Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I was coming back from watching Venom 3. A masterpiece, in my humble and entirely unbiased opinion. Say what you will about Sony milking that franchise, but the chemistry between Eddie Brock and Venom is something no cinematic universe can replicate. Tom Hardy? Hats off to the man. That guy owns the duality. The transformation scenes? Chef’s kiss. But it was the little things that got me: the fish Venom, the horse Venom, the gilf-lover Venom, and my personal favorite, "James Bond Eddie Brock." Did they even need to give him those songs? Absolutely not. Did it make the movie exponentially better? Hell yes.

Now, any normal person would take these thoughts and discuss them over a post-movie dinner. Not me. No, I decided these insights—nay, revelations—had to be shared immediately with my 3,800-ish Instagram followers, who definitely couldn't care less about my cinematic hot takes. I was mid-story post, typing something like: “Venom is peak—when I was hit by a car.

Yes, you read that right. A car. While walking. Why? Because I was glued to my phone, proving once again that my dear, sweet, all-knowing Mummy is always right. "Don’t use your phone in public Rishi," she'd said. "You’ll get hit, or your phone will get stolen at very least." I scoffed. I rolled my eyes. And here I was, flat on the pavement, hearing her "I told you so" on repeat in my head. Thanks, Mummy. You win this round.

The world started to blur. My vision dimmed, and with it, a kaleidoscope of regrets. I'd promised Mummy a pilgrimage someday—to Varanasi, to Mathura, to wherever she fancied. I never did. Too busy, too arrogant, too sure I had time. But now? Now, I was dying. No chance to take her anywhere. No chance to tick off my bucket list, either. Europe, gone. Rome, Munich, Lake Como—yes, the Lake Como from Attack of the Clones (don’t judge; the prequels are criminally underrated). The cathedrals, the castles of Bavaria, the châteaus of the Loire Valley—all vanished in the cruel click of fate's delete button.

And Dexter. Oh, I wouldn’t get to finish the series. In the words of Sexter: The Bay Harbor Booty Clapper, "It's over." No kidding.

I thought, "Well, that’s that." Light faded to darkness, and darkness to… Wait, what? Light again? Except this time, it wasn’t the fluorescent hum of a hospital ceiling. It was… something else. Something otherworldly. I blinked and saw a pale man holding me. Why the hell was I so small? Oh. Oh no. Don’t tell me… Yep. Reincarnation. My faith wasn’t a lie after all.

The pale man spoke in a language that tickled something deep in my subconscious. "Zȳhon brōzi jāhor sagon Aegon." I caught one word: Aegon. And that’s when I noticed the purple eyes. Purple! I’d seen enough Game of Thrones to know what that meant. Targaryen!

My infant brain tried to piece it all together. Was this a second chance? Had the gods seen my pathetic first run and decided, "Let’s throw this idiot into Westeros and see what he does?" I couldn’t speak—infant, remember?—but the possibilities raced through my mind. Please let me be Aegon IV Targaryen, I thought. The Lusty Aegon. The one who banged his way through Westeros, have you read about Barba Bracken's Mommy Milkers? Priorities, people.

But as I squinted around, something felt… different. An older man with chains around his neck—definitely a maester—addressed the pale man as "My Lord" and said something in High Valyrian. I didn’t catch it, but the tone was reverent, deferential. This wasn’t King’s Landing... No, this was pre-Conquest Dragonstone. I wasn’t inheriting a dynasty—I was destined to make one.

Holy hell, I was Aegon the Fucking Conqueror.

Not Aegon the Unworthy, with his endless sluts. Not Aegon the Unlikely, whose rise to power was nothing short of a miracle. Not even Jon Snow’s "I dun want it ... muh kween" brooding nonsense. No, I was the original. The dragonlord who melted seven kingdoms into one and forged the Iron Throne. Aegon, the blood of Old Valyria, the first of his name.

And if that wasn’t a terrifying thought, I don’t know what is.

Here’s the thing: I wasn’t a warrior. I was a strategist, sarcastic, quippy film + history + political nerd who could barely cross a street without dying. But hey, if history’s taught me anything, it’s that ambition trumps aptitude nine times out of ten. And I had ambition in spades. Sure, the idea of leading armies and riding dragons was overwhelming. But the thought of power? Now that was intoxicating, I could make a perfect monarchy I could build Constantinople... Maybe Aegoninople?? I would have to work on the name? I could build fucking palace of the fucking Versailles and castle of neuschwanstein and all royal stuff... Although how much would it cost ??? Would I have enough money??? Oh man I'm fucking tired already.

So, there I was. Tiny, drooling, utterly helpless—but filled with the resolve to conquer. To rise. To take this second chance and make it epic. But first, sleep. Conquering can wait till morning.

My new mother, as it turned out, was a proper lady of noble birth, her blonde Velaryon hair as pristine as the pearly shores of Driftmark. You’d think being a highborn woman meant she’d be the one feeding her baby—me, the future conqueror. Nope, unlike my mummy this bitch sucks ass. Apparently, that’s what wet nurses were for. And not just any wet nurse, mind you. My mother went ahead and hired a raven-haired woman with the kind of proportions that made you wonder if the gods had sculpted her from pure lust.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of being a milk-sucking infant. But if fate decided I’d have to spend my early days latched onto someone’s chest, I’d take big, soft milkers over my new mother’s more… delicate Velaryon options. Call me shallow (or a pervy adult stuck in a baby’s body), but you’d feel the same if you were me. I mean, when life hands you lemons, you make lemon cakes. Or in this case, when life gives you big, warm, bouncy—okay, you get the point.

But amidst my newfound appreciation for medieval lactation logistics, a dark thought crept in. Not about my circumstances—those were absurd enough—but about Balerion the Black Dread. You know, the dragon. The big one. The massive, fire-breathing beast that would one day melt entire castles like they were made of butter. Could I, with my reincarnated soul, even bond with him?

For a moment, I imagined trying to mount Balerion, the dragon snorting contemptuously before swatting me off his back like an insect. Or worse, roasting me alive. Would he sense I wasn’t the real Aegon? That deep down, I was just a sarcastic ex-human who could barely keep his sanity? I chuckled inwardly. If Balerion didn’t eat me first, I’d probably talk him to death with my endless monologues.

But then, a new concern hit me like a hammer to the head. A bigger meaty issue. And no, not like that. (Get your mind out of the gutter, I’m the future founder of a dynasty, thank you very much.)

The issue? Food. Specifically, meat.

Back in my first life, I’d been raised vegetarian. My family wasn’t just religious; we were priests. Eating meat wasn’t just frowned upon—it was downright sinful, I mean now I'm sure gods don't exist. But, over the years, I’d come to believe it wasn’t just a rule but a moral truth. Killing animals for taste? No thank you. Yet here I was, destined to live in a world where the only food groups seemed to be meat, bread, and wine. What was I supposed to do? Ask for a salad? "Pardon me, can I get a Almond milk on Dragonstone?" Yeah, that’d go over real well.

The thought of biting into a stake filled me with dread. But you know what was worse? Fish. Fish! How do people even eat those things? Their little dead eyes staring at you like you’re a monster. Nope. Not happening. Maybe I could just survive on bread and cheese for the rest of my life. That wouldn’t be so bad, right? Cheese is basically best vegetarian animal protein?

For now, though, I didn’t have to worry about any of that. My entire diet consisted of breast milk from my raven-haired wet nurse. And honestly? I wasn’t complaining. If the gods had deemed this my new beginning, I’d milk it (pun intended) for all it was worth. I’d drink, grow, and eventually establish myself as the kind of enigma that no successor of mine could ever escape.

By the time I was done, every ruler who followed would live in the shadow of Aegon the Conqueror. My shadow. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life—and now, death—it’s this: if you’re given the chance to rewrite history, you might as well do it in a way that makes sure no one ever forgets your name.

For now, though, I’ll enjoy the milk and the Calcium Cannons which provide it.

As the days passed, I grew into my role—not just as a king-to-be but as a man of refined tastes, if you catch my drift. It’s not every day you’re reborn as the architect of a dynasty, tasked with not only forging a kingdom but also navigating the oh-so-complex dynamics of having two equally stunning sisters as wives. And believe me, I was not going to be the kind of fool canon Aegon was. Oh, no. He might have preferred Rhaenys’s warmth to Visenya’s intensity, but I? I’m an equal-opportunity husband. There would be no favorites in my bed. Both sisters would get their fair share of my attention—and, well, other things.

Let me set the scene for you. Visenya: tall, commanding, fierce, with her piercing violet eyes and silver hair that cascaded like a warrior queen’s battle banner. She was the kind of woman who could cut you down with a single glare, and yes, that was wildly attractive to me, she's 'Step on me Mommy' character.

And then there was Rhaenys: lively, adventurous, always ready with a mischievous smile and a laugh that could disarm even the coldest of hearts. She was the kind of woman who made you feel like the world was a little brighter just because she was in it, if I was to take one for wife it would be her she's better that most people personality wise.

Now, some might say it’s morally dubious to wed both your sisters, but listen: in Valyria, this was tradition. Keep the bloodline pure, they said. Strengthen the magic in the blood, they said. And, if you asked me, the gods knew exactly what they were doing when they put us all in the same family. Who am I to argue with destiny? Who am I kidding... I gotta marry them because my house be producing the hottest ones in the town. Besides, if anyone had an issue with it, I’d remind them that dragons don’t care for the judgment of sheep.

Of course, I wasn’t going to wait until after the Conquest to start having heirs, unlike my canon counterpart. What was he afraid of? Dragonriders dying in childbirth? Nonsense. These were Targaryen women—fire and blood ran through their veins. Childbirth wouldn’t stop them, and I wasn’t about to miss the chance to secure the dynasty early. That’s why I made sure Visenya was the first to carry my child. Not only was it a pragmatic decision (no risking sibling rivalry over who bore the first heir), but also… let’s be honest, the thought of Visenya being pregnant with my child was intoxicating. And, of course, Rhaenys wasn’t far behind.

Visenya was my midday escape. When Rhaenys was off riding Meraxes, Visenya was riding me. She was all intensity and passion, her demands leaving no room for hesitation. And yes, sometimes she’d throw a dagger at me when I teased her about her battle-hardened ways, but hey, I’d argue that’s just foreplay. Rhaenys, on the other hand, was my evening delight. Her laughter filled the chamber like music, and her teasing was lighthearted, her touch playful. With her, it felt like I could forget the weight of kingship for a while, even if we both knew our union was just as much about building a dynasty as it was about love.

When Visenya discovered she was pregnant, her usual stoic demeanor gave way to something I’d never seen before: vulnerability. “You’ve put a dragon egg in me, brother,” she said, her tone as flat as ever, but the slight quiver in her voice betrayed her excitement.

“Well,” I quipped, “it’s a good thing dragons are excellent brooders.” Oh God it's happening... I've wanted to become a father like idk why so many people don't want kids... Maybe uh because they think of kids like young Sheldon or something idk man I love them kids... No diddy though. I wanted a some more than I wanted a wife, I wanted to make a son that me but premium version.

She rolled her eyes, muttered something about me being impossible, and stormed out—only to return moments later to throw herself into my arms. Not long after, Rhaenys followed with her own news.

But let me tell you: pregnancy tantrums are no joke. Visenya, who was usually the picture of discipline, became borderline insufferable, demanding I fetch her everything from rare Valyrian delicacies to handmade dragon-shaped trinkets. And Rhaenys? She decided her cravings extended to me. Constantly. “If you think you’re tired now,” she’d say with a wink, “just wait until the baby arrives.”

I was charming, funny, and lusty, yes, but I was still human. My stamina had its limits, even if neither sister seemed to care. There were nights I collapsed into bed, utterly spent, only to have Visenya wake me with a nudge and a smirk. “You’re not done, brother.”

And yet, despite the exhaustion, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. My sisters—my wives—were everything I could have asked for. Together, we were building something greater than ourselves, a legacy that would stand the test of time. And if that legacy involved a bit of absurd, lusty debauchery along the way, well, who was I to complain? After all, in a world of fire and blood, a little indulgence was only fair.

Would I be the best father in Westeros? Absolutely. Would I be the best husband in Westeros? Well, with two pregnant sisters demanding my attention 24/7, I suppose that remains to be seen. But one thing’s for sure: there would be no half-measures in this life. Not for Aegon the Conqueror. Not for me.

Chapter Text

After my parents' death, I became Lord of Dragonstone, and to be honest, I couldn’t bring myself to care. I was free to marry two Dragonbussy and I don't give a fuck about incest, like I don't get why it's so looked down in Westros especially when they're not even ugly. My parents were gone, and now the weight of this desolate island was mine to bear. Dragonstone had no wealth like Driftmark or Duskendale, no fertile lands to draw from. No matter—I'd wait for war in Essos, like all great rulers. Now, as lord, I could finally think freely. No more need to justify my whims to Father or the Maesters. My mind, a mix of history, politics, and engineering, raced with possibilities. I had the knowledge—what could I create?

Gunpowder, huh? I knew how to make it, of course—though it's hardly a safe experiment. Even a single misstep could turn my chambers into a fiery tomb. But that’s not the real problem. The danger lies in who else might get their hands on it. Dragons are more than enough to keep the peace, and I can't help but imagine the chaos if others had the means to kill them with cannons and guns. Can you picture it? Lords with guns in their hands, peasants armed to the teeth, and no dragons to keep them in check. Revolutions, uprisings—chaos. No, better to leave it be. Without the proper training, peasants can't rebel—they wouldn't even know how. It's not like the Age of Swords and Arrows, where skill and discipline could win a fight. And as much as I might joke, I do love my dynasty. I plan to rule for a thousand generations. Feudal lords upholding the dragon's crown—there's no better arrangement. What else...

Concrete, huh? That could be useful, I admit. Building something sturdy in my capital, maybe fortifying the keep, constructing roads, or creating better infrastructure. But there's a catch—money. Where the hell would I get the funds for that kind of scale? Dragonstone might be home to dragons, but it sure doesn't bring in much revenue. Damn it, everything requires coin. I could just order it done, but what’s the point if the coffers are bare? And don’t get me started on the education they shoved down my throat. Civil engineering—in a computer science engineering course? Really? A forced curriculum of brick-layers and stone-masons when I wanted to hack algorithms. Sure, I know a few things about construction now, but it’s all useless without gold to back it up.

Ah, the Pendulum Watch. My first invention. It would make a fine luxury item when I’m king, something to remind everyone of the man who could have led the world into a new age—if they had the sense to follow me. A fine little piece of precision engineering. A display of wealth, status, and, of course, intellect. Oh no I remember now my true first invention, that goes way back to childhood. A water filter made from sand, charcoal, and clay. Nothing fancy, but practical. I was always obsessed with figuring out the why behind things. Water’s supposed to be clean, so I made it clean. Simple, yet... effective. Not much different from my ideas now—just making things work in the most brilliant way possible.

Wait I learned engineering, Ah, yes, the engines. Thanks to my vast unnecessary education, I know how to build a two-stroke engine, a four-stroke engine, steam engines, motors, generators—the works. It’s all simple enough if you can think it through, but I can’t imagine why I’d bring the Industrial Revolution to this world. I mean, I might be a bit of an oddball, like Ted Bundy... no no no I meant Ted Kaczynski—or Kazynscki, whichever way you spell it—always questioning the system and how we can break it down. Industrialization? It's a nightmare I’d rather not entertain. Besides, we don’t even know if there’s petroleum here. Can’t build an oil empire if there's no oil.

What else? Electricity? Absolutely not. It's the gateway to the Industrial Revolution, and I’m not about to bring that kind of chaos to this world. I’d rather live with candles and lamps, simple and effective. Imagine the mess of modern technology: memes, viral trends, and all that junk. I don’t want to end up in a world obsessed with nonsense like Skibidi Toilet or "Lands of Always winter Final Boss". The last thing I need is to watch OnlyDorne...

or some ridiculous form of brainrot degrade society. The last thing I want is a medieval TikTok. Imagine Visenya posting, ‘POV: You’re about to get fried by my dragon,’ while Rhaenys does a dance with Meraxes in the background. Kill me now. I'll stick to the old ways, keep things straightforward, low life expectancy medieval life. Dragons, fire, and the timeless glow of a candle. That’s the world I want to rule.

