Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.
Chapter 62: Beginning of a New Era
King's Landing
Red Keep
Day of Coronation
Rhaenys Targaryen let out a long, weary sigh as she eased herself back into the embrace of an excessively cushioned chair. The softness swallowed her weight, and she allowed herself another slow exhale as the tension in her legs began to fade. With deliberate care, she lifted her feet and rested them upon a small stool set before her, granting her aching muscles the relief they had been denied for hours. She had stood through the entirety of the coronation ceremony, as propriety demanded, without so much as a moment's rest.
Her hand drifted to her chest, fingers brushing over the golden brooch pinned there—the Hand of the King. Even now, the weight of it felt unfamiliar, though not unwelcome. She had been formally named before the court at the ceremony's end, and she had felt the shift in the room as clearly as if it were a physical force. Jealousy had lingered in many gazes, thinly veiled behind courtly masks. Others had not bothered to hide their amusement. The unspoken title followed her still, carried in sidelong glances and curved lips—the queen who never was. Corlys's constant, restrained displeasure, expressed in quiet grunts and tightened expressions, even years after, had done little to ease the atmosphere.
Yet the moment she had stepped into the halls adorned with the pin of her office, the tone had changed. The mirth had vanished as though it had never existed. Those same nobles had swallowed their mockery and replaced it with polished words, practiced bows, and overt displays of respect. Whatever they thought of her, they understood the weight of her position. Though the authority of the Hand had waned over the years, it had not diminished in the hands of one who bore the blood of the dragon. Daemon's tenure had ensured that. He had ruled like a king in all but name since the Charter, and in doing so, the realm has forgotten that the hand of the king is not the second most powerful position in the realm.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. She did not turn immediately. She had already given instructions to the guard outside to admit her cousin.
Viserys entered with the slow, measured steps of a man equally burdened by the day's demands. The strain of standing for hours lingered in his posture, though he carried it with an effort at composure. He approached her table, where a bottle of fine Arbor red had already been uncorked. Without asking, he reached for it, poured two generous servings, and handed one to her before taking the other for himself. He settled into the chair opposite hers with a quiet breath.
Rhaenys met his gaze. He lifted his glass in silent acknowledgment before taking a measured sip. She mirrored the gesture, bringing the wine to her lips and allowing its warmth to spread through her chest as she savored its richness.
"Cousin," Viserys said at last, breaking the silence, "so this is the day we lost the throne for good. I never expected I would feel this calm when it finally came."
Rhaenys gave a soft snort, followed by a low laugh. She inclined her head in agreement. "Indeed, it is a wonder that I could stand and then serve as the hand of the king, to the man I lost my throne. I always thought I would retreat to Driftmark, spend my days on open waters and beneath open skies, when you are king after I lost my throne in the False council.
Viserys grimaced faintly. "yes, probably. I wouldn't even bother to appease or even charm you to my side at all if I was King. Still, I have to say that seeing Daemon crowned has been like taking a mountain of weight from my shoulder. I could spend more personal time while my own duties are taken by Rodrick, the replacement bastard son of Daemon he assigned to assist in my duties. I know how he managed to temper our ambitions in fear, still I am somewhat amazed how the fear could be turned to respect and fondness by the same man."
Viserys knew the reason to. Daemon had saved Aemma and Baelon's life with his healing as well as strengthening potion.
She gave a small nod. Viserys had never been one to embrace duty with enthusiasm. That much had always been clear.
"Well, it is easy for him when he knows he can afford to be friendly, knowing that none of us can do anything to him physically," Rhaenys said, her tone edged with quiet understanding as memories of the cursed dragon training surfaced in her mind. Even now, those lessons lingered with her. At times, they returned in restless sleep, where unseen threats struck without warning and spears seemed to come from nowhere.
"That is correct, I suppose," Viserys replied with a faint grimace. He was politically savvy enough to understand that the king and queen's healing efforts had secured them against any attempt to stir trouble through accusations of witchcraft. Such claims would find no support. Even so, Viserys often found himself wondering how many fools had already been dealt with quietly by Daemon and the spy network that worked behind him, men who tried to incite unrest among the smallfolk and vanished before their efforts could take root.
"Rhaenys, will you be going to Dorne? You are a dragonrider, after all," Viserys asked after a stretch of silence, during which they shared their second drink.
Rhaenys shrugged, her expression calm. "It would be symbolic if I went and took part in their defeat, but I do not yet know what I will be doing. Daemon has given no clear instruction beyond telling us to be prepared. Earlier, the thought of flying to Dorne would have unsettled me, but now it feels like an opportunity that may not come again in our lifetime."
"For what it is worth, I think you will remain here as Hand, alongside Aunt Gael," Viserys said thoughtfully. "The new king cannot remain hidden in his capital while war is fought in his name. That would reflect poorly on him and weaken the loyalty of the lords."
