POV: Aegon Targaryen
The lamplight burned low, the smoke from the wick staining the air with a bitter tang. I leaned forward in my chair, elbows braced against the oak table, quill scratching furiously against parchment. The chair beside me was buried beneath a tower of scrolls, and another sagged under the weight of bound books taken from the libraries of Volantis. Everywhere I looked, the room was drowned in ink and vellum, in scraps of old wisdom scavenged from the wreck of empire.
I read, I copied, I noted. My own script filled page after page connections, patterns, fragments pulled from half-burnt chronicles and forgotten ledgers. Some were merchant tallies, others the dry record of magistrates. But a few precious few whispered of what I sought: the strength and secrets of Valyria.
The Freehold was ash and ruin, scattered by the Doom. The New Valyrian Empire was no more, strangled in its cradle by folly and fire. Yet here, in this city that had bowed its head to me, I found remnants enough to kindle a greater dream.
Volantis bent gladly after its humiliation, eager to treat me my sister and our allies as honored guests, eager to cling to the powers that were not their own. I had no time for their flattery. Their halls and temples could remain their pride; I wanted their vaults, their archives, their dusty or gilded tomes.
Every day I spent in this city was a seed sown for the kingdom I would forge. Greater than Volantis. Greater than Valyria. Greater even than the Iron Throne I had yet to forge.
When I lifted my eyes from the parchment, the candlelight caught the curve of the dragon eggs that rested in a cradle of iron at the edge of the table. Six prizes, won with patience and fire. White, blue, brown, silver, gold, and grey. They gleamed faintly, as if they too listened to the scratching of my quill and the beating of my heart.
But as I set ink to parchment, copying what little remained from a nobleman's ruined library of the Freehold, I felt it no, I sensed it. A shift, subtle but unmistakable.
I have always kept a quiet awareness of my surroundings, a habit honed by caution and necessity. Even when I try to drown it out refusing to let every flicker of a candle or buzzing fly demand my focus it is still there, beneath the surface.
But now, that awareness flared. I was painfully, perfectly present. The room around me unfolded in my mind with unnatural clarity, as though I stood outside of myself and beheld it from above. Every candle, every crack in the stone, the scattered tomes, the dragon eggs in their cradle of iron mapped in my thoughts like a living, breathing illusion.
Yet nothing seemed out of place.
And still, my instincts whispered: something is wrong.
Then I heard it the barest rustle of silk against skin.
Blackfyre was in my hand before thought could catch up. In less than a heartbeat, the Valyrian steel rested cold against the intruder's neck.
"Who are you?" I asked, voice calm, steady yet heavy with the promise that her life hung upon a blade's edge.
She stood motionless.
A woman cloaked in red silk and near-transparent robes that clung and concealed in equal measure, veiling her form in shifting shadow. I saw no weapons, no hidden blades. Her hair, a deep red like embers in a dying hearth, tumbled wild past her shoulders. But it was her eyes that held me red, luminous, alive with heat like banked coals.
"Greetings, great Dragonlord," she said softly. Her voice was warm summer wind over smoldering ash. "I am Myra, priestess of the Lord of Light…"
I did not lower the sword.
Magic was real; I needed no priest to tell me that. I rode dragons. I commanded fire made flesh. But magic outside of dragonflame? That was another matter.
With Balerion and Vhagar far from the city an hour's ride beyond the walls I had believed any priests of this fire god would be no true threat. But now? I was no longer certain. Was distance even a factor? Or was divine fire like dragonfire needing only belief and will to shape the world?
What we're the rules of magic in this world of ice and fire placed in the 40k universe?
These thoughts flashed through my mind in the space of a breath.
"Why are you here, red priestess?" I said at last.
At my words, she lowered herself to her knees. She did not flinch as Blackfyre's edge forced her chin upwards into an uncomfortable angle. She only gazed up at me calm, unblinking, as though kneeling before a drawn blade was as ordinary as prayer.
And she smiled.
"I have come to offer my service to the one who arrived in fire and amidst salt and smoke—the one gifted to us by the Lord of Light, the one child forged by the golden sun," she declared reverently.
Her red eyes locked onto mine. In them, I saw a fevered, unshakable faith.
My heart beat once. My mask of calm slipped just for a moment.
Possibilities thundered through my mind. I had asked myself these questions before, but never had the answers felt so close, so real.
Did the gods of this world truly exist? Was R'hllor the Lord of Light some minor warp entity, feeding on the sacrifices mad in flames and devotion? And if so, what of the others? The Old Gods, the Seven, the Drowned God were they real as well? Or were they simply different faces of the same endless madness that dwelled in the Warp?
My thoughts ran wild, but I forced them back into line. Focus on the present. On the woman before me.
My sword-hand twitched.
I almost slew her there and then.
With a flick of my wrist, her head would have rolled onto the stone floor.
The human part of me hungered for that simplicity.
But the demi-god within the calculating, merciless mind forged by two worlds wanted answers. That desire alone stayed my blade. For now.
"You speak in riddles and of gods things I have no more use for than the visions I already see in my dreams," I said, voice cold and measured. "I have no need of a witch from some foreign fire cult, arriving unbidden and unannounced."