Or maybe Education? Hell no. I hated that damn engineering degree, and I certainly don’t want peasants reading books or learning how to question authority. Why bother giving them the tools to think for themselves? My dynasty, built for a thousand generations, would be better off with a population of naive, illiterate fools who know their place. Printing press? Not on my watch. Why would I want a mass of educated citizens when that only leads to revolutions and demands for democracy? God, I hate democracy—it’s a joke. The last thing I want is some plebs getting any funny ideas. I hate shitty democracy I'm fucking Indian I know it's shit if people are shitting... Totally no pun intended right guys

A standing army? It's good thing if you're Roman emperor but for me... Useless. A waste of money, and completely unnecessary when you’ve got dragons at your disposal. Why bother with training soldiers and feeding a massive force when one dragon can burn down entire armies in a heartbeat? My successors will be wiser—gentle with lords and skilled in diplomacy, not wasting resources on endless wars. Maybe I’ll write a book about the original timeline, full of lessons for future kings. Teach them how to avoid unnecessary bloodshed and how to keep the crown secure without relying on armies and petty squabbles. Let dragons do the heavy lifting, and no Dance of Dragon and Robert's Rebllion.

Canals, huh? Well, if we're talking TV universe logic, and I can control dragons like Dany, maybe I could make it work. I remember how her dragonfire blasted through everything in Season 8. Imagine what Balerion could do—clearing paths for canals, cutting through stone and earth with ease. I could shape the land itself, redirect rivers and streams with a breath of fire.

Standard units of measurement? Of course, I’d have SI units, none of that "Freedom Units" nonsense. The last thing I need is some lord or peasant measuring things by how many football fields they can fit or worse, asking, "What the fuck is a kilometer?" I’m not running a backward kingdom, I’d make sure my reign is defined by precision and order. No more confusion about yards and feet, just clean, logical measurements. I’d make the world as efficient as possible, starting with the basics. Maybe the peasants would never need to know kilometers, but the nobles damn well should.

Ah, yes. Bank of Dragon, or maybe the Crown Bank—sounds more regal, doesn't it? A solid, unshakable foundation for the kingdom’s finances. No more scrambling for gold or hoarding it like some miser. I’d have the royal treasury flowing with coin, with interest-bearing accounts that would make any merchant think twice before gambling away their fortune. The city of Dragonstone would become the financial capital of the realm, far surpassing anything Braavos could dream of. And for ships? Pfft, forget Braavos. With my knowledge of history and engineering, I'd build an arsenal of ships so formidable, no fleet would dare challenge us. But of course, only if the seas don’t come with some overused mcguffin or convenient plot twist that ruins my carefully crafted plans.

A company like the East India Company? Brilliant. I’d establish a trade monopoly, a private enterprise with the might of dragons backing it. The Crown would have full control, of course, but the company would manage trade, resources, and military strength on the frontlines of profit. Imagine fleets under my banner sweeping through the seas, dominating trade routes across the Narrow Sea and beyond, all the while raking in riches for the Crown.

Constantinople as the model for the capital—absolutely. A city with two worlds, straddling East and West, a gateway for wealth and power, perfect for a future empire. But the question remains: Dragonstone or King’s Landing? Both have their appeal. Dragonstone is rich in history and home to the dragons, but King’s Landing has the strategic advantage, and the prestige of the Iron Throne. I’ll need to assess how things unfold, but wherever I settle, it’ll be a capital that will rival anything the world has ever seen. One thing’s for certain: no matter where I reign, my dynasty will rule the seas, the skies, and the lands, with wealth and power unmatched.

The Spinning Jenny and Cotton Gin, useful tools for industry, but too disruptive for a world like this. I could easily create them, but what’s the point? Unemployment would skyrocket, and I’d be left managing a restless, disillusioned populace. Better to keep such knowledge as a family secret, one to be passed down to future generations, when the time is right—if it ever comes. For now, the status quo serves me well. I’ll leave such advancements to those who come after me, or perhaps they’ll never need to know the truth.

As for Aspirin, Cetrizine, and prescription glasses? Well, that’s a matter for the Alchemist Guild. The science behind them is intricate, and without the proper research or information, I’d only be guessing. Better to leave that to the experts, those who can refine the recipes and supply the people. I’ll have my hands full ruling the realm, consolidating power, and building a legacy that will be remembered for generations. Magic and alchemy can work in tandem, and as King, I’ll ensure it’s used for the betterment of my dynasty—on my terms.

I know exactly what I could make to fill the coffers—gold, wealth, power. Blast furnaces fueled by coke, the puddling process, the Bessemer process. I could flood the market with steel, become the Steel King of Planetos. But God, I hated those chapters in school, the boring ones that dragged on about metallurgy and smelting. I would’ve rather been studying the Napoleonic Wars or the German Unification, anything that was more engaging than this. Still, necessity breeds innovation, and I can’t ignore the potential to build an empire on steel.

As for my Kingswood forest, I’ve already got plans for waterwheel sawmills. Maybe they’ll stay in the back pocket for a time when I truly need them, but for now, waterwheel furnaces will do just fine. A steady supply of metal and heat will keep my plans in motion.

And let’s not forget the basics, the things that would truly elevate Dragonstone to something worthy of a King: commodes and iron pipes. Yes, sanitation is key. It’s not the most glamorous thing, but it’s practical. Dragonstone could use a little modernization, and I’ll be damned if I don’t ensure my people have the comforts they deserve, even in a place so steeped in tradition. The simpler things might just be the key to my reign's success.

Some time later.

Aegon—or rather, Rishi—stretched out lazily on his bed, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his chin as he mulled over his next move. "Alright, let’s think this through," he muttered, smirking to himself. "If I’m going to be in this whole ‘King of the Seven Kingdoms’ scenario, I might as well work the system, right? No one’s gonna suspect the self-insert, after all. Sure, Aegon might be a dragonriding god of war, but I? I’m a self-aware, slightly smug genius who knows the future, and that gives me *all* the power."

He grinned, imagining the looks on Visenya and Rhaenys' faces when he spun his tale. "I’ll just tell them I’m a dreamer. After all, I’ve seen enough movies and read enough books to know how to pull off a convincing ‘I see the future’ routine. Hell, I’ve practically memorized the quotes." He laughed under his breath, recalling his past life—where he was *not* a Targaryen, but a man with a knack for knowing exactly what to say. "It’s just a matter of planting the seed, watching it grow. Milk the moment, and... well, milk the ‘milkers,’ too.”

He adjusted himself and chuckled, “And if I can’t get what I want, there’s always Plan B: Step on me, mommy Visenya and ‘please be gentle, brother’ Rhaenys. Ah, life as a self-aware imposter is *so* much fun.”

Later that day...

The chamber was quiet save for the crackling of the hearth. Aegon sat at the edge of the bed, his silver-gold hair falling loose over his shoulders. His sisters sat before him, their faces illuminated by the firelight. Visenya reclined against the cushions, her hand resting protectively on the curve of her four-moons-pregnant belly. Her austere beauty was softened only slightly by her current state, though her sharp eyes still glinted with the weight of her scrutiny. Beside her, Rhaenys perched with an air of restless energy, her loose hair spilling over her shoulders like a curtain of molten silver.

Aegon ran a hand through his hair, drawing a steadying breath. “I had a dream,” he began.

“Another one?” Visenya asked, her tone clipped, though her fingers tightened subtly over her belly.

“Yes,” Aegon said, his voice low. “This one was clearer than the others. It wasn’t just flashes of fire and shadow, but a vision. Of the future.”

Rhaenys tilted her head, her curiosity evident. “What did you see?”

He hesitated, his violet eyes locking onto theirs. “I saw our conquest. I saw us uniting Westeros under the banner of House Targaryen. But it didn’t end there.” His voice faltered, his gaze dropping to the flames. “I saw what happens after.”

Visenya shifted, her eyes narrowing. “Go on.”

“Dorne resisted us,” Aegon said, the words heavy with foreboding. “We tried to bring them into the fold, but... Rhaenys.” He looked at his younger sister, his expression pained. “You died there.”

Rhaenys’s playful demeanor dimmed, her lips parting in shock. “Me?”

“You were flying Meraxes,” Aegon said, his voice thick with emotion. “A bolt from a scorpion pierced her eye. You fell with her.”

Rhaenys reached for him instinctively, her hand finding his. “And then?”

Aegon squeezed her hand, his jaw tightening. “Your death broke something in me. In us. Our son, Aenys, was weak. Too weak to hold the throne. Maegor took it, and his rule was one of blood and terror. Our house splintered, and the dragons turned on each other. A civil war consumed us—brother against sister, dragon against dragon. By the end, the dragons were gone. Extinct.”

Visenya’s hand stilled over her belly. “And the throne?”

“After two hundred and eighty-three years, we were usurped by a bastard line—Baratheons, descended from Orys.” He looked at them both, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And in the year three hundred and six, the last Targaryen prince was exiled beyond the Wall.”

The room was silent, the weight of his words sinking in. Rhaenys clutched his hand tighter, her playful nature subdued by the gravity of his vision. Visenya’s lips pressed into a thin line, her mind visibly working through the implications.

“We can stop this,” Aegon said, his voice firm. “We must. That’s why we can’t delay any longer. We’ll invade earlier, stronger, with purpose. And...” His gaze softened, shifting between his sisters. “We need to secure our legacy. Our children will be the foundation of the future. Together, we will change the course of history.”

Visenya arched a brow, her tone laced with skepticism. “So, the solution is to invade sooner and have more children? That’s convenient for you.”

Rhaenys smirked, her mischievous spirit returning. “Aegon the Lusty, was it? Couldn’t resist the allure of two sisters?”

Aegon chuckled, the tension breaking slightly. “What can I say? You’re both beautiful... and deliciously stubborn.” He leaned forward, brushing a strand of silver-gold hair from Visenya’s face. “Visenya, you’ve been my shield and my sword. You’ve stood by me, fought beside me. I love you for your strength, your fire. You are the steel that tempers me.”

Visenya’s lips parted, her usual retort failing her. He ran a hand over her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone, then rested his palm over her belly. “And now, you carry our child. Our future.”

She blinked, her stern facade cracking ever so slightly.

Aegon turned to Rhaenys, taking her other hand in his. “And you, my little sister. My light, my song. You remind me of why we fight—for joy, for life. You make the world beautiful.”

Rhaenys’s cheeks flushed, her playful smirk softening. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she murmured.

He grinned, his confidence returning. “Not so bad? High praise from the girl who called me lusty.”

Visenya rolled her eyes, but a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “You’re insufferable too.”

“And yet, you love me,” Aegon said, his tone softer now. He kissed Visenya’s forehead, then turned to Rhaenys and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Trust is the foundation of love; without it, we are but castles built on sand. Harmony isn’t found in agreement but in mutual understanding.”

Rhaenys leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “You always have a line ready, don’t you?”

“It’s part of my charm,” Aegon said, running his fingers through her hair.

Visenya shifted closer, her hand covering his on her belly. “You truly believe this vision can be avoided?”

“I do,” Aegon said firmly. “Our love is a tapestry, each thread unique but woven together into something eternal. We are like stars; we don’t compete for space but shine brighter together.”

For the first time that evening, Visenya’s expression softened completely. She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest. Rhaenys mirrored the gesture, her arms wrapping around his waist.

That night, they stayed together, their hearts beating in unison. Aegon’s hands moved gently over Visenya’s belly as Rhaenys ran her fingers through his hair. They whispered dreams of the future, of dragons soaring over Westeros, of a dynasty built on love and fire.

And as the firelight flickered and the stars outside burned bright, the Targaryen legacy began to take root, not in conquest, but in the unbreakable bond of their shared trust and love.

Aegon—or rather, Rishi—lay sprawled on the bed, one arm behind his head, the other cradling a goblet of wine he wasn’t even drinking. His smirk lingered, but there was a glint of something softer in his eyes as he stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. "Visenya, my stern and magnificent queen, and Rhaenys, my playful ray of sunshine... gods, I don’t deserve them. But then again, I’m Aegon Targaryen, or close enough, so maybe I do."

He chuckled to himself, swirling the wine absently. "Rhaegar. What a name. It practically sings magnificence. Our little warrior prince. Of course, Visenya refused another pregnancy—my Visenya, always too strong-willed for her own good, my grumpy cat of a wife. But what would I be without her? Probably dead or worse, and gods know I’m addicted to the fire in her eyes, even when it’s aimed at me. Then there’s Rhaenys, sweet, maddening Rhaenys, mother to Daeron, my dreamers and dancers. She’s my soft place to land, the one who keeps my stormy world from tipping into chaos."

He sat up, a wild gleam in his eyes now. "It’s all good. I have my family, my dragons, and soon, the war of the Valyrian daughters. My queens might sigh and call me reckless, but what’s life without a little fire and blood? And maybe—just maybe—they’ll finally see that it’s not just their beauty or fire I love. It’s them. All of them."

Chapter Text

Aegon was never ordinary. From his first cries, he was different—sharper, quicker, and far more curious than any child had a right to be. Where other boys were content to chase dogs and swing sticks, Aegon asked questions that left even father scratching his heads. Why can a dragonrider claim one dragon at a tie? Why did dragons only lay eggs when they pleased, and not when they were needed, is there any specific mating issue? And why, by the gods, must men eat the heads of fish?

But oh, how the fish heads tormented him.

“Visenya,” he’d declared one evening, staring disdainfully at the feast before us, “it’s not food. It’s an insult to the eater. Look at its eyes, judging you even in death.”

Our parents humored him, though behind his back they devoured their beef in secret . Little Rhaenys quickly took his side, swearing she’d never touch a cow, “too beautiful and kind,” she said, with eyes big as moons. Aegon agreed, comparing the act to eating cats or dogs, which left me wondering how he’d survive if the world ever turned lean.

And yet, he was no wimp, he ate sea food, chicken and cheese in large amounts to build physique sometimes he would reduce his appetite for a moon or so ro reduce fat and become more shredded. For all his peculiarities, Aegon was every inch a warrior. His training was unconventional, as were most things about him. He built what he called a “gym” with weights made of stone and steel, his height increase sprints and nut snacks. The result? A man who towered over Orys Baratheon, rippling with muscle and weighing near twelve stones. When he swung a sword, it sang with power.

Still, there were moments when I could see the boy beneath the muscle—the one who’d sneak glances at me when I began to fill out. His lust burned bright and relentless, a fire that consumed us both long before marriage. Rhaenys, sweet and mischievous, waited. Aegon didn't wanted to ruin her innocence so young.

Pregnancy, however, was a torment unlike any battle I’d ever faced. My body, once strong and unyielding, was no longer my own. Aegon, for all his charm, couldn’t make it easier. His words soothed, his hands comforted, but I swore to myself and to the gods that I’d never do it again. I had done my duty. Once was enough.

...

Rhaegar, named by Aegon in one of his rare moments of romantic sentiment, he was a big and healthy child; almost twice as heavy as his half-brother Daeron had been. His little brother, Daeron, named for the ancestors of old,At birth, Aenys was small, with spindly limbs and small, watery eyes. He was weak and sickly and slow to grow but but no less a handful. Together, they were the bane of my days and the light of my nights.

Aegon spoiled them, of course. He was too soft, too quick to forgive their antics. When they smeared ash across the tapestries or set the hounds loose in the Great Hall, he laughed and called it “childhood mischief.” I, however, had little patience for such nonsense. When the boys grew too wild and Aegon’s indulgence tested my limits, I would remind him who held the true power in our bed.

“No touching,” I told him one night, after the boys had ruined yet another feast by pelting guests with bread. “None, until you learn discipline.”

He laughed at first, but by the third night, he was begging for forgiveness, his silver hair disheveled, his violet eyes wide with mock penitence. Lusty fool. It was his greatest weakness, and one I wielded with precision.

Yet, for all his flaws, Aegon’s brilliance was undeniable. His mind was a forge, constantly hammering out new ideas. His passion for metallurgy drew lords from across Blackwater Bay, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and even the Vale. They came to marvel at his creations—tools, weapons, and armours that seemed almost magical in their quick craftsmanship.

Aegonlentor, the town he’d built from a fishing village, was thriving. It was no mere settlement but a marvel of modernity. Water filters for people, public bathhouses ensured cleanliness, and markets buzzed with traders hawking wares from every corner of Westeros and Essos. Aegon spoke often of building an even grander city at the mouth of the Blackwater.

“It will be the Crown of the realm,” he told me one evening, his eyes alight with the fire of ambition. “A place where all roads lead and all men prosper.”