Rhaenys nodded in agreement, though her gaze sharpened as she studied him more closely. One brow lifted slightly. "Viserys, tell me the truth. Are you imagining what might happen if Daemon were to die in the coming war?"
Viserys's eyes widened for a brief moment before he let out a short, dismissive sound. "I am not a fool, cousin. Unless Dorne has been hiding some great power for centuries, there is nothing there that could truly harm Daemon. In truth, I do not want him harmed at all."
That answer caught her attention. Rhaenys regarded him with renewed interest. Viserys noticed the shift and rose from his chair, moving toward the open balcony of her chambers. The evening air drifted in, carrying distant noise from the city below. With a quiet exhale, Rhaenys followed.
Viserys first pointed toward Daemonhold on Visenya's Hill, its presence looming even in the dimming light. Then he gestured toward the streets of King's Landing, where celebration still filled the night. When the wind shifted, the sound of voices reached them—songs rising and falling in unison, praising the king and House Targaryen. The tunes were lively and deliberate, crafted and spread with purpose by the very man they honored.
Rhaenys remained silent, her curiosity evident.
"Cousin, do not be obtuse," Viserys said, his tone carrying a hint of the same reprimand she had used on him earlier. "Those two things cannot be undone. To outsiders, Daemonhold appears to be nothing more than a place where matters of King's Landing are handled and where maesters gather to study. That is only part of the truth. It is something more. A new form of governance has been built there, one that allows the king to look beyond the Crownlands and attend to the whole of the Seven Kingdoms."
He continued, his voice steady as he spoke. "Anyone who shows aptitude, whether boy or girl, is taught a skill or trained in numbers within those walls. Over time, that will change everything. And as for the people below, do you truly believe they would celebrate like this if it were your coronation or mine? The smallfolk have never truly cared for us. Our grandfather secured obedience through the Faith, but that is not the same as loyalty."
Viserys paused briefly before going on. "Daemon has done something different. He has used his songs and his voice to ensure the smallfolk favor him. Every song that praises him also shapes how they think, making them more willing to believe the best of him. In doing so, he has weakened the hold the Faith of the Seven once had over them and replaced it with his own influence, alongside Gael's. In a way, even if Daemon were to die tomorrow, there would be unrest. Unless Gael is crowned queen or Gaemon king, there will be blood."
Rhaenys looked genuinely impressed, realizing she had overlooked the full effect of those songs on the people.
"So, your love for stories and the arts has finally proven useful," she said, a slight smile forming.
Viserys snorted, though he returned the smile. He found some quiet satisfaction in the moment, aware that, at last, something of their old bond had returned, restored to what it had once been before the loss of Uncle Aemon and before Rhaenys had married Corlys.
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1 week Later
The King
I looked at the innocent-looking crown lying on the table in front of me. The nine pointed heads felt heavier than they appeared, though I ignored the sensation. It had been an interesting week as the new king, and my plans for Dorne were unfolding just as intended. Already, murmurs of past aggression from Dorne and their cowardly attacks had begun to spread through my capital. I had also received word from one of my sons in the Reach that Wyl was preparing to move under the guise of a bandit raid.
I had grinned like a madman at the report, seeing how neatly they were walking into my trap and strengthening my position in the process. Orders had already been sent. The bastard was to be taken alive, no matter the cost. There was far more to gain from a living captive. I had full faith in my sons there. Even if their focus lay more in warging and spycraft, their physical abilities were more than sufficient for such a task.
I was waiting for Gael and Aethan to arrive so we could discuss the progression of the war. As expected, they entered soon after. I allowed myself a small smile at the sight of Gael's radiant expression. Aethan coughed lightly as he took the chair opposite me, while Gael walked straight to me and settled onto my lap, pressing a brief kiss to my lips.
Our moment was cut short by Aethan's deliberate cough. I groaned softly in annoyance, though Gael only smiled faintly before pulling another chair close and sitting beside me.
I turned my attention to Aethan, silently prompting him to speak.
"Daemon," Aethan began, a trace of anger in his voice, "the Dornish gambit is working even better than expected."
He paused when he noticed my lack of surprise, clearly realizing I had been watching events closely myself. Still, he continued, "Your plan has worked well. They walked straight into it through their own pride. The only concern for our retaliation lies with the Ironborn."
I frowned at the mention, already aware of the delicate situation in the western seas. "Those reaving fuckers cannot even die properly," I said, my voice carrying clear frustration.
Gael snorted beside me, mirth evident on her face. Even Aethan let out a quiet laugh.
Poking into the Sunset Sea was rather dangerous, and I had only stationed a few animals there, while the bulk of my focus remained beyond the Wall, in Dorne, and on the movements in the Narrow Sea near the Stepstones.
