’s bed and took turns asking one another questions.

First, Daeron asked if she was well taken care of and treated fairly, and then she, in turn, asked broadly how things were back in the Seven Kingdoms. It was then that Daeron was forced to relay the happenings of the Winter Fever and to tell his mother of how two of her three brothers had passed away from the sickness. There was a bit more crying after that, but when she settled, they continued to talk.

“Are you wed?” she asked, running a finger under his brow to move a strand of silver hair out of his eyes.

“No,” Daeron began sombrely. “My… my betrothed. Her name was Alliandra Hightower. She too was taken from me by the Winter Fever,” Daeron said somberly. 

Alicent then kissed her son’s brow in sorrow to show her affection and support. 

Daeron then cleared his throat and moved on to happier news that he was sure would make his mother happy.

“Aemond and Lady Floris Baratheon have a son, Aerys. Floris is also pregnant with their second child as we speak,” Daeron explained.

“That’s wonderful,” Alicent said as her face lit up with joy.

“And what of Heleana? When I left, she was pregnant with her third. She said she expected a boy, one she planned on naming Maelor,” Alicent recounted.

“And a boy it was. He’s a good little lad,” Daeron assured her.

They talked together a bit longer before the pair were interrupted by the arrival of Ser Tyland and Ser Arryk in Daeron’s chamber.

“Your Grace,” Tyland greeted joyfully with outstretched arms as he approached Queen Alicent and knelt before her.

“Thank the gods you have been spared any injury these past years in captivity,” said the Lannister knight, taking Alicent’s hand and kissing her ring.

“Thank you, Ser Tyland. It is good to see you after these past few years. And of course you, Ser Arryk,” Alicent said, looking to the Cargyll knight.

“It is my honour to see you once again, Your Grace. And in good health, no less,” he greeted, bowing his head.

“I trust your journey to the Palace was agreeable?” Daeron inquired.

Ser Tyland rose from his kneeling position and snorted as he paced around the chamber.

“It was, but the carriages they transported us in were wheeled by these horse-like beasts with six sets of legs,” Ser Tyland explained

“Centaurs,” Queen Alicent corrected.

“Those are Centaurs? Mother’s Mercy, they don’t look like it.”

“There are a number of creatures in these lands that many would consider unnatural in other lands,” said Daeron’s mother.

“Yes, I saw plenty of those wyvern things around the place and a number of odd creatures in market cages or roasting on spits. What kind of forsaken place is this?” Tyland asked looking about the chamber. 

“What about you, my Prince? How was your arrival in the Palace?” asked Tyland.

“I entered the volcano behind the palace where their dragonmount is. It appears from what I saw that the Empire has been hatching a number of new young dragons,” Daeron recounted. 

“Really? How many dragons do they have?” Ser Tyland asked.

“More than I could count. I’ve never seen so many in one place before,” Daeron replied.

They remained there in Daeron’s chamber for a time, talking for a while before a servant in Imperial Targaryen livery entered the chamber, beckoning Daeron and Ser Tyland to attend him.

A summons from the Empress, Daeron surmised. 

Daeron and his mother then embraced once more, with Daeron promising to come find her in her own chambers after he had spoken with Rhaenyra.

Daeron and Tyland then left the chamber with Ser Arryk close behind and followed the servant through the halls.

They were then brought to the front of a large, tall pair of double doors, which Daeron could only surmise were the entrance doors to the basilica. 

The rest of their household knights and retainers were gathered waiting, along with Ser Daeron Velaryon and a few Celitgars and Velaryons from his little fleet of self-exiles. Clearly the assumption had been made by the Imperials that Ser Daeron Velaryon’s fleet was joined with the Prince’s emissarial retinue, for they both hailed from the same country. 

While they were given the chance to organise themselves before entering, Tyland took command of the situation, moving Daeron to the front of the procession.

“You shall stand apart from us, Velaryon,” Ser Tyland commanded, pointing his finger.

“Organise yourself in your own procession over there and do not presume to stand with us.”

Ser Daeron obliged with Ser Tyland's commands, and then two separate processions were established side by side but with a wide berth apart from one another. 