I admired his vision, though I doubted he could ever sit still long enough to see it completed. He was always chasing the next idea, the next challenge.

For all his jesting, Aegon understood the stakes. He was no fool. War would test us all—not just our swords and dragons, but the bonds that held us together. We were a family, a dynasty in its infancy. If we were to survive, we would need more than fire and blood. We would need unity.

War was coming, and we would face it together—Aegon, Rhaenys, and I. Three heads of a dragon, bound by love, ambition, and the promise of a brighter future.

For now, at least, we were unbroken.

...

The Great Hall of Dragonstone loomed around us, dark and foreboding, like the belly of a slumbering beast. Its ribbed vaults of fused black stone soared above, where flames from the massive hearth danced along the walls, throwing flickering shadows across the room. I sat to Aegon’s left, my fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of Dark Sister. Across the hall, the envoy of Volantis stood resplendent in crimson and gold, the tiger of his city roaring boldly on his chest. Yet no amount of finery could mask the arrogance rolling off him like a stench.

The man bowed, low enough to feign respect, but his eyes betrayed him—sharp, mocking, full of condescension. “Lord Aegon,” he began, his voice as slick as oiled silk. “The esteemed Triarchs of Volantis bid you warm regards and humbly offer their hand in friendship. The strength and wisdom of House Targaryen are known far and wide, and it is their belief that your noble house would shine brightest among the Princes of Volantis.”

I stiffened in my seat, my gaze narrowing. Princes of Volantis? What a hollow bauble to offer a dragonlord. My grip on Dark Sister tightened, the urge to unsheathe her and silence the man rising unbidden. To my right, Rhaenys shifted, her lips quirking with barely restrained amusement. Always quick to laughter, my sister found such pompous displays more entertaining than infuriating.

Aegon leaned back in his throne, his expression inscrutable as ever. He let the envoy ramble, detailing the “prestige” of the title, the “noble daughters” available for marriage, and the “boundless opportunities” such an alliance would bring. My brother’s silence stretched, and in that silence, the envoy grew bold.

“You must see, my lord,” the man continued, spreading his arms grandly, “that Dragonstone is but a shadow of your potential. It is a rock in the Narrow Sea, a relic of a lost empire. But Volantis… ah, Volantis is the future, and the Triarchs would elevate you to your rightful place at their side.”

There it was. The insult dressed in velvet. I felt my blood rise, hot as dragonfire. How dare he diminish Dragonstone, our ancestral seat, the birthplace of our bloodline's resurgence?

Aegon’s reply was a dagger cloaked in silk. “A shadow, you say?” His voice was soft, measured, the kind of calm that made men squirm. “And yet, it is a shadow that has seen dragons take flight and fire transform stone. Tell me, envoy, what has Volantis achieved of late? Besides losing men, ships, and coin in a war they can’t seem to win?”

The envoy stiffened, his confidence faltering for the first time. “The war is… challenging,” he admitted, though his tone was forced. “But that is why we seek allies, my lord. Together, we can secure victory and cement an enduring legacy.”

Victory. Legacy. Lies. The words rang hollow to my ears. I glanced at Aegon, whose expression remained maddeningly calm, though I caught the flicker of disdain in his eyes. My brother was many things—brilliant, ambitious, maddeningly lusty—but a fool was not one of them.

“And these noble daughters you offer,” Aegon continued, his tone light, almost mocking. “Do they come with daggers hidden in their bodices? Or perhaps cups laced with poison? I wonder, envoy, how long would I live before your Triarchs sought to tame my dragons through my children?”

The envoy blanched, his mouth opening and closing in an attempt to protest. Aegon didn’t let him. “No,” he said, his voice hardening. “Volantis does not seek allies. It seeks chains for House Targaryen. But let me make this clear: I am not some merchant to be bought with titles, nor are my sisters broodmares for your schemes. We are dragons, envoy. And dragons do not bow.”

Rhaenys laughed then, the sound musical and cutting. “Perhaps we should show him what dragons do to tigers,” she said, her purple eyes gleaming with mischief.

I leaned forward, my voice cold as the winds beyond the Wall. “If the Triarchs believe we would trade our fire for empty promises, they are fools. Return to Volantis and tell your masters this: we do not need you. We do not want you. And if you dare insult us again, you’ll find your tiger banners reduced to ash.”

The envoy paled, his composure cracking. He stammered some feeble attempt at diplomacy, but Aegon rose, cutting him off with a gesture. “Enough,” he said. “You came seeking dragons’ fire. You leave with dragons’ contempt. Be thankful that’s all you leave with.”

The envoy bowed hastily, retreating from the hall as though dragons snapped at his heels. The heavy doors slammed shut behind him, leaving the three of us in silence.

Rhaenys stretched lazily, her laughter still lingering in the air. “Well, that was entertaining,” she said. “Do you think he’ll make it back to Volantis without soiling himself?”

Aegon smirked, but his eyes were distant, his mind already turning to the future. “They’ll be back,” he said. “And when they come, they’ll bring more than insults. Volantis is desperate, and desperate men are dangerous.”

“And what will we do when they come?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Aegon’s gaze met mine, sharp and unyielding. “We’ll wait. Let them bleed themselves dry against Tyrosh and Lys. When the time is right, we’ll make our move—on our terms. Reparations from Volantis, alliances with their enemies, and fire to remind them who we are.”

A small smile played on my lips. My brother was many things, but he was no pawn. Volantis had underestimated us, and they would pay the price.

“Let them come,” I said, my voice soft but steel-edged. “And let them burn.”

...

The negotiations were tense, a dangerous game played on a razor's edge. We had barely arrived in Pentos when the magisters from Myr, Tyrosh, Lys, and Pentos appeared, one after another, desperate for aid. The stench of fear clung to them like the scent of sweat and perfume. They knew Volantis was crumbling under the weight of their failed conquest, and they sought any hand that might save them from the Tigers’ grasp.

Aegon listened to their offers, his expression unreadable as the magisters presented their meager terms. Each city spoke of promises, alliances, and the supposed riches they could offer, but beneath their words lay the same desperation, the same weakness that Volantis had failed to conceal. Aegon let them speak, letting them believe they held the reins of this conversation, all the while plotting his own course.

I watched him closely, my hands resting on Dark Sister, waiting for him to act. Aegon had the patience of a dragon, and when he finally spoke, his voice was as cold and final as the steel we wore at our sides.

“Enough,” Aegon said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Your offers are nothing but a collection of half-hearted promises. You come to me as beggars, and you think to buy my favor with scraps.”

The magisters shifted uncomfortably, their words faltering as they tried to salvage some dignity. Aegon, however, had no time for their pleasantries.

“I will give you one final offer,” he continued, his gaze piercing. “Take it, or be prepared to die at the hands of your masters in Volantis. My terms are simple.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

“Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, and Pentos will each pay ten thousand pounds of gold within five years. That is the price of your survival. Pay it, or I will leave you to the mercy of the Tigers.”

The magisters exchanged uneasy glances, but Aegon was not done.

“As for Lys,” he went on, “and the elephant magisters of Volantis who are willing to betray their Tigers for a chance at peace, I offer them land in Westeros. They will be granted estates, titles, and power, but with a price. They will bring five thousand Valyrian-blooded slaves to be freed upon their arrival. And a gold fee of five hundred pounds. Only then will they be made lords in my domain.”

There was silence for a long moment. The magisters shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to accept such a deal. The blood of their people was tied to the land they held, and the thought of freeing slaves—particularly those with Valyrian blood—was a gamble, a chance to build loyalty, but it also made them vulnerable. Yet it was the price for survival. Aegon’s terms were fair, ruthless, and brilliant.

“We are not the beggars you believe us to be,” Aegon added, his voice taking on a note of finality. “I am no merchant to haggle with. These are my terms. Agree, or you will be left to face Volantis alone.”

The magisters nodded reluctantly, understanding that there was no room for negotiation, no second chance. Aegon had made his demands clear, and they had no choice but to comply.

With the deal struck, we left Pentos behind, traveling quickly toward Lys. The day we arrived was one of burning, ash, and fury. Aegon’s orders were swift and decisive. We would not just win—no, we would make an example of Volantis. The fleets that had once terrorized the Free Cities would burn, their sails reduced to cinders in the sea breeze.

As we sailed toward the Volantene fleet, my hand tightened around Dark Sister. The fire of the dragon coursed through me, and I could taste the smoke on the wind as we drew nearer. The ships—proud and mighty—awaited their fate, unaware that they had been marked for destruction. The Volantene fleet was a symbol of their arrogance, their empire, their desire to control the seas. And today, that symbol would turn to ash.

Aegon did not speak as we neared the fleet. There was no need for words. We were dragons, and the fleet had no place in this world any longer.

The command was given, and the fire began. Dragonfire rained down, and the Volantene ships—once the pride of the Tigers—were engulfed in flames, sinking beneath the weight of their own hubris. The flames stretched high into the sky, lighting the sea with the brilliance of the Targaryen wrath. It was a signal to Volantis, to Myr, Tyrosh, Lys, and Pentos: The power of House Targaryen could not be bartered, and it would never be held in chains.

As the last ship fell beneath the waves, Aegon turned to me, his expression unreadable.

“Let them know this,” he said softly. “House Targaryen does not beg. We take. And we burn.”

I nodded, my heart heavy with the knowledge of what was to come. The Free Cities would remember this day. And Volantis would never forget the price of crossing us.

“Let them burn,” I whispered under my breath, watching the flames on the horizon. "Let them burn."

...

We arrived in Volantis, a city as ancient as it was imposing, its presence stretching across the mouth of the Rhoyne. The air was heavy with the scent of fish, flowers, and something far less pleasant, a blend of decay and sweat. Volantis, a city steeped in history, seemed to pulse with a life of its own. The heat was oppressive, clinging to our skin, each breath a struggle against the sweltering humidity. Beyond the river, the streets shimmered like an illusion, heat rising in waves from the cracked stones. The older districts, on the eastern banks, felt like a world apart, protected by the Black Walls—fused black dragonstone that rose two hundred feet high, a testament to the city’s Valyrian roots. They stood as silent sentinels around Old Volantis, a labyrinth of palaces, towers, and temples, some of which had stood for centuries.

As we made our way through the city, we did as the Volantenes did—traveled by palanquin, carried by sturdy slaves. It was a sign of status, of refinement, the kind of unspoken rule that dictated one's worth in this strange and subtle city. To walk on foot was to degrade oneself in the eyes of the Volantenes, who viewed it as beneath anyone of consequence. The palanquin swayed gently as we passed through narrow streets, filled with an array of vendors hawking goods both exotic and mundane. The heat weighed on us, but the breezes from the waterfront, though faint, offered brief moments of relief.

The air was thick with the hustle and bustle of city life, but underneath it all, there was something ancient about Volantis, a city where history and decadence were woven into every stone. The locals carried themselves with a quiet pride, their eyes constantly assessing, calculating. I couldn’t help but feel the weight of their judgment, as if we were strangers in a land that had little need for outsiders.

Our destination was a grand hall, where we hoped to negotiate terms for a future alliance. The Volantenes, with their wealth and power, were known for their subtlety in matters of diplomacy. Every word, every gesture, held meaning. We entered the hall, the thick, humid air pressing against us even here. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of incense, and the sound of hushed conversations echoed off the stone walls. The Volantenes, true to their reputation, held court with an air of aloofness, their eyes studying us as if we were the latest curiosities to pass through their ancient city.

The negotiations began, and I could feel the eyes of the Volantenes on us, assessing, calculating, waiting for a misstep. But we were here for more than just business; we were here to make our mark in a city as old and complicated as the world itself. Volantis had always been a place of opportunity, but it was also a place where power was held in the most subtle of hands. The city seemed to watch, patient, waiting for us to prove ourselves worthy of its attention.

The negotiations with Volantis were as delicate as they were arduous, stretched over days of subtle wordplay, veiled threats, and promises of gold and fire. The city's air was thick with tension, mirroring the oppressive heat outside. Among the Volantene elite, the Elephants—those who favored peace and trade—had gained the upper hand over their rivals, the warlike Tigers. Leading the Elephants was Trianna, a woman whose beauty was as much a weapon as her political acumen. She was buxom and bold, with a sultry voice and a wit that could disarm even the most resolute of men.

Trianna welcomed us in her opulent chambers within the Black Walls, a place where silk curtains billowed softly in the humid air, and the scent of exotic oils hung heavily. She was dressed to dazzle and provoke, her flowing layers of purple silk and yellow samite clinging to her every curve. Her jeweled girdle caught the flicker of candlelight as she moved, the ornate snake coiled around her forearm glittering with gold and copper scales. Her veil, pale green fading into yellow, did little to obscure her dark, full lips and those mesmerizing dark eyes. Most striking of all were her teats, round and ripe, barely concealed beneath her translucent clothing. Aegon’s gaze was firmly fixed elsewhere—on me, on Rhaenys, on the floor—but I knew he was aware of her allure. I saw the way his jaw tightened, the deliberate discipline with which he avoided her eyes.

Rhaenys, ever playful and curious, engaged Trianna with light conversation, but I held my silence, watching the way Trianna’s words danced around Aegon like a cat circling its prey. She poured him wine, though he barely touched it, claiming his distaste for indulgence. “Wine dulls the senses,” he said simply, waving away her coaxing with a polite smile. Trianna’s laugh was throaty, rich with unspoken promise. She let her hand linger on the gilded rim of the goblet as she passed it to him. I wanted to slap it from her hand.

Still, Aegon held firm, focusing instead on the matters at hand. The Elephants proposed reparations of ten thousand pounds of gold, far less than what might have been expected from a defeated power. Aegon, ever pragmatic, saw wisdom in this. “It's better to have less gold” he said, “than having biggest of free cities as a bitter enemy.” The terms were agreed upon: Volantis would cede no territory but would end hostilities with its neighbors, particularly Qohor and Norvos. The fleets threatening Volantis would be ordered back to their ports, and we would ensure the Dothraki khalasar threatening Volantene lands was dealt with swiftly and decisively.

In return, Volantene nobles loyal to the Elephants could emigrate to Westeros, provided they brought with them at least five thousand Valyrian-blooded slaves and five hundred pounds of gold each. It was a small price to pay for peace and a strengthened alliance. Trianna smiled as the terms were sealed, her lips curving in satisfaction as she raised her glass. Her eyes lingered on Aegon for a moment too long.

Once the agreements were finalized, we each set out to fulfill our part of the pact. Rhaenys took to the skies on Meraxes, chasing down the fleets from Qohor and Norvos, her golden hair streaming behind her like a comet’s tail. I mounted Vhagar and turned my attention to the east, where the Dothraki khalasar threatened the borders of Volantis. The khalasar was vast, a sea of mounted warriors, their hair braided long in triumph. They had pillaged and burned their way through the grasslands, leaving nothing but ash and broken villages in their wake. I met them with fire.

The Dothraki were fearless, but they had no defense against dragonflame. Vhagar roared, her breath a torrent of destruction that turned their vaunted strength into charred corpses. Their screams echoed across the plain, a symphony of terror and fury. The few survivors fled, scattering into the wilderness like leaves before a storm. By the time Vhagar’s shadow passed, the khalasar was no more.

Meanwhile, Rhaenys made quick work of the fleets. Meraxes descended upon the ships with grace and precision, setting them ablaze with jets of silver fire. The sea was alight with burning wood and screams, but Rhaenys left enough survivors to carry word of her might back to their cities. The fleets retreated, broken and humbled, their ambitions drowned beneath the waves.

When we returned to Volantis, we found Aegon still engaged in pleasantries with the Volantene elite. Trianna, of course, was at the center of it all, her throaty laughter filling the chamber as she plied Aegon with flattery and thinly veiled insinuations. Her eyes sparkled as she leaned close, her scent a heady mix of jasmine and spice. Aegon seemed unbothered, his responses measured and polite. But I knew him too well. His avoidance of her gaze, the stiffness in his posture—these were signs of restraint, of temptation carefully ignored.

I exchanged a glance with Rhaenys, who smirked knowingly. If Trianna thought to ensnare Aegon with her charms, she would find herself sorely disappointed. But still, the sight of her fawning over him, her veiled beauty so blatantly on display, made my blood boil. She was too bold, too presumptuous. If Aegon had so much as looked at her the wrong way, I might have torn her apart where she stood.