The Triarchy, which formed a couple of years earlier in this world due to burning of Myr had unofficially begun cleansing the seas of pirates. They unified their efforts, hunting down and eliminating isolated pirate captains under the leadership of Craghas Drahar of Myr King Jaehaerys had allowed this to happen before 100 AC as a means of improving relations with them after the destruction of Myr in 92 AC. After nearly a decade of work, the pirates had largely been subdued, and Drahar had begun collecting tolls from every passing ship. As expected, Westerosi ships were charged significantly more than others.
After I became Hand and heir in 101 AC, I allowed the situation to continue. They were spending gold and blood on those cursed stones without restraint, and I intended to claim the end result for myself. It was part of my plan to establish my rule as a powerful king.
I would conquer Dorne through an official, traditional war—the kind this world was accustomed to—while the Stepstones would be cleared through unseen, unofficial means. It would only take little time to fly there myself during a night and start killing every single pirate, cleaning house by the morning.
When my ships finally arrived, there would be nothing left but corpses, abandoned ships, wealth, and whatever structures they had built. I wanted the world to whisper of it—to question how entire strongholds were wiped out without a trace.
I shook my head, clearing my thoughts as the laughter of Gael and Aethan faded.
Aethan looked at me, still amused. "Do you truly believe the Ironborn will follow your orders? Or that you can restrain their bloodlust when they descend upon Dorne? They will rape and slaughter innocents during the sack, even if they march under your banner."
"Exactly," I replied with a shrug. "Then I will have every reason to kill the scum who survive for disobeying my command against such acts. Two birds with a single arrow, my friend."
Both Aethan and Gael grimaced at my callousness, but neither argued. They understood as well as I did—war demanded sacrifice, and it was always preferable that the enemy paid the heavier price.
"Aethan," Gael said, turning to him, "you have yet to explain the situation with the Ironborn. Unlike my husband, I cannot see through beasts and shadows."
I just smirked slightly as I looked at Gael sideways, who just scoffed playfully.
"The Greyjoy line is nearly extinguished," Aethan began. "Only Dalton Greyjoy, a young boy, remains. The unofficial war against the Lannister and Mormont fleets has proven devastating, leaving most Ironborn houses weakened. My spies report that many of the Drowned Priests now support a bastard grandson of the last Hoare king."
He paused briefly.
"The man is said to be a capable captain, with several reaving legends attached to his name. There are even rumors that he controls a kraken. Notably, neither he nor his followers have attacked our ships so far. All aggression has come from houses still loyal to Greyjoy. And after observing Daemon for so long…" Aethan gave me a pointed look, "…I do not believe in coincidences."
I closed my eyes, searching my own memory for any trace of this supposed bastard, but no face came to mind.
Gael nodded at Aethan, then turned to me with a frown. "Husband, could the rumors about the kraken be true? Why did you never attempt to control one when you sailed those waters?"
I opened my eyes at looked at my closest confidants. I sighed as I decided to tell the truth.
"Maybe there could be a kraken under his control. Whatever it is, krakens exist in the Sunset Sea, along with many different aquatic creatures larger than whales. I tried to tame and control one before, but at that time I couldn't—perhaps my warging was weaker then. This bastard seems to be a clever one, as his followers have not attacked us. Let him consolidate his control and answer our call when the banners are finally raised. I will send Lyanna with Silverwing to Bear Island and have her patrol between Faircastle, Lannisport, and Bear Island."
Aethan scowled slightly in worry, and I could feel even Gael's discomfort.
"Daemon, are you sure Silverwing will be able to deal with the kraken if they attack?" Aethan asked.
I frowned as my thoughts ran through several plans before I sighed. "It would be a very tough fight. Both krakens and dragons have an absolute advantage in their own domain, but it will be unnecessary," I said with a thoughtful shrug. "I am sure the bastard who has planned this so far will remain content and not start something that will destroy him. Even if he somehow attacks, Lyanna can escape easily on dragonback. Only our ships and men will be lost—something I am willing to sacrifice."
I paused before continuing, my tone turning colder.
"He would be cunning enough to understand what would follow such an action. We would burn down their ships and islands themselves. He would be forced to relocate with the kraken to some distant place just to survive."
Aethan looked at me in shock and snapped, "Are you actually counting on restraint from an Ironborn? You, of all people, who hated them since you were a boy and made plans to exterminate them?"
"Believe me, Aethan, I am surprised as well," I said with a grin. "But I never thought someone from the Iron Islands would enact such a long-term plan—weakening their enemies while strengthening themselves. I wonder if he somehow followed a path similar to mine. I want competent lords under me. Someone clever will follow my orders just to legitimize his position through the Crown. Unless the man declares himself King of the Iron Islands, I do not care how they choose their Lord Paramount."
Aethan nodded after some thought.
Before I could say anything more, we were interrupted by the chamber doors bursting open with considerable force. The Kingsguard stationed outside hadn't bothered to knock or announce the visitor, which told me all I needed to know—it was family.
As expected, the Rogue Prince strode in, his movements sharp with anger, his entire bearing coiled with barely restrained fury. Aegon followed close behind, clearly attempting to stop him, though without much success.