After a short wait, the double doors then opened with a fanfare played by trumpeters from within, welcoming the two processions into the Basilica. 

The two separate entourages entered the basilica, much larger and grander than the throne room in the Red Keep. 

The red carpet they walked down was flanked by twin rows of guards standing facing one another and crowds of noble courtiers on the other side of the lines of guards.

At the far end of the chamber was a grand dias that they were approaching as they got further into the chamber. 

On top of the dais were five thrones, two made of stone on the left and right, and one in the middle was a giant black throne of glass, an asymmetrical heap of jagged darkness. 

When Daeron was close enough, he could see who was sitting on each throne.

On the throne immediately right of the giant black glass one was Daeron’s estranged uncle, Daemon Targaryen, Rhaenyra’s husband. Daeron had only seen him once at the pledging ceremony four years ago, when Rhaenyra surrendered her claim. Back then, he did not have a beard, and yet he still reminded Daeron of his brother Aemond in a way.

Next to Daemon on the outer right throne was Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake.

On the inner left throne was Jace, sitting like a noble prince and giving Daeron a reassuring smile as he approached.

Next to him was a silver-haired girl of similar age to both him and Jace, probably Princess Baela Targaryen, Daemon’s daughter and Jace’s betrothed, or perhaps even wife by now.

Lastly, sitting atop the giant black throne, crowned and looking majestic, was Daeron’s half sister, the Empress Rhaenyra Targaryen.

It was hard to think that just four years ago, she was on her knees before Aegon, surrendering her claim and calling herself a traitor and usurper. 

Now her grace and prosperity rang out like a vengeance that Daeron could tell was most likely burning Ser Tyland’s pride.

Standing at the foot of the dais was a chevron of fourteen men in white cloaks and Valyrian-style armour with silver ripples. Doubtless, they were the Dragonknights, the imperial successors to the Kingsguard, sworn to the empress.

Daeron recognised the front four of them only by the faces beneath their open helmets. When last Daeron saw them was at his brother’s pledging ceremony, each of them decloaked for siding with Rhaenyra. The one whose face was most recognisable was that of Ser Erryk Cargyll, his face so easily recognisable because it was the same face as his brother, Arryk, who stood behind Daeron. 

When they reached the end of the carpet, the two retinues stopped and waited.

Princess Balea, on the outer left throne, stood up from her seat and stepped forward.

“ You stand in the presence of Her Majesty Rhaenyra the Redeemer of House Targaryen, First of her Name, Empress of Valyria, Queen of the High Valyrians, Lady of the Seven Cities, Keeper of the Lands of the Long Summer, Mistress of the Fourteen Flames and the Smoking Sea, Blood of the Dragon, Heir to the Freehold and Protector of the Imperial Realm,” she announced, listing an impressive string of titles, one that would make Aegon undoubtably green with jealousy.

Ser Tyland then stepped forth and replied to Rhaenyra’s titles.
“Greetings, your Majesty. May I present your brother, Prince Daeron Targaryen, brother to his Grace Aegon of House Targaryen, Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. And I, Ser Tyland Lannister, Master of Coin on his Grace’s Small Council, am also at your service,”  Ser Tyland explained, bowing his head. 

“Be welcome, little brother and welcome to you, Ser Tyland. I trust your journey to the Empire was a safe and prosperous one," Rhaenyra inquired, speaking for the first time.

“The seas were kind, sister,” Daeron replied, reciprocating Rhaenyra’s offered terms of familiarity in calling him brother. 

“I am glad to hear it… Though forgive my confusion, but why has a section of your retinue chosen to stand separately from you?” Rhaenyra asked, glancing over to Ser Daeron and his men.

Before Prince Daeron could even fit a word in, Tyland spoke up.

“Those are not our men, Your Majesty. These are men from Driftmark and Claw Isle who have chosen to forsake their houses and their oaths of loyalty to the Seven Kingdoms in favour of your own Empire. The fact that we were sailing companions on our venture here is mere happenstance, and we have no allegiance to one another,” Ser Tyland explained as though he were accusing them of some sort of crime. 