But Aegon, as always, was more disciplined than I gave him credit for. As the evening wore on, he excused himself, claiming weariness from the negotiations. He walked past me with a faint smile, his hand brushing mine in a subtle reassurance. Trianna’s eyes followed him as he left, her expression unreadable behind her veil. I stayed behind for a moment longer, letting her know with a look that I would not tolerate any more games.

The next morning, with the treaties signed and the terms fulfilled, we prepared to leave Volantis. The city seemed less oppressive in the early light, the heat less stifling, the air carrying a faint promise of renewal. The Elephants had their peace, and Volantis had its reprieve. As we flew westward, leaving the Black Walls behind, I couldn’t help but cast one last glance at the city. Volantis had its beauty, its power, but it was a city built on slaves and whispers, a place where the air itself seemed thick with secrets.

As for Trianna, she was nothing more than a footnote in our journey, a reminder of the kind of cunning and ambition we would face as we moved forward. Aegon had been tested and had emerged unscathed, his focus unshaken. But even so, I silently vowed that if anyone, even someone as beautiful and cunning as Trianna, dared to come between us, I would not hesitate to burn them to ash.

Chapter Text

The Painted Table stretched before Aegon like a vast map of opportunity, each kingdom and river carved with meticulous detail into the wood. He leaned forward, his fingers tracing the Stormlands. His mind was abuzz with plans, calculations, and the weight of what must be done. Across from him, Rhaenys reclined with an easy grace, her golden hair spilling over her shoulder. Visenya stood off to the side, arms crossed, her piercing gaze fixed on him.

He straightened, resting his palms on the table, and met their eyes. “We need to talk,” he began. “About Argella Durrandon.”

Visenya's lips thinned, but she said nothing. Rhaenys tilted her head, curiosity glinting in her eyes.

“I’ve decided to marry her,” Aegon continued, keeping his tone steady, though he could feel the tension radiating from Visenya.

“Why?” Rhaenys asked, her voice calm but laced with intrigue. “We have no love for her house, and you’ve never shown interest in taking a third wife before.”

Aegon sighed, steeling himself. “This is not about love or desire. It’s about securing the future of our house.”

Visenya’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“I will marry Argella for many reasons,” Aegon began, his voice firm. “First, consider our sons. How am I supposed to find brides for them? Alyssa Velaryon won’t be born for another fifteen years. By taking Argella as my wife, I ensure half-Valyrian-blooded wives for our future sons.”

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. “So, you mean to create a cadet branch of Targaryens from the Durrandons?”

“Exactly,” Aegon said, nodding. “House Durrandon becomes a cadet branch of House Targaryen, tied to us by blood and loyalty. The Stormlands will be ours forever, and we’ll never have to worry about the rise of usurpers like House Baratheon. Regardless we would require more and more houses of power and influence to be subdued or else the moment I die they will rebel.”

Visenya’s jaw tightened, but she listened.

“And,” Aegon added, his gaze softening as he looked at them, “this will ensure that neither of you are in danger of death in childbirth. The gods know I wouldn’t survive losing either of you.”

Rhaenys smiled faintly, but Visenya’s expression remained unreadable.

“There’s more,” Aegon continued. “By taking wives outside our bloodline, I bait the Faith of the Seven into rebellion. Once they rise, we’ll crush them, forcing concessions that favor us. The Faith will be broken, their power diminished. We will rule without their interference.”

“Clever,” Rhaenys murmured.

“Moreover,” Aegon pressed on, “this solidifies polygamy as a Valyrian custom here in Westeros. It ensures that no woman of our house marries outside, giving potential usurpers a claim. Every Targaryen, Velaryon, or Celtigar will marry within the fold. Our blood will remain concentrated, our power unassailable.”

“What about Orys?” Visenya asked, her tone sharp.

“I’ll grant him lands,” Aegon replied. “In the Reach or Dorne, perhaps. But not Storm’s End. The Stormlands must remain in Targaryen hands, unbroken and loyal.”

“And Argella?” Rhaenys asked. “What of her?”

Aegon’s gaze softened as he turned to them both. “I have no love for Argella, no desire for her. You two are my sun, my moon, and all my stars. My heart is forever yours. Argella’s children, if she has any, will not stand in the line of inheritance. Her firstborn will hold Storm’s End. The second, if there is one, will join the Kingsguard, renouncing land and title. She is a necessity, nothing more.”

Rhaenys looked pleased, but Visenya’s expression remained guarded. “And you’re sure this is the right course?”

“Yes,” Aegon said. “Argilac Durrandon, the Storm King, is desperate and easy to manipulate. He fears Harren the Black’s power and sees this alliance as his salvation. Argilac’s offer of Argella’s hand, along with lands that technically belong to Harren, is a gamble on his part. But it plays perfectly into our plans.”

Visenya frowned but nodded slowly. “If this ensures our dominance and protects our line, I’ll not oppose it. But mark me, Aegon—if this girl seeks to overstep her bounds—”

“She won’t,” Aegon said firmly. “And if she does, she’ll answer to me. Or to you.”

Rhaenys laughed lightly. “I think I like this plan, brother. And Argella doesn’t seem the type to cause trouble. She’s no warrior, no dragon. Just a mirthful young maiden.”

“Precisely,” Aegon said. “She will know her place. And if she doesn’t, you’ll ensure she learns it.”

The three of them stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling over them. Aegon looked at his sisters, the two women who had been with him since the beginning, who shared his dreams and burdens.

“Our love,” he said softly, “is a tapestry. Each thread unique, but woven together into something eternal.”

Visenya’s gaze softened, and Rhaenys stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm. “Then go, brother. Claim your bride. But remember where your heart truly lies.”

Aegon nodded. “I will. Always.”

...

The journey to Storm’s End began as a test of will more than anything else. Balerion, the Black Dread, soared high above the sea, his immense wings cutting through the skies as though they could rend the heavens themselves. Beneath me, I felt the familiar tension of the belts and chains that secured me to his saddle. Despite being a dragonlord, my stomach clenched every time the massive beast banked or dove. Heights had never been my strength—not in this life, nor in the one I had lived before.

Even as Balerion exhaled a plume of smoke, I tightened my grip on the reins, muttering under my breath. “All hail the worldbuilding of George R.R. Martin. No G-force, just terror.”

The coastline of the Stormlands came into view, jagged cliffs giving way to the imposing fortress of Storm’s End. Its immense walls rose like defiant fingers against the sky, seemingly unshakable even before a dragon’s might. Orys and a small contingent of men from Dragonstone had departed three days prior, their ships already nestled in the harbor below. From my vantage point, I spotted the fluttering banners of House Durrandon and the black-and-red sigil of House Targaryen snapping in the sea breeze.

I guided Balerion toward an open expanse of land near the castle, the rush of wind in my ears masking the commotion below. When we landed, the force of Balerion’s weight shook the ground. The Stormlanders stared, some frozen in awe, others trembling with fear. A few muttered prayers to the Seven, their eyes wide with dread as I dismounted. I was accustomed to such reactions by now, though I noted with amusement how quickly the gathered crowd dispersed once Balerion growled low in his throat.

Argella Durrandon awaited me within the great hall. She stood with the regal poise of her house, her chin high and shoulders squared. Her tall, statuesque figure exuded a confidence born of years spent as the daughter of a king. Pale skin like fresh snow contrasted sharply with her coal-black hair, which fell in thick waves over her shoulders. Her vivid blue eyes met mine with a mixture of curiosity and defiance. She wore a gown of storm-gray silk, and though her expression was composed, her strong jaw and full lips betrayed a stubborn streak.

When the Septon began the wedding rites, his voice quavered, his eyes darting nervously between Argella’s father, the formidable Storm King, and me. It was clear he feared both the wrath of Argilac and the fire of Balerion. The ceremony was brief, the vows spoken hastily, and the room felt charged with an uneasy energy, all I remember is I was looking at Argella who looked awfully like Alexandra Daddario.

Argella carried herself with grace throughout, her bearing one of quiet determination. Yet, when her hand found mine, there was a warmth there, a reassurance I hadn’t expected.

After the ceremony, we retired to the private chambers prepared for us. The consummation of the marriage was expected, and though I had approached the matter pragmatically, Argella surprised me again. Her presence was commanding, her confidence infectious. As we lay together, I found myself momentarily forgetting the carefully laid plans that had brought me here.

It was only later, as I lay awake beside her, that I reminded myself of the boundaries I had set. I turned to her, brushing a strand of her dark hair from her face. “Argella,” I said softly, “you understand the terms of this union, don’t you? My sisters—Visenya and Rhaenys—are not merely my wives. They are my family, my foundation. You must never overstep your bounds with them.”

She nodded, her expression thoughtful. “I understand, Aegon. I have no intention of causing strife within your house.”

“You’re a clever woman,” I said, tracing a finger along her cheek. “But you must know that if you do step out of line, it will not be my wrath you face. It will be theirs. And they are far less forgiving than I.”

Her smile was faint but genuine. “I will tread carefully.”

Three days passed before I departed Storm’s End, leaving Argella’s father to ponder his new position as a vassal of House Targaryen. Argilac had been surprisingly cooperative throughout the arrangements, though I suspected fear played a larger role than respect. His desperation to protect his house from Harren the Black had made him pliable.

When the time came to leave, I mounted Balerion once more, this time with Argella seated behind me. She clung tightly to my waist as we ascended, her grip firm yet steady. I had warned her beforehand of the ride’s turbulence, and to her credit, she did not cry out or falter as we soared through the clouds.

Upon our arrival at Dragonstone, I escorted her to the chambers that had been prepared for her. Rhaenys greeted her warmly, her charm quickly putting Argella at ease. Visenya, as expected, was colder, her sharp gaze assessing every detail of Argella’s demeanor.

Later that evening, I found Visenya in the armory, inspecting a newly forged blade. She looked up as I approached, her expression neutral.

“So,” she said, “you’ve brought her here.”

“She knows her place,” I replied, leaning against the wall. “I made it clear that she is to defer to you and Rhaenys in all things.”

Visenya smirked, setting the blade down. “And how did she respond to that?”

“She agreed,” I said simply. “She’s no fool. She understands the dynamics at play.”

“And you?” Visenya asked, her tone edged with curiosity. “What do you think of her?”

I hesitated, considering my words carefully. “I like her,” I admitted. “But that’s irrelevant. You and Rhaenys are my sun, my moon, and all my stars. Argella is a necessity, not a choice.”

Visenya’s smirk deepened. “I’ll hold you to that.”

In the weeks that followed, Argella adapted quickly to her new life. She bonded easily with Rhaenys, the two women finding common ground in their shared love of music and storytelling. My sons took to her as well, charmed by her warmth and patience. Even Visenya seemed to warm to her, if only slightly.

One evening, as we dined together,

Visenya said “She seems pleasant enough. I suppose she’ll do... as long as she doesn’t sing.”  And I asked her  "Why? Is her voice that bad?” and her reply was “No, but Rhaenys will join in, and you’ll never get them to stop.”

I laughed at that because yeah Rhaenys can be quite handful at times then I leaned toward Visenya and whispered, “Think of her as a glorified wet nurse if that helps.”

Visenya chuckled, her laughter low and amused. “Perhaps I will... and if she drops one of our sons, I’ll think of her as a glorified pile of ashes.”

For all her understanding and adaptability, Argella never forgot her place. She carried herself with the dignity of a lady but never overstepped the boundaries I had set. She knew the limits of her power and accepted them with grace.

As I watched her interact with my family, a sense of satisfaction settled over me. My plan had worked. The union had strengthened our position, secured the loyalty of the Stormlands, and ensured the future of our house. Argella was a valuable addition to our family, even if her role was carefully defined.

In the end, the balance I had sought was achieved. And for the first time in a long while, I felt a glimmer of peace.

...

The Painted Table stretched before us, a masterpiece of artistry and ambition, its intricate carvings depicting the Seven Kingdoms in exquisite detail. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of lanterns casting shadows that danced across the polished surface. Argella stood at its edge, her fingers tracing the Stormlands, her expression contemplative.

I approached her from behind, my hands settling lightly on her shoulders. Her tall, commanding presence was undeniable, but here, in the privacy of Dragonstone, she was no longer the Storm King’s daughter, no longer the proud Argella Durrandon. Here, she was mine.

“You’re troubled,” I murmured, my lips close to her ear.

She tilted her head slightly, her thick black hair brushing against my cheek. “My father,” she said, her voice steady but low. “He plans to name my cousin as heir to Storm’s End. A boy barely weaned. It’s an insult to me, to us.”

“It is,” I agreed, my hands sliding down her arms. “And it’s unacceptable.”

Her vivid blue eyes met mine, searching. “You’ve already taken Storm’s End. What more do you want from my house?”

“Your house is mine now,” I said, my tone soft but firm. “As you are mine. Our bond unites your blood and mine. Storm’s End belongs to us—and it should belong to our son.”

She turned fully to face me, her expression conflicted. “You’re asking me to betray my father.”

“I’m asking you to look to the future,” I said, stepping closer. My hands found her waist, the thin fabric of her gown doing little to hide the warmth of her skin beneath. “A future where your bloodline remains strong, where your legacy is secured—not in the hands of a distant cousin but in our son. A Durrandon by name, but with Targaryen fire in his veins.”

Her breath hitched as my fingers trailed up her sides, grazing the curve of her ribs. “You speak of fire and blood, Aegon,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “But my father—”

“Your father is a relic of the past,” I interrupted gently, my lips brushing against hers. “What we build together will outshine anything he could imagine.”

I kissed her then, slow and deliberate, tasting the hesitation that melted into passion. Her hands found my shoulders, gripping tightly as I lifted her onto the Painted Table, the map of our shared ambitions spreading beneath her.

Her gown slipped from her shoulders, the rich fabric pooling around her waist as my lips traveled down her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her breast. She arched beneath me, her breath coming in shallow gasps as I claimed her fully, the weight of the Painted Table beneath us a reminder of the power we shared—and the power we were destined to wield.

“Aegon,” she whispered, her voice raw with emotion. “If I do this…if I stand against my father…”

“You won’t stand alone,” I promised, my hands cradling her face. “You’ll stand with me. With our family. Together, we will forge a legacy that no one can challenge.”

Her eyes searched mine, and I saw the moment she decided. “Our son will inherit Storm’s End,” she said, her voice resolute. “Not some distant cousin.”

Before I could respond, the door to the chamber burst open, and Rhaenys strode in, her golden hair cascading around her shoulders and a mischievous grin lighting her face.

“Oh, for the love of the gods,” she exclaimed, stopping short as she took in the scene before her. “Are you seriously desecrating the Painted Table right now? Do you know how long it takes to polish that thing?”

Argella gasped, her face turning a deep shade of crimson as she scrambled to cover herself. I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Rhaenys, could you not?”

She ignored me, leaning against the doorframe with a mock-serious expression. “I mean, I suppose it’s one way to conquer the Seven Kingdoms—start with the Stormlands, work your way north. Though I do hope you’re being strategic about your…placements. You wouldn’t want to knock Dorne off entirely.”

“So, you’re the charming one?” asked Argella, Rhaenys grinned and replied “Depends who you ask. But between us, Visenya’s idea of charm is not stabbing you on the first day.”

Argella’s mortified expression gave way to a reluctant smile, and she buried her face in her hands. “Does she always do this?” she muttered.

“Always,” I replied, glaring at my sister. “Rhaenys, leave.”

“Fine, fine,” she said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “But don’t come crying to me when you have to explain to Maesters why there are mysterious stains on Westeros.” She sauntered out, humming a bawdy tune under her breath.

The door closed behind her, and Argella shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Your family is…unique.”

“Unique is one word for it,” I muttered, pulling her back into my arms. “But don’t let her distract you from what matters.”

“And what’s that?” she asked, her voice teasing as her hands slid over my chest.

“Us,” I said simply. “Our family. Our future.”

Her smile softened, and she leaned into me, her lips brushing against mine. “Then let’s make it one worth fighting for.”

...

As the sounds of my “choo choo train” echoed through the halls of Dragonstone, I couldn’t help but reflect on how aptly the Painted Table had become my favorite place to "run the tracks" of history. Yes, it was the strategic centerpiece of our kingdom, where battles were planned and alliances forged—but it also doubled as my personal “Pound Town Express,” where I left my mark on the Seven Kingdoms, one snowstorm at a time.