My family enjoyed far more freedom with me than they ever would have under any other king or lord. I had no desire to damage the fragile balance of friendship and camaraderie I had built with Daemon and Aegon by displaying irritation at this breach of decorum. Nothing serious would come of reprimanding them now, but the nobles and their ever-hungry rumour mills would twist it into something far greater. I would not have fools whispering of division within the House of the Dragon—not now, when unity was the very reason no lord had yet dared suggest placing another Targaryen upon my throne.
Fortunately for me my beautiful and perceptive wife was beside me to scold my cousins.
"Daemon, for the love of Balerion, why are you barging into the king's chamber in such a manner?" Gael's voice cut through the room, cold and precise. Even I found myself impressed by the steel in her tone. "Apologise. Now."
Daemon looked like he was caught in surprise by the tone of my wife and he did grimace slightly showing some regret. Yet I know he wouldn't apologise for this and escalating this would be just waste of time as well as all the time I put on making them loyal and friendly towards me.
Before the moment could sour, Aegon stepped forward and bowed his head.
"My queen, I apologise for my idiotic brother. We all know how he can be when he allows anger to outrun sense."
He glanced at me with a silent plea, and I suppressed the grin threatening to surface.
"Ah, my dear wife," I said gently, resting a hand upon her thigh beneath the table—both to soothe her and to share my amusement through our bond. "Your defense honours me. But these are my cousins… and your nephews. Let us forgive them this once. I am, after all, only a few days into my reign. I am certain they will not repeat such discourtesy."
Gael's lips curved ever so slightly, her mirth carefully concealed as she turned her gaze back to Daemon. Under that look, even the Rogue Prince relented—if only outwardly.
"Of course," he said with a short nod. "It will not happen again… aunt."
"Good," I replied smoothly, before the matter could be dragged further. "Now, what brings you here in such haste, Daemon?"
Whatever restraint he had managed vanished in an instant, anger flaring once more—though I could see he was making an effort to contain it. That alone marked a difference; the Daemon of Viserys' court would never have bothered.
"Is it true," he demanded, voice tight with fury, "that you have proposed a betrothal between Aegon and the daughter of that traitor, Otto Hightower?"
His lip curled in disdain.
"What were you thinking? To promise the rider of Vhagar to that… insipid girl? She has all the spirit of a septa—and less wit, if she ever took the vows."
I saw Aethan glance at me in sudden surprise; this part of the plan had not been shared with him. Gael, however, remained perfectly composed—she already knew.
"Ah, cousin," I began lightly, "I assure you, the proposal was made only for your younger brother. Aegon has been looking at her like a man in the desert looks upon water. I merely thought it best to be a proactive—and generous—kinsman, rather than allow his hand to be promised elsewhere to some scheming lord."
I let a grin form, making no effort to hide the mockery in my tone.
Daemon's gaze snapped toward Aegon, who flushed at my words. I could never quite understand how a man in his early twenties could still behave so… awkwardly in a world where most men sought out pleasure the moment they came of age. Perhaps it was the shadow of his elder brother; beside Daemon, Aegon had always remained quieter, more restrained—even if he has visited whores.
The Rogue Prince snorted in open derision. "Still, if he wants her, then just seduce and fuck her to get over it. Keep her as a mistress afterward, if it suits him."
Aegon stiffened at that, then shook his head firmly. "I will not do that, brother. I am not you—and I am a sworn knight. I will not make promises I have no intention of keeping. I would not deceive her with talk of marriage just to bed her. If she wished for something without vows, that would be different—but I will not begin with a lie."
He turned toward me, his expression resolute.
"My king, I do not wish to marry her merely to satisfy my own desires and reward House Hightower in the process. If you choose to withdraw the proposal, I will accept it. Whatever your command, I will follow."
Daemon scoffed, though his gaze lingered on me with sudden intrigue.
"My king, surely you do not intend to let this proceed," he said. "The Hightowers have betrayed us time and again, even if it cannot be easily proven. This would hand them a great gift."
I could see the thoughts turning in his mind, searching for the reason behind my decision.
Before I could answer, Aethan finally spoke from his chair.
That alone drew both their attention.
"Do you know how House Stark secured the North?" Aethan continued evenly. "When they conquered rival lords, they did not rely on force alone. Many times, they extinguished the male line and bound the daughters to their sons through marriage. At times, they allowed a brother to remain in power—but even then, the daughter was taken as a wife. That bond was never optional."
He paused just long enough for the weight of it to settle.
"This is no different. Aegon is a third son, with no true prospects of inheritance. Alicent is the daughter of a second son. And we are on the brink of war with Dorne. Lord Hightower has only one heir—a knight who will be expected to fight."
Understanding began to sharpen in the room.