The assessment was already made in my mind she was likely an agent of the Red Temple and perhaps of their god as well serving their designs, not mine.
And she could wield magic. Warp-tainted power. And all things born of the Warp were dangerous.
Still, she knelt. Unshaken.
"The Lord said you would reject me," she replied softly. "But I ask that you reconsider. I come with only my words and my robes. My life is yours to extinguish at any time, should my offerings prove false."
There was no tremor in her voice. No flicker of fear in her pupils even as Blackfyre's edge kissed her throat.
"Then speak," I commanded.
Something shifted in her demeanor. The fervent pride in her posture softened into something more… submissive. Her eyes lowered for the first time.
"I am an acolyte of the Lord of Light," she said. "Skilled in the manipulation of the forces of this world through His flame. You scour the daughters of the Freehold, searching for remnants of its legacy but little remains in their archives."
Her voice wavered just barely as my gaze held hers.
"But my order has recovered what little survived the Doom."
My interest sharpened like a drawn blade.
Myra kept her eyes lowered, her voice soft but unwavering as she continued.
"The Red Temple has gathered what scraps remain of Valyria's legacy," she said. "Books, tablets, fragments of prophecy—all that could be salvaged from the ruins and the shadows of the Fourteen Flames. I have been sent to offer them… and myself, as a representative of our faith."
I said nothing.
But my mind roared.
Her claim was not impossible. In truth, it was frighteningly plausible. Fire priests, born to worship flame and shadow, would have held fewer fears of the burning mountains of Valyria. They would have walked among the molten bones of the Freehold when others fled. And if even one among them knew a fraction of true sorcery…
Then they had something I wanted.
Knowledge.
Power.
Magic or manipulations of the Warp.
My fingers tightened on Blackfyre's hilt, though I did not press the blade closer.
An alliance with the Red Temple… The thought sank its claws into me.
Their network spanned Essos. Their temples reached kings and beggars alike. And if they truly wielded magic if they could teach it then I would be a fool to dismiss them outright.
But to invite a religion devoted to a possible warp entity into my ranks? To let them linger near my blood, my dragons, my plans?
Dangerous.
Useful.
Tempting.
I weighed the thought for only a heartbeat longer. Five seconds of silence. No more.
At last, I lowered Blackfyre from her throat.
"I will accept your service," I said, voice low. "But not by your word alone."
Her head lifted, eyes bright as embers.
"You will speak to my sisters," I continued. "You will convince them as you have tried to convince me. If either Visenya or Rhaenys rejects you, you will leave Volantis and return to your temple. Do you understand?"
Myra bowed, deeper than before, hands pressed to the stone.
"I understand, my lord," she said. "And I accept your requirements."
Blackfyre slid fully back into its scabbard.
But even as the steel left her throat, I did not relax.
Neither did she.
Only the flames in her eyes burned brighter.
---
I informed Visenya of the priestess the following morning.
She sat quietly as I told her everything — Myra's arrival, her talk of fire and prophecy, her offer of service and the Red Temple's willingness to trade knowledge and artifacts of Valyria. Visenya listened without interruption, her expression unreadable as ever.
When I finished, she asked only two questions.
"What do you think of her?"
"And did you accept?"
Simple. Direct. The way Visenya prefers things.
"I believe she has her own motives," I admitted. "Likely a spy of her temple, or at the very least, someone sent to observe and persuade us."
Visenya gave a small nod of agreement, or perhaps approval.
"And yes," I continued, "I accepted her service."
There was a pause. Not hostile but heavy with unspoken thought. Visenya doesn't glare or shout. She simply looks, and one starts questioning everything down to the placement of one's own shoes.
So, I clarified.
"She will only serve us if both you and Rhaenys find her acceptable. If either of you refuse, she returns to her temple."
That seemed to satisfy her. One nod. Not praise, not disapproval — simply acknowledgment.
The next morning we gathered in the solar of our Volantene residence. I took my place at the head of the table. Visenya sat to my right; Myra to my left. Both women studied each other in silence not with open hostility, but with the quiet caution of two people measuring steel in the other.
I told Visenya I would not speak unless needed. She gave a faint shrug — which, from her, counts as agreement.
She began.
"Why should House Targaryen trust a servant of a foreign god?"
Direct. Cool. Honest.
Myra bowed her head slightly, unbothered. "Because fire is not foreign to your house, nor to my faith. The Lord of Light has long spoken of one born amidst salt and smoke. I believe that to be your brother."
Visenya didn't so much as blink. But I could tell she was considering every word very carefully. She glanced my way — not accusing, simply thoughtful — then returned to Myra.
What followed was less a conversation and more a duel of questions and convictions. Visenya's words were precise, sharp as Dark Sister. Myra's replies were steady, anchored in unwavering belief. Neither raised their voice. Neither yielded ground.
An hour passed like that.
Then, Visenya leaned back slightly in her chair.
No sigh. No smile.
Just a single nod.
It was enough.
Myra inclined her head in return one dragoness had gaver her assent.
The matter, for now, was settled for now.