Argella, dear as she was, would forever remember this table as the site of our conquest, where I’d leave “snowstorm marks” all over Westeros. It wasn’t just about taking land—it was about taking her to new heights, in every sense of the word. Stannis, our son, would grow up knowing that his father didn’t just inherit kingdoms—he also inherited the best spot for making babies, complete with a map of his conquests. Who needs a crown when you have the Painted Table?

But, of course, none of this was ever discussed in polite company. No, that would be absurd. Imagine a maester offering a lecture on “snowstorm marks” at a feast! “Ah, yes, dear lords, let’s talk about the state of Westeros… and the latest reports from Pound Town.”

Rhaenys and Meraxes flew ahead to Rosby, the modest seat of House Rosby, known more for its proximity to King’s Landing than for any great military or economic strength. The lord of the castle, perhaps wisely, offered no resistance to my sister's arrival. As Meraxes descended upon the small fortress, her shadow eclipsing the courtyard, the gates swung open, and the lord of Rosby bent the knee before a single demand was uttered. The sight of dragonfire licking at the edges of the sky was enough to ensure submission.

Rhaenys, gracious and charismatic as always, treated the lord with courtesy, yet her underlying message was clear: House Rosby now belonged to the Targaryens. Their lands, their loyalty, their future—all were now tied to the might of House Targaryen. With no blood spilled, Rosby became the first true conquest of our campaign.

Yet this quiet success was but a prelude to the fire and fury that awaited us at House Stokeworth. Stokeworth, larger and better defended than Rosby, was home to proud knights and a stubborn lord unwilling to kneel. As Rhaenys and Meraxes approached the castle, crossbowmen manned the walls, their weapons trained on the dragon. Perhaps they thought they could strike her down with a single, well-placed bolt, or perhaps they acted out of desperation. Whatever their reasoning, their decision to fire upon Rhaenys and her dragon was a grave mistake.

Meraxes responded with fury. Flames erupted from her jaws, engulfing the roofs of the keep and turning them to ash. The once-proud banners of House Stokeworth crumbled into cinders, and the defenders were forced to retreat as the heat grew unbearable. Screams echoed from within the castle as the fire consumed all in its path. Within hours, the keep was a smoldering ruin, and the lord of Stokeworth crawled from the wreckage to beg for mercy. Rhaenys granted it, though the terms were harsh. House Stokeworth surrendered their lands, wealth, and loyalty, and their banners now flew beneath the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

This fiery demonstration served as a stark warning to the other houses of the Crownlands. Some would heed it; others would not.

The next significant opposition came from a hastily forged alliance between Lords Darklyn of Duskendale and Mooton of Maidenpool. These houses, both coastal powers of modest strength, banded together to resist our advance. Their combined force of three thousand men was a respectable army by the standards of the Crownlands, and they marched south, hoping to intercept us before we could consolidate our gains.

I took to the skies upon Balerion, the Black Dread, to meet them. The battlefield was a rolling plain just south of the Trident, bordered by a thick wood on one side and a shallow river on the other. The Darklyn and Mooton banners fluttered in the breeze—stags, moons, and spears interspersed with the sigils of their sworn swords. Their men formed tight ranks, their shields locked and their spears bristling like a hedgehog’s quills. It was an impressive display of discipline and resolve, but it was no match for the might of a dragon.

When Balerion descended from the sky, his shadow falling across their lines, their courage faltered. Men began to waver, their shields trembling as they looked up at the black-scaled behemoth above them. Then I unleashed the fury of dragonfire.

The flames roared across the battlefield, consuming men, horses, and banners alike. The air filled with the acrid stench of burning flesh and the panicked screams of soldiers as they fled in all directions. The ground itself seemed to burn, the grass turning to ash and the earth scorched black. It was not a battle—it was a massacre.

Lords Darklyn and Mooton both perished in the chaos. Whether they fell to dragonfire, the crush of fleeing men, or the blades of my soldiers who mopped up the survivors, I did not know. What mattered was that their rebellion was ended, and their armies lay in ruins.

With their leaders dead, the castles of Duskendale and Maidenpool fell swiftly. Mooton’s brother, Jon, a pragmatic man, swore fealty to House Targaryen within days. Darklyn’s son did the same, though the bitterness in his eyes told me his loyalty was grudging at best. Still, their oaths were given, and their banners now flew for my cause.

Visenya, ever the pragmatist, wasted no time in claiming the spoils of Duskendale. As the principal port on the Narrow Sea, its coffers were rich with gold, silver, and trade goods. The wealth we took—2,000 pounds of gold alone—was a fortune that would fund the rest of our campaign. The docks of Duskendale were soon filled with Targaryen ships, and the port became a critical hub for our efforts to conquer Westeros.

...

Before departing for Dorne, I sent word to Argilac Durrandon. The old Storm King, proud and fierce, agreed to march his forces toward Harrenhal, meeting Hoare’s strength head-on. I assured him that I would support his advance with dragons, burning Harren’s forces from above as they clashed on the field.

While Argilac moved toward Blackwater Bay, my sisters and I turned southward, our sights set on Dorne. Though the realm of the sands had not yet entered the war, their independence was a thorn in my plans for uniting Westeros. It was time to lay the groundwork for their submission.

Chapter Text

When I was born, I imagined the life I’d be leading would be the epitome of splendor, fit for the grandest courts of Westeros—rich tapestries, golden goblets, music, and intrigue. Instead, I arrived in Dragonstone, a crumbling stone fortress perched on a cliff, the waves crashing against the shore like a constant reminder of my misfortune. A cold, damp place—how was I supposed to conquer the world from here? My birthright came with no silks or lavish feasts, just saltwater and an unyielding chill in the air. If I'd known better, I might've asked for a room that didn't come with a view of nothing but endless gray sea and jagged rocks. A kingdom built on isolation, surrounded by mist and salt, certainly wasn’t my idea of a royal start. But, alas, life doesn't always give you what you want. Instead, it gives you a taste of hardship, teaching you patience—or at least, that’s what I’ve convinced myself. After all, hardship builds character, doesn’t it?

But let me tell you what no one warned me about—it's not the politics or the endless scheming that will truly grind you down. No, it's the food. I had thought that being reincarnated as Aegon the Conqueror would mean fine feasts, rich with flavor and variety. Instead, I was confronted with the grotesque reality of Westeros’ food. As someone who was once a vegetarian Indian in my past life, I was used to food bursting with flavor—curry, spices, lentils, rice... I lived for the heat and the depth of each bite. The food here? It’s an affront to my very senses. Bland, flavorless fare—stewed meats with no seasoning, bread that’s dry as the desert, and salt... so much salt. Dragonstone offered nothing but this tasteless dreck, and every meal felt like an exercise in suffering. How could anyone call this sustenance? I would have sold my soul for a single whiff of a properly seasoned dish. But no, I was stuck with whatever passed for food here.

Ah, but in my former life, my comfort food was simple: potatoes. Whether fried, boiled, mashed, or roasted, potatoes were my thing. They were always there to comfort me. But here? I’ve searched this miserable island high and low—there is no potato in sight. And don't even get me started on the fact that there's no rice, no tomatoes, no spices—nothing that could bring even a shred of joy to my dull existence. There’s no soy sauce to save me from the bland stew. And, dear gods, there’s no Indian food. No biryanis, no curries, no samosas, no naan—nothing. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I may never know the warm, comforting embrace of a curry again. I didn’t think the gods could be this cruel, but here we are.

Hell, even Tolkien gave hobbits their beloved taters in Lord of the Rings. At least he understood the joy of a good meal. Not here. Not in Westeros. And it gets worse. There’s no pasta, no pizza, no ice cream, no noodles, no dumplings, no momos. This land is a wasteland of food, barren of the dishes that once filled my life with delight. It’s as if the gods themselves have conspired to take away all the food I loved in my past life—what cruel punishment is this? Fuck you George, at least finish the books.

In my previous life, I had never known meat. I was a vegetarian through and through. Sure, I’d heard stories about kababs, shawarmas, chicken tikka, fish and chips—all these exotic dishes that people seemed to eat with such reverence. But I had never tasted them. To me, they were just words, concepts. And now, here I am, in Westeros, suddenly curious about the tastes I’ve missed. What would it be like to tear into a piece of roasted meat? Or to eat crispy fried fish, with all the flavors of the sea? I’ll never know. Instead, I find myself staring at another bowl of bland stew, wondering why the world insists on tormenting me with such dullness.

And then there’s sushi. The West claims that sushi is the pinnacle of culinary sophistication. It’s just rice and fish, right? How difficult could it be? I imagine it would taste better than anything I’ve had in this forsaken place. But where’s the rice? There’s no rice in Westeros, no seaweed, no fresh fish prepared in that delicate, artful manner. What I’m left with are sourdough bread, naan, pies, and cakes—staples, but not exactly the sushi of my dreams. I could have tried making it in my previous life, had I learned how to cook, but I was too busy being a boy and too indifferent to the kitchen. But here I am, wishing I had the skills to create that simple, delicate meal. Sadly, in this land of flavorless bread and unseasoned meat, the idea of sushi seems as far away as the summer sun.

Then there’s schwarma, that famous dish I’ve heard about but can’t quite comprehend. An Indian vegetarian trying to understand how people could eat meat like that—how does one even cook it? I don’t know what it’s supposed to taste like, but it sounds like something out of a dream. And me? I’m stuck with whatever bland meat the kitchens can scrounge up, served with dry bread and no chutney to speak of. I could’ve made a proper samosa, fried to perfection, with a spicy potato filling, and paired it with a tangy spicy chutney, but no—here in Westeros, I don’t even know where I’d begin to find such ingredients. It’s a cruel, cruel joke.

Ah, mango lassi—the drink that defined my summers. Sweet, creamy, tangy—a drink that cooled the soul after a long, sweltering day. But here? There are no mangoes, no lassis, no nothing. The only thing I have to wash down my food is fucking boiled water, and even that is more bitterness than refreshment. What I wouldn’t give for potatoes.

Perhaps I would have died young from diabetes in my past life, but at least I would have had the joy of eating all the foods I loved. Now, in this life, I’m stuck with the most miserable diet imaginable. Westeros could have at least given me some pleasure in food, but no. Here, the most indulgent thing I can imagine is an extra slice of bread. Even that is more work than it’s worth.

I didn’t realize how important food was until I came here. It’s not just about sustenance—it’s about comfort, nostalgia, and a connection to who I was before. Now, all I have is dry bread, bland stews, and the faint hope that someday, somewhere, I’ll find something that reminds me of the flavors I used to savor. But I suppose, like everything else in Westeros, food too is a reminder that I’m a stranger in a strange land.

I dream of cheese sandwiches, thick and cheesy, grilled to perfection—something so simple yet so satisfying. Just a little bit of comfort in a world that gives me nothing. But no. For now, it’s time to move on. The council awaits, and I have no choice but to face them with all the grace I can muster—without the solace of a good meal to keep me sane. Just a royal pain in the ass, day in and day out. No food, no fun, just work. But I’ll survive. Somehow.

.

***

Argilac was nearing Aegonoktion with his 10,000 men, ready to march against the Ironborn King. Orys had gathered 3,000 men to join our host, with more Riverlords promised in the coming weeks to add to our numbers. Meanwhile, the Volantene and Lyseni nobles, eager for a piece of the lands, were on their way to Dorne to blockade it as I’d instructed them. The blockade would not only tighten our grip on the region, but there was something more, something delightful brewing in the background.

I couldn’t help but smirk at the thought. Dorne would get Boer War treatment this time, but not at the hands of the Anglos—no, this time it’d be a bit more personal, as it would come from a guy like me, born to rule, ready to make my mark. I imagined the confusion that would run through the Dornish ranks, not knowing if they were facing a Valyrian lord or some mysterious force far more dangerous. Either way, it didn’t matter. Dorne would submit, just like all the others.

I shared the plan with Orys, Visenya, and Rhaenys on the under-construction Red Keep, where the plans for the empire were slowly taking shape. The pieces were falling into place, and soon enough, the world would know what happens when Aegon Targaryen commands.

In the under-construction Red Keep, Empress Visenya placed the Valyrian steel circlet on my head, its rubies glinting with an almost mocking brilliance. I could feel the weight of it, the weight of my destiny, settling heavily upon me. Her hands, steady and sure, finished the task that I had long envisioned. The circlet, a symbol of power, was no mere ornament—it was a declaration, a promise that I would rule over all, I used Targaryen sigil of red dragon on field of black, to symbolise fire and blood both of which are red and 3 headed Dragon symbolising me, Visenya and Rhaenys.

Empress Rhaenys hailed me then, her voice clear and triumphant, "Aegon, First of His Name, King of Kings, Emperor of All Westeros, and Shield of His People." The title echoed around the hall, a chant of victory. I saw the approving smiles of my closest allies: Orys Baratheon, ever loyal and stalwart; Lord Daemon Velaryon, sharp as a sword; and the others—Lord Tristan Massey, Lord Jon Mooton, Lord Robin Daeklyn, Lord Stokeworth, Lord Jon Rosby, and Lord Crispian Celtigar. They all stood in my court, witnesses to the beginning of a new era.

I felt no joy, not in the way others might have. The titles were mine by right, but they were also a burden. The time had come to extend my rule beyond the walls of this keep, and so, I sent ravens to the rulers of the Reach, the Westerlands, the Vale, and the Riverlands. I would be the only monarch in Westeros. Those who bent the knee would keep their lands and titles, while those who did not... I would destroy. I saw all of Westeros as one land, despite its long history of division. It was time to unify it, to build an empire that no one could ever challenge again.

In the makeshift small council chambers, the atmosphere was thick with purpose. The room was a far cry from the grandeur the Red Keep would one day possess, but for now, it was where the fates of kingdoms would be decided. Visenya, Rhaenys, Daemon, Orys, Crispian, and Tristan were all present, their faces a mixture of loyalty, skepticism, and, in some cases, discomfort. The weight of our plans hung heavy in the air.

I began with Lord Daemon, my most trusted advisor. "Lord Daemon, you will coordinate the sea blockade of Dorne with the Free Cities," I said, my tone firm. "No supplies are to reach them. We cut off their means of resistance, starve them of support. The time for subtlety is over. Dorne will bend to our will, or they will wither."

Daemon nodded without hesitation, his sharp eyes gleaming with the fire of someone who relished a challenge. "It will be done, Your Grace."

Next, I turned to Orys. "Orys, you will lead the Storm King’s forces against Harren. I need you to make sure that Argilac’s grip on the Stormlands is loosened—sufficiently, but not so much that it falters too soon. Storm's End must not fall to a distant cousin of Argilac. Stannis must be ready to claim the throne there, once the time is right." I smiled coldly. "And should my father-in-law meet with an 'accident'—well, you will ensure that nothing happens to him, right?" I allowed a knowing glance to settle on Orys. "We wouldn't want Storm King to die on your watch conveniently, leaving my son Stannis Durrandon, his closest kin, to succeed him, and surrender the Stormlands to House Targaryen." Orys’ grin was sharp, but he said nothing in reply. I trusted him to carry out the task without question.

Lord Crispian’s attention snapped to me as I addressed him. "Lord Crispian, you will oversee the construction of the Red Keep, the dragonpit, and the walls. And while you’re at it, ensure that our gold is well-guarded. We have 65,000 pounds of gold at our disposal, and I don’t need to remind you that it must not vanish into the hands of less loyal men."

Crispian bowed his head. "Your grace, I’ll ensure the keep is built as quickly and securely as possible. As for the gold, it will remain untouched."

I nodded before turning to Lord Tristan, my voice taking on a dangerous edge. "Lord Tristan, you will make sure that no... accidents happen to my father-in-law, Argilac," I said, my words laced with a subtle threat. "Not until we get our 'whores,' sorry, I mean Hoares. You must see that Argilac’s line stays intact, and that no 'accident' leaves my son Stannis to inherit Storm's End, making it Targaryen land for good."

The room went still, and I could see the discomfort on several faces. I knew this was a bold move, but there was no turning back now. I had long learned that the game of thrones required sacrifices, and sometimes those sacrifices were made with a smile and a sharp blade. "As for Dorne..." I continued, my voice cool, "We will burn them down, fair and square. We won’t be able to hold their land after the conquest, not with their terrain and natural defenses. Dorne is most advantageous on its home turf, and we cannot afford to waste resources holding a barren desert. Instead, we will send settlers from Essos—those loyal to us and their wealth. The Dornish are Rhoynar; they would never surrender to a Valyrian dragonlord. They have no place in our future."