"By the end of that war," Aethan went on, "it is very possible that Otto Hightower will stand as the acting lord by circumstance alone. And when that happens…" A faint, knowing look crossed his face. "The king may choose to name Aegon—husband to Alicent—as Lord of Oldtown."
Both of my cousins turned toward me, and I answered with nothing more than a slow, deliberate smirk.
Aegon's earlier hesitation vanished, replaced by a growing eagerness as the implications took root in his mind. His posture straightened, his expression sharpening with purpose. Daemon, on the other hand, smiled—a dark, dangerous curve of the lips. I had no doubt he was already imagining Otto Hightower's face when the truth revealed itself.
Aegon finally inclined his head.
"My king, I am a loyal member of our family. If this is your will, then marrying Alicent is the right choice. I will gladly follow your judgment."
I welcomed his words with a low, satisfied laugh, the sound carrying easily through the chamber as everything fell into place.
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Dorne
7th Moon,107 AC
Prince Qoren Martell
Prince Qoren Martell studied the reports detailing their preparations, and a measured satisfaction settled within him. He had been perceptive enough to anticipate that the Targaryens would attempt something underhanded. That much had been expected. What he had not expected, and what now weighed heavily on his thoughts, was the failure of his own intelligence network.
It was a matter that cut into his pride.
Their spies had failed to report that the king had weakened and died, leaving the throne to a successor. Instead, the first word he received came through a raven from King's Landing announcing the coronation of a new king. A bastard king.
The knowledge had not come as information, but as an insult.
The letter that followed only deepened it. The new king had dared to command him to come and bend the knee, as though Dorne owed them fealty. The presumption in those words lingered in his mind long after he had finished reading.
Qoren had taken his frustration to the training yard, where the silence of stone walls and the weight of steel allowed him to vent without restraint. Practice mannequins had been reduced to splintered wood, and armor stands had been battered until they could no longer hold shape. The physical exertion had steadied him, though it had not removed the anger.
The letter had not been sent to him alone. It had reached every lord in Dorne, great and small alike as well as all the Lords of the Realm. That detail did not escape him, and despite his irritation, he found himself acknowledging the political calculation behind it.
The king had created an opportunity to make an external target for resentment.
By naming Dorne as defiant, he had given the other kingdoms a reason to unify. The Stormlands and the Reach needed little encouragement to resent Dorne after years of conflict, and the letter had only sharpened that sentiment.
It was a tactic Qoren recognized well. His own house had relied upon the same method in the past. Since the time of Nymeria Martell to his own grandparent's resistance against Aegon the Conqueror, unity in Dorne had often been forged through opposition to an external threat.
The reaction among the Dornish lords had been immediate. The more headstrong among them had nearly pushed for open war upon receiving the letter, driven by anger and wounded pride. Only the existing strategy—waiting for instability in the other kingdoms—had restrained them.
Even the more measured houses, such as the Daynes, had responded with increased preparation. The tone of the letter and the disrespect it carried had ensured that no lord treated it lightly.
No lords dared to send any reply, and Dorne being named rebellious instead of fighting a righteous cause for safety and independence was spread across his Kingdom. To the frustration of Wyl and other border lords, the promised chaos of a Dance of Dragons didn't happen, as the cowardly dragonriders bent the knee to the new bastard king and his get happily.
Even though not officially declared, the prince knew that war was inevitable, and he decided to use his favourite mad dog to send a message.
===========================
2 weeks later
Martell frowned as the messenger from Wyl bowed before him in the solar. Why a messenger was even needed when a simple raven stating the numbers of enemies killed and villages pillaged would be enough, Martell didn't know.
"My prince," the messenger said hesitantly.
Prince Martell nodded and waved his hand to continue.
"Your Grace, as you ordered, Lord Wyl dressed themselves as bandits and attacked across the borders. The first village attack was a success, and we killed many while the majority escaped. The next village was empty, and angered, Lord Wyl pressed on into the next one and the next one. Unfortunately, the Tarlys were waiting for it, and they ambushed the attack. Lord Wyl was captured after some northman disarmed him very easily. I was sent by the younger brother of Wyl to inform you and ask what he should do now?"
Prince Martell didn't reply for several heartbeats as he tried to process what he heard from the messenger's broken and fearful message.
After some time, he finally asked with a sigh, "What do you mean by a nobody from the North disarmed him? Lord Wyl is one of the most monstrous fighters in Dorne after those from my house and the Sword of the Morning."
"It is what I said, Your Grace. It was a northern bastard named so because he was called Snow, and he was very fast. He literally chopped Wyl's arm when they engaged. There are rumours that it was one of the bastard sons of the king," the messenger said.
Prince Martell remained silent as he remained thoughtful; what a bastard son was doing so far away from their home in the North.
Suddenly, it hit him. The bastard king knew there would be trouble, and he positioned his talented son so they could benefit from their deeds if succeeded, or he could get rid of the bastard son, likely a problematic one.