Rhaenyra then looked to the Velaryons and Celitgars and then over to Lord Corlys.

“Come forth,” Rhaenyra welcomed to Ser Daeron.

The Velaryon knight took a few meek steps forward towards Rhaenyra, away from his group.

“Empress Rhaenyra,” Ser Daeron began, dropping to his knee. “My name is… Daeron Velaryon, Knight of House Velaryon. Second son of Ser Vaemond Velaryon and brother to Daemion Velaryon, the current Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark,” he introduced himself.

Mutterings rose up from the crowds of assembled nobles. It stood to reason that most in the Empress’s court would know the story of how Ser Vaemond Velaryon was killed by Daemon the day of King Viserys’s death. 

Rhaenyra glanced once more to Lord Corlys and back to the Velaryon knight.

“Your father was a… steadfast man. One who believed he was doing the best for his House,” Rhaenyra said, trying to be diplomatic and respectful to Ser Daeron, but the knight shook his head in response.

“My father was a stubborn man, and he was an opportunist who put his heedless ambitions before his house in an effort to take Driftmark from his ailing brother. But I thank you for speaking kind words about him, despite whether he had earned them or not. But I am not here to speak of my father. I am here to rectify a mistake I made, a mistake we have all made… if you will allow us,” said Daeron, prompting the others in his retinue to take to their knees.

“Go on,” Rhaenyra welcomed, seeming intrigued. 

“Four years ago, at the passing of King Viserys, when you called on all to join you in your crusade to reclaim Valyria, our branches of our families chose to remain behind. Our motives were numerous: spite, fear, doubt, pride. But we were proven wrong, and as Valyrians whose veins flow with the old blood of the Freehold, our failure was doubly wretched. We let our own petty reasonings blind us to the grace of the Dragon Dreams, and thus we cheated ourselves out of our birthright. Many of us who remained in Westeros lost kin and loved ones to the illness known as the Winter Fever. My daughter lost her mother,” Ser Daeron explained. 

“I am so sorry,” the Empress said kindly.

Daeron nodded in appreciation for her kindness.

“I have come here to make right what I have wronged. I wish to set aside my father’s pride for the sake of my daughter’s future, and I beg you, my empress, let me pledge myself to you that I might become a cadet branch to the true House Velaryon and pledge myself to my rightful lord, Corlys Velaryon and his rightful named heir, Lucerys Velaryon. All of us, both Velaryons and Celtigars, ask to be able to call ourselves true Valyrians worthy of our blood. Of this we beg you,” said Ser Daeron.

Rhaenyra was silent for a beat, and then she spoke.

“You need not beg for anything, good Ser. My Empire is a haven to all who wish to live in peace here. Go forth for now and return to your chambers, rest and be with your families. I shall meet with you again and we shall discuss your induction into the Empire further,” Rhaenyra offered.

The group of Velaryons and Celitgars thanked and blessed the Empress before leaving the Basilica.

Now it was just Daeron and his procession in the Basilica. 

They traded a few formalities and talked about their desire to build long lasting diplomatic relations between the two branches of House Targaryen, though something that Daeron noted was that whenever Ser Tyland made an offhanded reference to Aegon as the rightful or true king, Rhaenyra’s countless courtiers would scoff and make noises of disaproval, showing what the people of the Empire truly thought of Aegon. 

When the topic of conversation reached Daeron’s mother, Rhaenyra smiled and made an announcement.

“In honour of our new diplomatic bonds with the Seven Kingdoms. I would like to award custody over our guest , the Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, to my brother, Prince Daeron Targaryen. A token of friendship between our two branches of the House of the Dragon,” she said. 

Daeron bowed in gratitude and could not wait to tell his mother.

Emperor Daemon then cleared his throat loudly to gain attention.

“In the spirit of good friendship, I, too, have prepared a gift. This one is for the esteemed Ser Tyland Lannister. Something he can take back to his brother, Lord Jason,” Daemon explained with a devil’s wickedness in his tone.

Suddenly, snorts, giggles, chortles and suppressed laughter hidden within fake coughs rose up throughout the crowd of nobles. 