The council members exchanged uneasy looks, some murmuring under their breath. The criticism was palpable. But I knew what had to be done. This wasn’t just about the power I sought—it was about ensuring that my bloodline endured, and that the Seven Kingdoms were united under one ruler. My vision was not one of peace—it was one of dominance. A true dragon’s reign.

I turned to Visenya, her icy gaze unwavering. "You will burn Wyl, Vultures Roost, King's Grave, Skyreach, Yornwood, and Ghaston Grey," I ordered, my voice calm but commanding.

In my mind, I couldn't help but smile. Visenya would get the vengeance she craved, avenging Orys' hand in this timeline—a hand that would not be severed by fate. Wyl, in particular, would feel the full wrath of dragonfire. I could already imagine the inferno consuming the remnants of the house that dared defy us. The Seven Kingdoms would soon learn that resistance to House Targaryen was futile.

I turned to Rhaenys, her fierce determination matching my own. "You will burn Sunspear, shadow town, Planky Town, Lemonwood, Ghost Hill, and Godsgrace," I declared, my voice ringing with finality. "Let the old toad—Princess Martell—feel the heat of our wrath."

We would scorch the very earth beneath them, leaving no resources for the Dornish to recover. Blockhouses, scorched earth, and concentration camps would strip them of any hope. The dornish would no longer stand as a threat to House Targaryen. Rhaenys would see it through, and when the flames died down, all of Dorne would bow before us. I intend to give them Boer war treatment. Fuck Dorne and their plot armour.

The air shimmered with heat as Visenya asked, her tone sharp, "And what will you do, brother?"

I allowed myself a faint smile, but I said nothing.

...

The shadow of my dragon stretched wide over Dorne’s barren sands, blotting out the sun like the wrath of gods made manifest. From above, Blackmont appeared small and insignificant, nestled between the rivers that birthed the Torentine. Yet, its banners flew defiantly in the wind, the black vulture on a yellow field as unyielding as the desert that surrounded it.

As Balerion descended, I gripped the reins tightly, my heart hammering in my chest. I hated the heights, the way the wind whipped around us, the endless drop beneath my feet. Though the dragon's strength and grace offered a strange comfort, the fear of falling was always there, lurking beneath the surface. I wore more precaution straps and chains than both Rhaenys and Visenya combined—just to keep myself secure. It was a ridiculous thing to fear, but I could never quite shake it.

Balerion's wings tore through the air with the force of a hurricane, and when we landed, the earth quaked beneath his weight. The gates of Blackmont were shut tight, and their defenders trembled atop their walls. Balerion’s growl echoed like thunder, and flames poured from his jaws, engulfing the gates and the men behind them. The once-proud castle of Blackmont burned, smoke rising like a pillar into the heavens. By the time the flames died, nothing remained but ruin and cinders.

Soon enough, Palestone Sword rose in the distance, its tower gleaming white even as the lands surrounding it darkened beneath the shadow of Balerion. Unlike Blackmont, Starfall did not challenge me. Ser Joffrey Dayne awaited at the gates, his head bowed, the ancestral blade Dawn gleaming on his back. He was proud, but he was no fool.

"I bend the knee," Joffrey said as I dismounted. "Starfall will serve the House Targaryen."

I nodded. “Wise. Your family’s bloodline will endure because of this choice.” But I did not trust wisdom born of fear.

Joffrey’s sister, nephew, and two younger cousins boarded a ship under my orders, bound for the Red Keep as my hostages. They traveled on Joffrey’s coin, of course—I would not sully my dragon’s majesty with the burden of gold. Starfall survived that day, but its future remained firmly in my grasp.

Next, my eyes turned to the western sands of Dorne, where little rain had fallen that year. The parched earth cracked beneath Balerion’s talons as we flew toward Sandstone. House Qorgyle’s banners hung limp in the still desert air, but they flew high over their pale castle.

Balerion’s fire turned Sandstone’s pale walls black. His flames consumed the Hellholt’s infamous gardens, their splendor reduced to ash. Vaith fell last, its river boiling as flames roared across the water.

The Dornish would learn that no seat, no castle, no banner was sacred to me. I would avenge Rhaenys’ death in this timeline, a death that had not yet come to pass—and would not, if I had my way. Hellholt’s destruction was my retribution, its stubborn defiance erased in a single day.

As the fires burned out and the stench of charred stone and flesh faded into the wind, I stood atop Balerion, surveying the devastation. The survivors of Starfall and High Hermitage, the last remnants of Dayne’s legacy, would now serve my crown.

The sands beneath Sandstone, Hellholt, and Vaith would never again bear fruit. Their scorched earth would remain a testament to my wrath.

I was no longer just Aegon Targaryen, dragonlord of Valyria. "I am become death, destroyer of worlds." Let those who defied me learn from these ashes. The age of the dragons had begun.

I stood at the crest of Aegon’s Hill, my gaze sweeping over the land below, a vast stretch of earth that would soon be the beating heart of my empire. The wind tugged at my cloak, and in that moment, I could almost hear the future rising before me. I saw a city unlike any other—a place that would rival the greatest capitals of the world, a gleaming symbol of Targaryen might. No longer would the realm be ruled from humble wooden fortresses or worn-out castles. No, my Red Keep would rise like a mountain above it all, its towering walls and unyielding foundations a testament to the ambitions burning in my chest. The city that would surround it, soon to be known as Aegonoktion, would become the Constantinople of Westeros. It would stand as a marvel of strength and grandeur, uniting the Seven Kingdoms under one banner, my banner.

I watched in awe as the construction began to unfold before my eyes. Experts from Myr and Volantis had been brought in to lead the work, and despite my initial plans to use hydraulic cement, they seemed to need nothing of the sort. Their methods were unfamiliar, yet effective—another reminder that even with all I knew from the old world, there was still so much I had yet to learn here. The city stretched out across both banks of the river, a bridge linking them together. It was a strange sight, yet beautiful, as the future of Aegonoktion slowly began to take form.

The Red Keep would be the heart of it all, perched proudly at the top of Aegon’s Hill. Its foundations were already being carved deep into the earth, the cost staggering—17,000 pounds of gold. But every coin was worth it. This would be the seat of power for generations to come, the symbol of the Targaryen legacy. I had also ordered the construction of a dragonpit, a place to house our dragons and solidify our dominance. In five years, at a cost of around 12,000 pounds, it would be ready, and our dragons would have a home worthy of their majesty.

Yet, I knew this vision would not be fully realized for many years to come. The city would not be finished for another decade, and until then, it was little more than a vast construction site, filled with workers, builders, and the few dreamers who believed in what we were creating. There would be no people to walk its streets, no citizens to fill its markets. It was a city born from stone, sweat, and ambition alone. But once it was complete, Aegonoktion would rise as the beating heart of my empire. This was only the beginning, but it was enough. The world would see that the Targaryens had come to stay.

The construction of Aegonoktion’s defenses had begun in earnest, each wall designed with a specific purpose to protect the city and its future inhabitants. The Outer Wall was the first priority, focusing on a moat and low defenses to prevent easy access, costing around 8,000 pounds of gold. This would form the initial line of defense against any enemy, though it would be reinforced over time.

Next would come the Middle Wall, taller and stronger, with space for archers and soldiers to defend against any assault. This wall would cost around 11,500 pounds of gold, a necessary investment to ensure the city's long-term security.

The most formidable of these walls, the Inner Wall, would be the largest and most expensive. Massive towers would rise every 100 feet, acting as a permanent line of defense, costing around 16,000 pounds of gold. The Inner Wall would be the backbone of Aegonoktion’s security.

To extend the protection across both sides of the river, Aegon ordered the walls to continue on both banks, creating a continuous barrier. A chain boom would be placed across the river to control naval access, with massive gatehouses built at both ends to secure the city’s entrances. Finally, the Sea Walls, costing 4,000 pounds of gold, would protect the riverbanks and docks from potential sea invasions, ensuring the safety of Aegonoktion’s lower districts.

The Red Keep, built with pale red stone, will dominate the landscape overlooking the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. Seven massive drum-towers crown the castle, each adorned with iron ramparts for both defense and grandeur. Thick curtain walls surround the structure, reinforced with nests and crenellations to accommodate archers. Parapets, four feet high, shield the outer ramparts, where the heads of traitors are often displayed on iron spikes between the crenels.

The castle’s bronze gates and portcullises stand as formidable barriers, with narrow postern doors for discreet access. At each corner, strong fortifications house cornerforts, ensuring complete security. In front of the immense barbican lies a cobbled square, while behind the walls, small inner yards provide spaces for barracks, dungeons, granaries, and stables.

The serpentine steps leading up to Aegon’s Holdfast are grueling but necessary, offering passage to key areas of the Red Keep. Below these steps, one finds the small council chambers, the Tower of the Hand, the black cells, and other essential spaces. Above, the Great Hall and throne room await, along with the royal prayer room and Maidenvault.

The doors of the Red Keep are crafted from oak and banded with black iron, and sweet-smelling rushes cover the floors, contributing to the castle’s imposing yet fragrant atmosphere.

Once completed, the Red Keep's Great Hall will be a sight to behold, with its soaring, ribbed vaulted ceilings and gothic design. The throne room will sit at the heart of the hall, with the Iron Throne elevated on a raised dais, accessed by high, narrow steps. The long carpet will stretch from the throne to the massive oak-and-bronze doors, setting the stage for the grandeur within. The hall will be capable of feasting a thousand people, with high, narrow windows on the eastern and western walls allowing sunlight to pour in, casting dramatic shadows.

Inside the Red Keep, Aegon’s Holdfast will serve as a massive square fortress, nestled in the heart of the castle. This castle-within-a-castle will be secured by twelve-foot-thick walls and a dry moat lined with iron spikes, a testament to the king's power. The Holdfast will contain the royal apartments, including the king’s bedchamber, furnished with a canopied bed and twin hearths for warmth. The Queen's Ballroom will also be housed within the Holdfast, its lavish design befitting the royal court.

The Tower of the Hand will house the chambers of the Hand of the King and the Small Hall, as well as a solar and a garderobe. Below the tower will lie the chamber of the dragon mosaic. The council chamber, where the small council meets, will feature a long table, with the king seated at its head.

Throughout the Holdfast, the furnishings will be rich and varied, including Myrish carpets, a carved screen from the Summer Isles, and tapestries from Lys, Norvos, and Qohor. White Sword Tower, located near Blackwater Bay, will serve as the chamber of the Kingsguard.

The throne room itself will resemble a gothic cathedral, with flying buttresses, clustered columns, and intricately carved tracery adorning the walls. The stained-glass windows will tell the story of Aegon’s conquest, with richly colored glass depicting key moments of his rise to power. Though still under construction, the Red Keep will be a monument to the Targaryen dynasty—magnificent, imposing, and a symbol of their divine right to rule.

Once completed, the Maidenvault will stand as a long, slate-roofed building nestled behind the royal prayer room, a serene and solemn space within the Red Keep. The castle will also house a grand library, its shelves filled with books, scrolls, and knowledge from across the Seven Kingdoms. Across from the main kitchen, the Kitchen Keep will provide ample space for the castle’s food preparations, while a smaller kitchen will exist nearby. A pig yard will also be included in the castle's design, ensuring a steady supply of fresh meat.

The godswood will cover an acre, featuring elm, alder, and black cottonwood trees overlooking the Blackwater Rush. In the center, a great oak will serve as the heart tree, its limbs overrun with smokeberry vines, creating a tranquil and sacred space for reflection and prayer.

The rookery will house the ravens used by the maesters of the Citadel, and beneath it, the Grand Maester will reside in his chambers. The Traitor's Walk will lead to a squat, half-round tower, where the top floor will house cells for high-ranking prisoners, such as knights or lordlings. The dungeons will be accessed from the ground floor, guarded by iron doors and splintered grey wood, ensuring the security of those held within.

When construction is completed, the dungeons below the squat tower will span four levels, each serving a different purpose in the castle's system of imprisonment and punishment. The uppermost level will contain cells for common criminals, with high, narrow windows letting in little light. The second level will house highborn captives in smaller, windowless cells, with torches illuminating the dark halls through the bars of their doors.

The third level, known as the black cells, will be even more forbidding. These cells will be smaller and have doors of wood, blocking all light from entering.

The lowest level will be reserved for torture, with rumors swirling that it is safer to descend into this level in total darkness. There are whispered tales of things lurking in the shadows, things that one would be better off not seeing. The dungeon’s twisted turnpike stairs and iron gates will only add to its grim atmosphere. A path from the lowest level will lead to the chamber of the dragon mosaic, below the Tower of the Hand, and to the Blackwater Rush, connecting the castle to the river beneath.

I tasked Visenya with overseeing the construction of secret passages beneath the Red Keep, a task I deemed essential for the castle’s security. The work was done in secrecy, with slave labor brought in for the task. Once the passages were completed, the laborers were sent to Dragonstone, their debts forgiven, free to begin new lives.

The network of tunnels connects the Red Keep with Aegon’s High Hill, offering escape routes to those who know their secrets. One passage leads to the cliffs overlooking the sea, a narrow and treacherous path carved into the rock. From there, one may scale the cliffside, hidden from view, and descend onto a secluded trail along the Blackwater Rush. Another passage weaves through the cellar of the dragon skulls, a grim reminder of my family’s past. It leads to the sewers beneath the castle, emptying into the river.

However, Aegon’s Holdfast is the exception. It stands without secret passages. I wanted no rats in my own walls. The only means of escape from the Holdfast is a single, discreet door that does not connect to any other passage in the Red Keep. I trust my own walls to keep me safe, with no hidden routes for traitors or spies.

Ah, the Dragonpit. A place of grandeur, but I have my doubts about its intended purpose. They say it reduces the size of dragons, but I suspect it's not that simple. It isn’t the magic of Dragonstone that has made the dragons shrink over time, but rather the gradual diminishment of their power and their bond with their riders. Dragons, like everything else in the world, are not immune to the passage of time. They were never meant to be caged, and while the Dragonpit may house them, it cannot capture their full might.

Look at Daenerys and her dragons, for instance. Drogon may be the largest, but it's not because of any magic or imprisonment. He’s simply her main dragon, her connection to him stronger than the others. Rhaegal and Viserion were always the sidekicks, as it were—though I can’t say they ever suffered a significant size difference because of their confinement. The real truth about her dragons, however, is that they are as much a plot convenience as Daenerys herself. Unreliable, inflated by the whims of the story, her dragons are a tool to serve her, and nothing more.

The Dragonpit itself is a marvel, yes. The massive bronze and iron doors, wide enough for thirty knights to ride through at once, are impressive. The pit can seat eighty thousand, a testament to its grandeur. Beneath the dome, forty massive undervaults were carved into the hillside—each of them cavernous, like the lairs of dragons on Dragonstone. Still, I wonder if it’s truly enough to contain them, for what is a dragon if not a creature born to soar freely?

Chapter Text

The march to the Gods Eye was a grim affair. Aegon, astride Balerion, cast an imposing shadow over the host of Targaryen and Durrandon banners as they pressed northward. I rode at the head of the column, the gold and black of House Baratheon snapping in the wind beside the dragon banners of House Targaryen. Every step felt heavy, not from the weight of my armor or the chill of the autumn air, but from the gravity of what lay ahead. Harrenhal loomed in the distance—a monolithic specter of stone and fear.

We reached the southern shores of the Gods Eye by twilight. The lake glistened like black glass, the stillness broken only by the cries of distant waterfowl. Aegon dismounted Balerion, his face set in a mask of unflinching resolve. The smallfolk whispered of Harrenhal's cursed walls, but Aegon would not be swayed. "The curse is Harren himself," he had said. "And we will break it with fire and blood."

But Harren the Black was no fool. He had sent two of his sons ahead to ambush us, and their fleet of longboats, hidden under the cover of darkness, was already upon us before the first horn sounded.

Chaos erupted as the Hoare fleet surged toward the shore. The muffled oars and silent approach had been a clever ploy, but Aegon had anticipated it. The Dragonlord mounted Balerion, the mighty beast’s scales gleaming even in the dim moonlight. With a deafening roar, the Black Dread took flight, his wings stirring the air like a storm.

From the lake's center, the Hoare princes rallied their men, shouting commands to push forward. Their longboats, laden with soldiers, formed a spear aimed at our vanguard. The first volleys of arrows streaked across the water, striking our shields and men. I shouted for my bannermen to hold the line, gripping my warhammer tightly as the enemy closed the gap.