Still, a lord of Dorne caught among bandits was truly troublesome. Lord Wyl was hated even among the Dornish, and starting a war for him would be very troublesome. Without the support of the smallfolk, Dornish nobility couldn't survive a dragon's wrath again. The smallfolk may like the story of fighting off dragons, but they didn't actually like paying the cost for such a story. Only placing the dragons as evil people coming to kill all of them for their greed and lust for more power made the smallfolk of Dorne fight in the first place against the Conqueror. The fact that it would be against their storied history of Nymeria and their Rhoynish ancestry was just something that added to the reason for protests. Still, having such a long peace under dragon rule had made many Dornish not hate the dragons like before.
The two moons' time for bending the knee would expire shortly, and the bastard king would declare war on them, but now he had additional reason for it.
"Fuck Wyl," Prince Martell cursed as he dismissed the messenger to have his rest and some refreshments.
The only good thing was he was already prepared for a war, but his plan was to hit both the Reach and Stormlands during the chaos, yet now there was no chaos and the bastard king seemed to be prepared too. The fortunate thing was Dorne was prepared to face dragons again, and the long peace was used to stock up ballistas against dragons. They had placed many such things against dragons in all castles as well as many other positions.
=========================
3 weeks later
Prince Martell frowned at the missive received from King's Landing. It was a declaration of war as expected, and the major reason was named as breaking the peace treaty by Lord Wyl in an open attack against the Reach.
Martell tore the missive into different pieces and threw it to a corner in anger. He couldn't figure out how rumours regarding Lord Wyl and his monstrous ways had spread among the population in the last three weeks and how he had made the dragon call for war again. Unlike last time, the smallfolk were angry against the dragons and their audacity to attack them again, yet there was an underlying dislike towards the lords too, because it was due to them, especially Wyl, that the dragon was going to come to Dorne again. Still, the people were willing to do the needful when needed, and he was happy for it.
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King's Landing
The King
It had been only a few weeks since I had been crowned king, and already many lords had arrived to swear their oaths. For those unable to travel from distant regions such as the North, representatives came in their stead, and ravens bearing sworn declarations reached the capital in due time. All nearby lords had already been dismissed with formal commands to call their banners and prepare for war, replacing the earlier unofficial preparations with open and sanctioned action.
Though I had become the most powerful man in the realm by wearing the crown, I felt no true change within myself. I had carried the weight of authority for years, and the crown merely made it official. The only difference lay in how others now conducted themselves around me. I had always maintained strong relations with those who served me, whether they held positions on the small council or labored quietly within the Red Keep. Now, there was a distance in every exchange, a careful restraint that had not existed before. Only my family and my closest companion, Aethan, remained unchanged in their demeanor.
The days were filled with constant obligations as I prepared for the coming war. Despite every measure I had taken, the sense of doom that lingered at the edges of my thoughts never faded. Over the past moons, I had stockpiled healing potions for my immediate family, ensuring that they would survive whatever trials awaited us. I had even gone so far as to use my own blood to empower the dragonglass candle, attempting to scry the source of the danger. The effort yielded nothing. The weirwood in the godswood offered no clarity either. The only certainty I had gained was that the threat was not directed at me.
It was my children who stood in danger.
Those beyond the Wall were at immediate risk, yet no matter how far my warging reached, I found no White Walkers or forces of death stalking them. The absence of visible threat did little to ease my concern. My younger trueborn children, Gaemon and Daenerys, were also vulnerable due to their age. Still, they were protected. I had allowed Meraxes, Gaemon's dragon, to roost within the Red Keep itself. Gaemon was rarely alone, shadowed constantly by his direwolf, while remaining under my son Rickon's careful watch as well.
The small council convened once more, every seat filled for what would be one of the most important meetings before the war began. To my right sat Queen Gael, composed and attentive. Nearby, though positioned discreetly against the wall, Benjen worked with his books and parchment. Though his seat was set apart, none in the room failed to recognize the influence he carried, earned through both competence and my trust.
The arrangement of the chamber remained deliberate. The queen occupied the only seat at my side, while all others were placed along the length of the table, leaving the far end unoccupied.
On the right sat Rhaenys Targaryen, Hand of the King, her posture firm and unwavering. On the left was Viserys Targaryen, Master of King's Landing, who oversaw the daily governance of the capital.
I began by presenting the latest reports from the Reach, gathered through both my spies and my sons. Maintaining both an unofficial and unseen master of whispers carried its complications, but the results spoke for themselves. Soon, ravens from the border lords would arrive, and when they did, even the most skeptical among the council would understand the reach of my network and the extent of my abilities.
A faint thought crossed my mind, one tinged with amusement. Bloodraven will never exist in this world, and yet his notorious legend of songs and riddle would exist through me:
'How many eyes does King Daemon have? A thousand eyes, and one.'