It was as though an inappropriate joke had been made of which Daeron was not aware.

Daeron and Ser Tyland looked to one another with vexed looks, and then a servant came out with what looked like a long stave like a spear wrapped in a fine red and golden silk cloth in his arms and brought it forth.

As the servant approached Ser Tyland, Daeron noticed that the laughter became even harder to contain amongst the nobles, and it became increasingly clear that everyone knew what the object of the humour was.

When the Empress Rhaenyra was not pinching the bridge of her nose in dismay, she was staring daggers at her smug husband. 

The servant then handed over the cloth-covered staff, and he began to unravel it.

On one end was what looked like the hilt of a sword with a gilded ornate crossguard adorned with golden filigree, a red leather wrapped grip and a golden lion head for a pommel. But there was no blade below the crossguard, only a long rod wrapped in the same fine red leather as the grip and on the other end of the pole was a steel shovel head with folds and ripples that could only be found in valyrian steel and yet the shovel was filthy, covered in dried dark stains covering it and what looked like dried black mud along the lip of it.

It was only then that Daeron recalled the threat that Tyland had told him had been made against him and his brother by Daemon all those years ago.

Seven Hells, Daeron thought.

There were no words to describe the absolutely mortified look of horror on Ser Tyland’s face.
His eyes were wide and horrified as though he’d just seen a ghost, his chin was quivering, and he had gone very pale. Daeron wasn’t sure if Ser Daeron was going to cry or vomit, or maybe even both.

The assembled nobles and even some of the guards standing along the red carpet were giggling profusely, some of them barely able to hold it together.

Eventually, one courtier from across the chamber shouted the word, Brownroar, and the court cracked up into laughter. 

Even Daeron could not help but have a smile curl at the corner of his face.

Empress Rhaenyra then gripped the sceptre which she carried in her hand and shouted out “Silence!” and all sent quiet immediately, even Daeron felt the need to be as quiet as possible even though he had said nothing. 

“Forgive me, Ser Tyland. I was assured by my husband that your ancestral blade would be retrieved and refurbished prior to your arrival,” Empress Rhaenyra declared staring bitterly down from her black onyx throne to her husband in his own ornate chair of stone. 

“Was I supposed to handle that matter? Ah yes, I seem to faintly remember agreeing to handle Brightroar’s restorations… must have slipped my mind,” the Emperor stated with a shamelessly facetious tone. 

In her chagrin, the Empress leaned her elbow upon the armrest of her throne and held her face in annoyance. 

“I swear to you this will be rectified. My cousin, Lord Maekar Galreon of Oros, is Master of the Smithing Guild and an artist without comparison in shaping valyrian steel. I swear to you he shall see Brightroar restored to its former glory,” Rhaenyra promised.

Tyland gave a dazed nod, still petrified to be holding his family’s long-lost sword, which had spent the last three years as a shit-spade for all those dragons Daeron had seen in the volcano upon his arrival.

“Needless to say, we found the Golden Fleet of your Ancestor Tommen the Second. I shall arrange for his remains, his riches, and his crown returned to you to take home to Casterly Rock,” Rhaenyra added, trying to sweeten the deal.

Tyland gave a dazed nod again, but nothing could erase the horror from his face.

“It has been a long voyage, Sister. Perhaps Ser Tyland might be given a chance to rest, and we can talk more later,” Daeron suggested.

“I think that is a good Idea,” Rhaenyra replied.

The Majordomo that Daeron had met at the port then called an end to the meeting, and Daeron did his best to guide the petrified Lannister out, still staring at his shovel with horror.

Before leaving, Daeron looked at his sworn protector, Ser Arryk.

“You know, Ser Arryk. I think I can find my way back to the guest quarters fairly easily. Perhaps you might want to speak with someone here, and you can catch up with me later,” Daeron said, glancing over to the Dragonknights, knowing that Arryk’s twin brother was among them.

Arryk’s expression turned sombre. 

“Thank you, My Prince. But my place is by your side, and my brother’s is with them,” the Kingsguard knight declared. 

Daeron did not push the matter any further and then turned and left the Basilica.