Above us, the night turned to day as Balerion unleashed his fury. The first gout of flame illuminated the lake, catching the Hoare fleet in its path. Boats erupted in fire, men screaming as they leaped into the water, only to find no refuge from the inferno. Steam hissed and rose as the lake itself seemed to boil under the dragonfire.

Two of Harren’s sons, bold and defiant, urged their men onward even as their fleet was engulfed. Their cries of defiance were silenced when Balerion’s shadow descended upon them. Aegon’s voice rang clear in the chaos, commanding his dragon to unleash another torrent of flame. The longboats became pyres, the Hoare princes incinerated where they stood. The lake, once calm, was now a cauldron of fire and ash.

On the shore, we seized the advantage. The remaining Hoare soldiers, disoriented and leaderless, faltered. I led the charge with my men, hammering through their lines with a fury that matched the flames above. The reeds were stained red with their blood by the time the last of them fled into the night.

When the battle was done, Aegon landed Balerion near the shore. The air was thick with the stench of burned flesh and charred wood. Harren’s fleet had been broken, his sons reduced to ashes. But the victory, though resounding, brought no joy to Aegon. His face was solemn as he surveyed the destruction. “Harren will answer for this,” he said, his voice low and cold. “But not here. Not now.”

We spent the night on the battlefield, the fires on the lake casting an eerie glow over the camp. The men, though bloodied and battered, were emboldened by the victory. Songs of dragons and fire filled the air as they tended to their wounds and raised their cups in toast.

I kept my distance, watching as Aegon conferred with Visenya and Rhaenys, who had joined us with their dragons. They spoke in hushed tones, their expressions grave. The war was far from over, and Harrenhal still stood—a blackened, unyielding fortress on the horizon.

The next morning, we marched again, our ranks bolstered by the riverlords who had come to our cause. House Blackwood and House Bracken, bitter rivals, stood side by side under the dragon banner. Even the craven Freys had sent men, though their loyalty was as flimsy as the bridge they called a castle.

The tensions were high as we prepared for the final confrontation. Harren had summoned the Riverlords to his side to defend his stronghold of Harrenhal, but one by one, they had turned against him, rallying behind Lord Edmyn Tully. The Tullys, leading the charge in the Riverlands, had sided with us, the Targaryens and Durrandons, making our army more formidable.

Aegon, Argailac, and I, along with a small contingent of our forces, rode out under a banner of peace to meet Harren at the gates of Harrenhal. It was a strange sight, to see the once mighty Harrenhal so vulnerable, the Ironborn lord preparing for an inevitable assault. The arrogance in Harren’s eyes told me that he was not prepared for the firepower we commanded, nor the unshakable resolve of Aegon.

When we met in the open field, Aegon dismounted, his black dragon, Balerion, hovering ominously in the background. The air was dense with anticipation, each breath heavy with the weight of what was to come. It was clear this parley would either reshape the realm or scorch the remnants of the old order into ash.

Aegon stood calm, his expression unreadable, while King Harren Hoare’s face was carved with disdain. His pride was as immovable as the towering walls of Harrenhal behind him, an arrogance that seemed to echo the stronghold itself. Aegon’s voice broke the tense silence, sharp and deliberate.

“Yield now, Harren, and you may remain Lord of the Iron Islands. Yield, and your sons will live to rule after you. My host numbers eight thousand men, and they stand outside your gates. Your position is untenable.”

Harren snorted, his sneer deepening. “What is outside my walls is of no concern to me. These walls are strong and thick, built to withstand any army.”

Before Aegon could reply, Argilac Durrandon, the aging Storm King, stepped forward, his voice rough but steady. “Your pride blinds you, Harren. Stone may endure storms, but fire… Fire is something else. You would risk your sons and your legacy on these walls? The Riverlands are lost to you. Bend the knee before the Dragonlord burns your world to cinders.”

Harren scoffed. “And what of you, Argilac? Does the ‘Storm King’ now kneel to every foreign invader who lights a torch? My ancestors built Harrenhal to last for eternity. Not even Targaryen flames will breach its walls.”

Aegon’s lips curled into a thin smile. “But not so high as to keep out dragons. Dragons fly.”

For a moment, Harren’s composure faltered, but he quickly recovered, a defiant glint returning to his eyes. “I built in stone. Stone does not burn.”

“Stone may not burn,” Aegon said softly, his violet eyes narrowing, “but it melts. The towers of Harrenhal will weep in the heat of dragonfire, and your name will be remembered only as a tale of arrogance and ruin. This is your last chance.”

Harren’s sneer deepened. “Save your threats, Targaryen. I will not kneel to you or your flying lizards. You are nothing more than a pretender—a usurper playing at king.”

Aegon’s gaze hardened, and for a moment, there was no sound but the faint rustle of banners in the wind. Then he spoke, his voice cold as winter steel. “When the sun sets, your line shall end.”

The finality in Aegon’s words marked the end of the parley. Harren’s pride had sealed his fate. As we turned back to our encampment, Harren retreated behind the towering walls of his supposedly impregnable fortress. The Rivermen, embittered by years of Ironborn rule, watched from the safety of our ranks as Harrenhal loomed like a shadow over the horizon.

Night fell, casting the massive towers of Harrenhal into a sinister silhouette against the darkening sky. The silence was broken only by the soft murmurs of soldiers and the occasional call of a distant horn. Aegon mounted Balerion and ascended into the heavens. His figure became a dark shadow against the stars as Balerion’s massive wings carried them higher, circling above the castle.

Then, with a deafening roar, Balerion plunged from the skies. Fire poured from his maw, a torrent of flame that engulfed Harrenhal in an instant. Supplies and defenders alike were consumed, the stone walls radiating an unnatural glow as they cracked and splintered under the intense heat.

From the field below, we could see the unthinkable: Harrenhal, the greatest fortress ever constructed, began to melt. Its towers glowed like candles in the night, their proud shapes distorting as molten stone dripped like wax.

Inside, Harren and his sons took refuge in the tallest of the castle’s towers. The flames found them there, and they perished together, their screams lost in the inferno. The tower that claimed their lives would forever after be known as the Kingspyre Tower. With their deaths, House Hoare was extinguished, its legacy reduced to ash alongside the castle they had once believed would endure for eternity.

The morning light revealed the full extent of the destruction. Harrenhal, once a symbol of invulnerability, was a smoldering ruin. Its massive curtain walls were scarred, its towers reduced to grotesque, misshapen husks. Smoke hung in the air, a bitter reminder of the cost of Harren’s defiance.

Orys Baratheon stood atop the remnants of a wall, surveying the scene. Around us, the Rivermen gathered, their expressions a mix of awe and vindication. One by one, they came forward to kneel before Aegon, their loyalty transferred from their former oppressors to the Dragonlord who had liberated them.

Aegon’s victory was absolute. Harrenhal, the unconquerable, had fallen—not to siege engines or numbers, but to the power of dragons. The Riverlands now belonged to House Targaryen, and the banners of the Hoares were replaced with the sigil of the three-headed dragon.

Though the war was far from over, the message was clear: defiance against the Targaryens was futile. Aegon’s vision of a unified realm was no longer a dream; it was a reality forged in fire and blood. As I stood among the kneeling lords, the weight of what we had witnessed sank in. The age of castles was over. The age of dragons had begun.

A horn echoed across the plains, and Orys turned to watch the first of the riverlords ride through the enormous gatehouse, a structure rivaling Storm’s End’s Great Keep in size. Lord Edmyn Tully led the procession, his banner of the silver trout waving proudly. Behind him followed Bracken, Blackwood, Frey, and countless others. They dismounted in the sprawling courtyard, each man bearing the weight of generations of oppression under the Hoares. Today, they would pledge fealty to a new master.

Aegon Targaryen stood tall in his gleaming armor, Blackfyre at his hip, and his sisters by his side. Balerion’s shadow stretched across the ground, a silent reminder of the force that had brought Harrenhal to its knees. The great dragon rested beyond the walls, its presence as palpable as the heat from its flames.

Lord Edmyn approached first, bowing low before Aegon. "Your Grace," he said, his voice steady despite the enormity of the moment. "I, Edmyn Tully, Lord of Riverrun, pledge my sword and my house to the one true Emperor of Westeros."

One by one, the other lords followed. Bracken and Blackwood exchanged glares even as they knelt. Frey’s words were slippery, his eyes calculating. Still, each man bent the knee, and with every vow spoken, the Riverlands fell further under Aegon’s rule.

When the last lord had sworn, Aegon raised his hand for silence. "The Riverlands have suffered greatly under the iron grip of the Hoares," he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "Your lands have been burned, your people taxed beyond endurance. In recognition of your loyalty, I relieve you of all taxes until next summer. Use this time to rebuild and recover."

Murmurs of gratitude rippled through the crowd. Aegon turned to Edmyn Tully. "Lord Tully, you will oversee the reconstruction of Harrenhal. The castle’s size and its strategic position demand a firm hand. Ensure the work is done swiftly and efficiently."

Edmyn nodded, his face a mask of determination. "It will be done, Your Grace."

By the time the riverlords departed, the spoils of Harrenhal had been accounted for. Three thousand pounds of gold, along with countless other valuables, lay in the castle’s vaults. Yet, the mood among Aegon’s party was subdued. The scale of Harrenhal was oppressive, its very walls whispering of the vanity and folly that had built it.

Orys walked the halls later that day, the black stone cold beneath his boots. The sheer size of the castle felt unnatural, as if it had been meant for giants rather than men. He found Aegon in the godswood, standing beneath the twisted visage of the weirwood tree. Its hateful eyes seemed to follow them, its mouth contorted in a silent scream.

"I’m told the godswood spans twenty acres," Orys said, breaking the silence.

Aegon nodded, his gaze fixed on the tree. "It does. A place of power, this."

Orys frowned. "Power, or madness? This place feels cursed."

Aegon’s lips curved into a faint smile. "Curses have no hold on men who forge their own destiny."

The next morning, Aegon rode for the Isle of Faces. His departure was uncharacteristically eager, his usual measured demeanor replaced by a boyish excitement. When he returned, hours later, his mood was contemplative.

"The Green Men," he began, addressing Orys and the others, "are as strange as the stories say. They wear green cloaks and horned headdresses, their words riddles wrapped in prophecy. They claim to take orders from the Three-Eyed Crow beyond the Wall, preparing for a Targaryen-born hero who will end the Long Night."

Rhaenys tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her violet eyes. "And what did they make of you?"

"They were not pleased," Aegon admitted, a chuckle escaping him. "They didn’t expect me to marry Argella, to conquer Dorne, or to father my children. None of that, they said, was foreseen in their visions. It seems I’ve thrown their plans into disarray."

Orys barked a laugh. "They’ll have to adjust, then."

Aegon shrugged. "I told them as much. We’ll address their concerns in time. For now, I have brought something back."

He gestured to a sack at his feet. Within were dozens of weirwood seeds, their pale surfaces almost glowing. "All the weirwood that the Hoares cut is to be buried in Harrenhal’s godswood. These seeds will be planted above the remains, to restore what was lost."

Orys raised an eyebrow. "A bold gesture. You think they’ll grow?"

"If the gods will it," Aegon replied, his tone uncharacteristically reverent.

As evening fell, the castle took on an eerie beauty. The monstrous walls cast long shadows over the courtyard, and the five towering spires seemed to reach for the heavens. Fires burned in the hearths, their light barely warming the vast, cold halls.

Orys found himself wandering again, his thoughts heavy. He passed the vaults, where the gold sat untouched for now. He passed the smithies, where weapons were being forged anew. He passed the kitchens, where the scents of roasted meat and spiced wine filled the air.

At last, he returned to the godswood. Aegon stood there still, a solitary figure beneath the ancient trees. The weirwood’s face loomed above him, its twisted expression seeming almost alive in the firelight.

"You don’t rest," Orys said, joining him.

"There’s no time for rest," Aegon replied. He held one of the weirwood seeds in his hand, turning it over as if seeking answers in its pale surface. "This conquest is only the beginning. There’s so much yet to be done."

Orys clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Then we’ll see it done, brother. Together."

Aegon smiled, a rare, genuine smile that softened his sharp features. "Together," he agreed.

The godswood fell silent, the twisted trees standing witness to the beginning of a new chapter in Westeros’s history. Harrenhal, with all its curses and all its promise, had fallen. And from its ashes, something new would rise.

The long trail of men snaked, banners of the Stormlands and Dragonstone fluttering in the crisp air. Orys rode at the head of the column, the weight of responsibility pressing on his shoulders. Though the march was grueling, his thoughts wandered far from the road ahead.

Aegon had left for the Iron Islands days ago, riding Balerion with fire and fury. His intentions were clear: to reduce the islands to ash and break the Hoare's legacy for good. "Barbarians don’t deserve to live," Aegon had declared, and Orys believed him. The Ironborn had plagued Westeros for generations, their raids a blight upon the coasts. No mercy would be shown—not even for the Drumm family, who clung to their ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Red Rain. Aegon promised them their lives in exchange for the blade but had intended to burn them after the trade was made.

The Iron Throne would brook no resistance, and the Iron Islands would serve as an example as will Dorne.

As Orys's forces approached Aegonoktion—Aegon’s grand vision for a new capital—his thoughts turned to the enormity of their task. The Riverlands were now firmly under their control, with Lord Edmyn Tully overseeing the completion of Harrenhal at the expense of the royal treasury. Aegon had shown his wisdom by relieving the riverlords of taxes until next summer, a gesture that had won him their loyalty. Yet the burden of rebuilding fell squarely on the crown, and Orys was charged with transporting the 30,000 pounds of gold from Harrenhal to Aegonoktion with ⅒ pound of gold to be given to soldiers coming around 1300 pounds, just as Aegon had asked.

The journey was a logistical nightmare. The wagons creaked under the weight of the treasure, each one guarded by armed men from the Stormlands and Dragonstone. Bandits and opportunists lurked in the woods, but none dared attack such a heavily fortified caravan. Still, the tension was palpable. Every man knew the value of their cargo and the risk of losing even a portion of it.

Six days into the journey, a raven arrived. Orys recognized the seal of the Red Keep immediately: Visenya’s sigil. He dismounted and broke the wax, his eyes scanning the parchment quickly.

Everything had gone according to plan. Aegon had razed the Iron Islands, leaving nothing but charred ruins and scattered bones. Red Rain, the Valyrian steel sword, was now in their possession, a trophy of victory. The Ironborn, broken and leaderless, would trouble the realm no more.

Orys allowed himself a grim smile as he read the words. Aegon’s campaign was brutal, but it was necessary. Mercy was a luxury they could not afford, not when forging a new empire required such strength.

By the time they neared Aegonoktion, the column was weary but resolute. The city was still more vision than reality, its foundations only recently laid. Yet even in its infancy, the ambition of Aegon’s dream was evident. Aegonoktion was meant to stand as a symbol of unity and power, its central seat of government a testament to the Targaryen dynasty’s dominance.

Orys took a moment to survey the site as they approached. The Blackwater Rush glittered in the distance, and the land stretched wide and fertile, ripe for development. The Red Keep loomed above the rest, a crimson crown on the hill, though much of its construction remained incomplete.

Orys’s men had marched tirelessly, and soon their burden would be lifted. The 30,000 pounds of gold would serve its purpose, financing the construction of both Aegonoktion and the empire it was meant to oversee. Orys felt a sense of satisfaction as they entered the city gates. They were building something permanent, something that would endure long after their lifetimes.

He dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with a thud, and barked orders to his men. The treasure would be stored securely under heavy guard until Aegon himself returned from the Iron Islands. Orys had no doubt that his king would be pleased.

For now, his work was done, but Orys knew that the road ahead was long and full of challenges. The Iron Throne had been forged in fire and blood, but maintaining it would require vigilance and strength. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting Aegonoktion in shades of gold and crimson, Orys allowed himself a rare moment of reflection.

They had come far, but their journey was only beginning.

Chapter Text

The wind roared past as I soared on Balerion’s back, his vast wings beating a rhythm that echoed through the heavens. Below lay Dorne, a wasteland of ash and ember. The cities, the villages, even the hidden caves and oasis groves—all were charred remnants of what had once defied me. The fires of Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar had brought an end to their resistance in weeks, not years, for dragons are swift and merciless. And I, Aegon Targaryen, was satisfied.