The council digested the news, and I could even see a few "I told you so" looks from the Grand Maester. Even now, the position held power only to speak when prompted by someone else. I looked at the man and wondered whether he was politically foolish enough not to recognize that this had been my intention all along.
I turned to Lord Manderly, my Master of Coin, and asked, "How is the treasury? Is it capable of supporting the upcoming defense of my lands against Dornish foolishness?"
Lord Manderly merely smirked at my choice of words. "Aye, Your Grace," he replied. "We are prepared, even with all the construction works. It is quite fortunate that the construction finished in the second moon of this year. It is as if the gods and fate themselves wish everything to be perfect for you, my king."
I had to hide my snort of laughter at the comment from my friend. It sounded like flattery for the benefit of others, yet I understood the sarcasm beneath his words, because he knew me well enough to see that none of this was fate, but rather my own design.
"Well then, let us ensure that this chance granted by fate is not wasted," Gael said from my side. "Dorne has taken many things from House Targaryen and the Seven Kingdoms; it is time for them to repay some of it."
I nodded at my dear wife's words. "Aye, it is as my queen says. Those cowardly curs have broken every oath and every word, as dishonorable as the dogs they are. House Targaryen will not be the same; we will adhere to the laws of war and declare that the rebellion from Dorne shall be officially put down by my men. Send the ravens to call the banners, and send word to every lord of Dorne, offering clemency to all who bend the knee and cease their support for the cowardly bandit, Lord Wyl."
There was no adverse reaction from my council members; they nodded enthusiastically and eagerly at the opportunity.
===========================
I looked at Rhaenys, Gael, Benjen, Viserys, Daemon, Aegon, and Aethan as we assembled in my chambers, where I conducted the majority of my work. Lyanna was occupied in the Sunset Sea, flying across the region while the Mormonts prepared their ships. The ravens had already been sent, except to a few specific lords for whom special orders were required, namely Greyjoy, Redwyne, Hightower, and the other Ironborn houses.
"So, finally, the war is beginning," Viserys said with a weary sigh.
"Aye, it is," I replied nonchalantly. "Now let us speak of the actual plan. Ravens will be sent to Hightower and Redwyne to blockade the Dornish ports. The first step is to stop Dorne's trade with Essos. We will also send ravens to every Ironborn house. Even if a single house sides with us instead of that Hoare bastard, it will serve us well."
"That would be too good to be true," Aethan said with a scoff. "They have been preparing and assembling a hundred ships, yet we have not discovered the reason. The only fortunate thing is that the Mormont ships are already at Lannisport rather than sailing from Bear Island."
"Well, Lyanna is there with Silverwing," Gael replied. "Let her handle it if those bastards truly intend to attack us. Until then, we observe. We do not want to start another war so soon."
I nodded from my seat. "Rhaenys," I called, and she turned to me. "When the Velaryon ships are ready to set sail, have them send a raven and then make for Dragonstone to join our fleet. Daemon will serve as escort for the ships, as passing the Stepstones may invite treachery or a surprise ambush by the Triarchy."
Daemon looked at me with a bloodthirsty grin, clearly hoping that the Myrish would be foolish enough to attack him.
"Viserys, Rhaenys, Gael, and Benjen will remain here to rule and to be prepared for any eventuality. I will go with Aegon to the Dornish front and make them regret not bending the knee to the Conqueror all those years ago," I finished, my face stripped of its usual grin and casualness.
============================
Red Keep
Midnight
My mind cleared even as the world around me remained indistinct. It had been a long time since I had felt this kind of clarity without the haze of drink or potion dulling my thoughts, and the sensation unsettled me.
I shook my head and slowly opened my eyes.
The first thing that struck me was the blurred expanse beneath me, stretched endlessly below, while the wind howled against my form.
I was flying….
I searched my memory, forcing myself to recall what had led to this moment. The last thing I could remember was lying beside Gael, holding her close. My mind had wandered as it often did, moving across the realm through my animals and through greenseeing when needed. Everything had been unfolding as planned. After that, there was nothing. I could not tell whether I had fallen asleep or if something else had taken hold of me.
I tried to stop, to pull myself back into my body, but to my confusion, I could not. There was pressure within my mind, insistent and unyielding, pushing me forward and refusing to let me break from whatever this was. Something was calling me, and every instinct I possessed flared with warning whenever I even considered turning back.
So I chose to follow. I moved over Moat Cailin, the familiar lands slipping past beneath me in silence, and then, without transition, I was beyond the Wall.
The world turned white and vast beneath me.
The entire settlement had descended into battle. My sons stood at its center, fighting against both wildlings and wights with relentless ferocity. Their movements were sharp, precise, and filled with purpose. Each strike carved through their enemies as they drove them back. The snow beneath their feet was stained deep with blood.
A fierce pride rose within me as I watched them. They were winning. The skill, the physical enhancements, the sheer speed all making them a legend in the battlefield.
A grin spread across my face—
—and vanished in the next instant.
An ice spear tore through the air and struck Jon. It pierced him cleanly through his head passing through his entire torso before the spear impaled itself to the ground.
For a moment, there was nothing but numbness for me. Then the numbness gave way to a spark of rage.
The battlefield seemed to still as a roar of rage erupted from the Mountain. He turned toward the cliffs, toward the source of the attack. The spear had come from the treeline above, launched with impossible precision.
The giant of man began climbing the cliff with sheer strength, and another ice spear came flying, impaling my son Eddard from behind while he was fighting. My candle of rage turned into a bonfire, and as I watched, I understood what would happen. My sons would die here, and the Night King would claim my blood.
Somehow, they had forgotten the rule of keeping watch over their surroundings at all times, or perhaps it was the chaos of battle that allowed the walkers to slip in unnoticed.
Before I could act, before I could even gather myself— I was again moved.
I was thrown from the ground as if Morghul had flicked me aside with his tail. Within a blink, I crossed the Wall, and in another, I was above Bear Island. I did not stop there and pushed onward over the Sunset Sea. I slowed as I reached a vast naval battlefield. It was night, and only the lights from the ships and the glow of the full moon revealed the expanse of the sea.
Ships were being boarded, and burning jetsam and flotsam crashed against one another. More than two dozen vessels were ablaze, and I flew above them, cutting through smoke and darkness until I saw the silver dragon making sweeping passes, setting ships aflame.
Suddenly, I stopped mid-flight and found myself surrounded by thick smoke, blinding me to everything around me. I tried to move, but my body remained beyond my control. The smoke shifted and twisted with the wind, swallowing me again and again as it closed in from all sides.
Frustration gave way to anger. My rage, already burning from what I had witnessed beyond the wall, surged higher. I roared and forced myself forward, desperate to see what was happening to Lyanna.
With a jolt, I was freed, and I blasted forward at tremendous speed, overshooting the entire naval battlefield. I forced myself to stop with great effort and turned back, this time moving with restraint.
I could see the distant glow of fires and ships when, without warning, a massive wave of fire erupted along the ocean's surface, blinding me. I pushed forward and reached the source of the flames, which was none other than Silverwing. The ocean itself was burning under dragonfire, yet Silverwing continued to unleash her flames. I focused, and I could see patches where the fire began to fizzle out. Through the smoke and the rising steam of the burning sea, I caught sight of dark greyish-green scales shifting beneath the surface.
Suddenly, the water and fire were shattered as more than a dozen massive tentacles burst forth from the depths. Horror gripped me as the scales and flesh sent a dreadful warning through my senses. Silverwing tried to ascend, but the tentacles were impossibly long and moved with terrifying speed. My vision was obscured once more by thick smoke and fog, churned by the beating of dragon wings and the violent thrashing of the creature below.
By the time my sight cleared, I saw ten of those monstrous limbs wrapped around the dragon, dragging her down into the ocean. Silverwing was half engulfed, the tentacles around her torn and bleeding black ichor where she had fought back, yet she was still being pulled under along with my daughter. Lyanna struggled to free herself from her safety restraints, but the water broke again as five more tentacles surged upward, and both dragon and rider were dragged down far more swiftly.
My rage, already smoldering from witnessing my sons' deaths, erupted with violent force, and I willed myself forward, chasing after Lyanna. As I reached the unnaturally still surface of the water, my senses screamed a warning before I could break through.
Then everything twisted.
To my absolute surprise, Instead of plunging into the depths, I fell upward, torn away from the ocean and hurled toward the sky. My vision was consumed by sudden light, blinding me as the world shifted into daylight. Within a few heartbeats, my sight adjusted, and I realized where I was.
I was above Dragonstone.
Confusion flickered through me, but it lasted only an instant. A powerful pull settled in my chest, directing me toward the Dragonmount. I did not question it. I moved at once, drawn forward by instinct and something deeper that I could not name.
As I reached the mount, I was again blasted by something, and my body slipped out of my control once more. I was carried across the Narrow Sea until I found myself within a castle concealed in deep darkness. I tried to pierce the shadows and see clearly, but at first I could not.
My anger burned brighter, and I was absolutely at the end of my patience at being powerless like this. Closing my eyes, I focused on my absolute bond with Morghul, and my dragon manifested beside me within the dream. For a brief moment, Morghul was startled, before my fury washed over him. I did not even need to command him before dragonfire engulfed me, forcing the darkness to retreat.
The flames cleansed me, and the unseen hold over me shattered. I stepped forward, intent on discovering who dared to plot against me. Suddenly, the entire dream world trembled, and a blinding light consumed everything.
The last thing I heard before I was forcibly awakened was a hoarse whisper:
"The dragons are distracted, and the dragonlings are weak now. We have no better opportunity to strike than now."
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Author Note: sorry for late late update.. this chapter has been absolute menace to finish as I have to rewrite couple of times as well as re think how to show what is happening simultaneously.
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