This was conquest. This was unity.

Sunspear’s ruins came into view, a twisted skeleton of stone and flame, its proud banners now blackened strips fluttering in the searing wind. The Red Mountains, which had once sheltered guerilla fighters and ambushes, were hollow and lifeless. This was the cost of defiance, and I had no regrets.

I pulled Balerion lower, letting him glide over what remained of Dorne’s storied cities. This was the price they paid for refusing to kneel, for thinking their spears and sand could stand against fire and blood. The Rhoynar spirit had been extinguished, just as my ancestors had been told it could be. Only the Daynes had been spared—a mercy granted not out of weakness, but out of my admiration for their knight, Ser Arthur Dayne.

Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, whose honor was whispered of across the realm. His legend alone had been enough to persuade me to grant Starfall its survival. They bent the knee quickly, proving they had the wisdom the rest of Dorne lacked. It was not mercy I offered—it was an investment.

The Velaryon fleet patrolled the coast, their sails bright against the darkened sky.

The Dornish were Rhoynar, I reminded myself. Their ancestors had fled Valyrian might once before, seeking refuge here in the sands. But fire finds its way into even the deepest shadows, and there is no escaping it. The Dornish were no different. Their legacy would not survive this. Only the Daynes, whose loyalty I had secured, would carry their bloodline forward under Targaryen rule.

I felt no guilt, no hesitation. This was the work of a king. The realm would see what happened when fire and blood came to their doors. The Seven Kingdoms would remember Dorne as the cost of defiance. Sunspear was gone, the Martells extinguished, their names reduced to ash. It was necessary. It was just.

The Painted Table back on Dragonstone awaited me, its carved kingdoms now entirely under my dominion. I could already see the heralds of the other lords arriving to kneel, to swear their fealty and gratitude that their lands had not suffered the same fate as Dorne. Let them see what resistance brings. Let them whisper of dragons in the night and the screams of Sunspear.

As Balerion roared once more, I felt a deep satisfaction settle within me. This was my conquest. This was my kingdom. The ashes of Dorne would fertilize the future of the realm, and the shadow of my dragon would stretch from the Wall to the Summer Sea. This was not remorse. This was triumph.

The climb to power in Westeros is a balancing act between fire and words, and sometimes the words sting sharper than the flames. House Arryn and their lofty Eyrie thought themselves untouchable, their walls too high for my ambitions. Sharra Arryn, Queen Regent of the Vale, had built a fortress of pride around her son, Ronnel—the so-called King of Mountain and Vale—and dared to think her offers could bind me. Her letter was a sweetly worded bribe, promising marriage and alliance if only I would name her boy as my heir. As if I would trade dragons for courtesies.

Visenya, sharp as Valyrian steel and twice as cold, had her own plans. Where words fail, fireflies. While the Queen Regent fortified Gulltown and the Bloody Gate, she forgot the one path her swords couldn’t defend: the skies. With a few beats of Vhagar’s wings, Visenya carried the weight of my refusal to the Eyrie’s inner courtyard. I could almost see it in my mind—Sharra’s delicate composure cracking as her son, little Ronnel, sat on my sister’s lap, his childish laughter echoing off the pale stone walls. It was not Sharra’s throne he wanted; it was the skies.

And he got them. Ronnel flew three times around the Giant’s Lance on Vhagar’s back, his mother’s fear undoubtedly twisting into reluctant awe. By the time they landed, he was no longer King of the Mountain and Vale. He was Lord of the Eyrie, sworn to me, and his title of Warden of the East was a gilded leash. No amount of knights, gates, or garrisons could keep the dragon from the nest, and the Arryns learned it in a single afternoon.

Visenya had the grace to make it seem effortless, though I could imagine the razor edge of her smile as she returned to Redkeep. She left behind a realm tamed not by war but by the sheer inevitability of our conquest. Sometimes, the mere presence of dragons is enough to bring kingdoms to heel.

Later that day...

Finally, I leaned back, my voice softer but no less firm. Before I left for Dragonstone, I ordered the Maester to write books to guide my children and successors. These are lessons of history, to teach them how to be not just Emperors but good Emperors.

The first book, Fire and Blood, chronicles the Doom of Valyria to the end of the original timeline, as shown in the prophecies. It details every mistake: the cruelty of Maegor, the foolishness of Viserys, the Dance of Dragons, Rhaenyra’s female succession, Aegon the Unworthy’s Blackfyre rebellions, the madness of King Aerys, and the rebellion it caused. It emphasizes the dangers of broken betrothals, misplaced trust, and alliances outside the family. My heirs will learn to avoid these failures, taking inspiration instead from myself, Jaehaerys, Daeron II, and Daemon Blackfyre. An emperor must be both loved and feared, combining the wisdom of Aegon V with the strength of a conqueror.

The second book details the mistakes of the great men of history from our world. Alexander’s empire collapsed due to overindulgence and lack of preparation for succession. Nicholas II and Louis XVI failed to recognize the needs of their people, leading to revolutions. Napoleon’s hubris and overextension destroyed his empire. Kaiser Wilhelm’s aggression alienated allies and provoked unnecessary wars. Caesar’s failure to address his enemies in the Senate led to his assassination. Hitler overreached, refusing to consolidate his power after Czechoslovakia and expelling useful minds. George III lost the Americas through overreach in taxation. Tsar Peter III’s failure to connect with his people led to a coup. The Byzantine Empire’s greed brought the Fourth Crusade, and revolutions have undone empires time and again.

These lessons will remind my heirs of the delicate balance of power, the importance of foresight, and the dangers of arrogance. They will know that to rule is to serve, to dominate, and to preserve.

The third book, Wars That Forged Empires, was crafted as a guide for future emperors, offering lessons in leadership, strategy, and the harsh realities of conquest. Unlike the previous volumes, this was a study in the blood-soaked chronicles of the battlefield, where kingdoms were won and lost in moments of bravery, brilliance, and miscalculation. It was not merely a record of glory but a compendium of hard-earned truths about the cost of ambition.

Each chapter highlighted battles that shaped history and showcased the enduring principles of warfare. From the Siege of Miletus, a lesson in patience and attrition, to the sweeping brilliance of Alexander the Great at Gaugamela and Issus, the book explored the art of adaptation and boldness. Alexander’s mastery of terrain and his ability to inspire his forces demonstrated that leadership was as vital as tactics.

The Battle of Cannae offered a masterclass in encirclement, where Hannibal annihilated a much larger Roman force through strategic brilliance. However, the Battle of Zama showed the importance of innovation, as Scipio Africanus turned Hannibal’s tactics against him. This contrast underscored that no strategy was infallible and that success demanded constant evolution.

From Frederick the Great’s Rossbach and Leuthen, demonstrating the power of maneuver warfare, to the Mongols at Kosedag, whose mobility and discipline decimated the Seljuk Turks, the book emphasized adaptability and ingenuity. The Battle of Nicopolis, a Crusader disaster, reminded readers of the perils of overconfidence, while the Fall of Constantinople served as a stark warning about the dangers of internal discord and neglect.

Inclusion of pivotal battles like the Siege of Vienna and the World Wars showcased the interplay between morale, alliances, and resilience. The Battle of Hastings proved the importance of timing and adaptability, while the Battle of Agincourt highlighted the critical role of terrain and discipline, as English archers overcame overwhelming odds.

The fourth book, The Strategy of War, delved deeper into the timeless principles of strategy and tactics, examining historical methods that shaped military history. It covered everything from the hit-and-run raids of the Mongols to the Fabian strategy of Rome, illustrating the value of patience and attrition over direct confrontation. It also highlighted the importance of flanking maneuvers and envelopment strategies, two tactics that aimed to outmaneuver and surround the enemy, as well as the feigned retreat, a deceptive strategy designed to lure the opponent into a trap.

It presented the Parthian shot, where mounted archers would shoot while retreating, showcasing the role of mobility in warfare. The Schiltron, a dense formation of pikemen, and the Tercio, a combination of pike and shot infantry, exemplified how disciplined formations could resist cavalry charges. The square Schiltron and shield wall were also emphasized as formations capable of holding firm against formidable enemies, while the cantabrian circle showed how mounted troops could create a defensive and offensive advantage at once.

The book also explored the evolution of corps, large divisions of troops designed to function as self-sufficient entities, offering flexibility and support. The hammer and anvil strategy, where cavalry or shock troops would deliver the strike while infantry trapped the enemy, and the inverted crescent formation, used to contain and enclose an adversary, were central tactics for a ruler seeking dominance on the battlefield.

Special mention was made of formations like the testudo, used by Roman legions to defend against missile fire, and the Swiss pike block, which presented a nearly impenetrable defense, influencing the strategies of later European armies. The Buccellarii, elite reserve forces, and the cataphracts, heavily armored cavalry, were pivotal in demonstrating the importance of surprise and shock action on the battlefield.

Tactics like the oblique order and flanking were foundational to shock cavalry and mounted archery, exemplified by the Winged Hussars of Poland, who used speed and force to crush opponents with a decisive charge. Similarly, English longbowmen and Genoese crossbowmen were highlighted for their role in disrupting enemy formations before the main engagement, their powerful ranged attacks softening up the opponent.

The work also paid tribute to the ingenuity of Swiss halberdiers, their echelon formation—a method of positioning troops diagonally to maximize firepower—and Tabor formation, used for defense and counterattack, reflecting the importance of flexibility in infantry tactics. Each of these formations, along with others like the wedge formation and hedgehog formation, displayed how varied and multifaceted ancient and medieval military strategies were in countering different battlefield scenarios.

In conclusion, The Strategy of War provided not just a historical analysis of military tactics but also a blueprint for modern rulers seeking to apply these time-tested principles in their own quests for power and dominance. Whether employing the strategic depth of feints and diversion or capitalizing on the shock and awe of Buccellari cavalry, the war wagons etc the work offered a comprehensive guide to mastering the art of war.

But these books were not simply for grand wars and high strategy. Basics often overlooked by spoiled nobles were included—reminders to feed the army and care for horses, essential for sustained campaigns. Echoing the wisdom of Sun Tzu, the texts emphasized that even the grandest strategies would fail without attention to the mundane necessities of war.

These lessons, spanning centuries and continents, would arm my heirs not just with swords and dragons but with the knowledge to wield them wisely. By understanding the victories and failures of the past, they would ensure that the Targaryen dynasty endured, not through sheer force, but through wisdom, unity, and unyielding resolve.

Sometime later...

The chronicles of conquest were behind me. The weight of history had shifted, and the task of rebuilding an empire now sat firmly in my grasp. My ambitions extended beyond the battlefield. I envisioned not only a united Westeros but a dynasty so strong that no storm, rebellion, or pretender could ever hope to topple it. Yet, I found myself most elated by the thought of my family and the passions that burned brightly in the private sanctuaries of my world.

Her belly, once flat and regal, now swelled with the seed of the dragon, her body transforming as she carried my legacy. Her Big ol' Mommy Milkers would come in handy or should I say mouth?

Then there was Argella. With her striking resemblance to Alexandra Daddario, soon, her body too would carry the proof of our union. Argella was a storm incarnate, and though we shared many passionate nights, each encounter left me hungrier for more, she was a loud screamer.

And Rhaenys—young, vibrant, and full of life. Her resemblance to Chloe from Detroit: Become Human only made her ethereal beauty more captivating, she was just 20—a perfect age, unmarred by the cruelties of her future, and so Rhaenys too would find peace and joy in the realm we were building. Soon, her belly would swell, as Argella’s would, for the blood of dragons was too potent to be denied.

It was mating season for the Targaryens, and as the head of this dynasty, I was determined to ensure that our bloodlines burned bright in the generations to come. The example of William the Conqueror, who fathered ten children, was a testament to ambition. I aimed to outshine even him, though I’d allow myself indulgences he had not. William had one wife, but I had dragons—and with them came a destiny far grander.

Our lineage would be vast. Rhaegar would father no children by Ceryse Hightower, though her barrenness meant his lust would only be tempered, not quenched. Yet his true heirs would come from his unions with the daughters of Argella and Rhaenys, I’d tempered Rhaegar’s darker impulses, reasoning with him to be a ruler worthy of the songs sung about him. Daeron would marry a Lannister bride to secure the loyalty of the Rock, but he too would sire children by Argella. Even Stannis, stoic and duty-bound, would take a daughter of Visenya as his bride.

Durran would ensure the Redwyne bloodline entered the dynasty, and Alyssa Velaryon, with her pure Valyrian heritage, would further strengthen our lineage. The daughters of my Empress and consorts would forge alliances across Westeros, binding houses to the Targaryen dynasty in ways that steel and fire alone could not.

But my vision extended beyond the walls of the Red Keep or the shores of Dragonstone. I envisioned a Westeros that rivaled the great civilizations of my ancestors. A Crown Bank would stretch its influence across Westeros and Essos alike, with branches in every city, from White Harbor to Volantis, Qarth to Dragonport. This bank would serve as the lifeblood of our empire, funding roads, trade, and fortifications that would outlast the memory of my reign.

Inspired by the roads of Rome, I described to my builders a network of stone highways that would connect every corner of Westeros. These roads would be wide, durable, and expertly engineered, ensuring that armies could march, traders could travel, and ideas could spread with unprecedented speed. Though they could not comprehend the Roman legacy, they understood the practicality of my designs and set to work at once.

Stability was my greatest gift to the realm. The reach lords had been neutralized, the Faith pacified, and Harren the Black’s cursed line wiped from existence. The ironborn, with their savage traditions, had been razed to the ground, their rebellions extinguished before they could spark. Even the Dornish, once proud and defiant, were being assimilated. With the establishment of settlements and incentives for Valyrian settlers, the deserts of Dorne would soon transform into a bastion of prosperity.

Quenton Qoherys, a loyal knight, had been granted the seat of Harrenhal and there won't be any Hoares do end his line. The Sistermen rebellion had been crushed before it could begin, and no Vulture King would rise to challenge my rule. My empire was secure, my enemies subdued, and my plans for the future firmly in motion.

Chapter Text

The dry grass whispered under the faint breeze, the scent of dust thick in the air. Rhaenys sat astride Meraxes, her hand resting lightly on the dragon's warm, silver-scaled neck. Below her, the Targaryen army stood in rigid lines, spears and shields forming a crescent that bristled like the jaws of some great beast. The plains stretched out endlessly, a barren battlefield beneath a pitiless sun. Across the field, banners of gold and green snapped sharply in the wind—Lannister lions and Gardener roses, their armies swelling the horizon with a sea of steel and flesh.

Fifty-five thousand men, Rhaenys thought, her gaze narrowing. Five thousand knights in gleaming armor, their destriers restless, pawing at the earth. She could almost feel the weight of their arrogance, their conviction that numbers and valor would carry the day. They had yet to reckon with dragons.

At the center of their crescent, Aegon sat atop Balerion, a shadow darker than night against the pale sky. On the far side, Visenya mounted Vhagar, her figure imperious in heavy plate armor. Rhaenys glanced toward her sister, a flicker of concern tightening her chest. Visenya bore no illusions about war—she lived for its brutal certainties—but an arrow could pierce even the strongest will, and this field was full of them.

Yet there was no room for hesitation now. Aegon had spoken, his calm certainty a command that brooked no refusal. “We end this here,” he had said that morning, his eyes burning with quiet fire.

Rhaenys took a steadying breath and leaned forward, whispering to Meraxes. The dragon’s great golden eye rolled toward her, and she felt the rumble of its response through her legs. Together, they watched as the allied armies began their advance. The charge of the Two Kings.

The thunder of hooves filled the air, drowning out the cries of men and the clash of steel. The knights of the Reach and the Rock surged forward, their lances glittering like the teeth of a giant beast. Dust rose in choking clouds, veiling the banners that streamed behind them. For a moment, Rhaenys could see only chaos, the ferocious beauty of war in motion.

Meraxes shifted beneath her, muscles rippling as if sensing her anticipation. The first impact came as the knights slammed into the spear lines. The Targaryen crescent trembled but held, the conscripted Riverlanders bracing their shields with grim determination. Yet even as the knights began to break through, Rhaenys saw the signal—a flash of light reflecting off Balerion’s black scales.

Aegon had taken to the air.

Rhaenys urged Meraxes upward, the rush of wind stealing her breath as the dragon’s wings beat against the sky. Below her, the battlefield unfolded like a living map, the lines of men and horses writhing as if caught in a web. She saw Visenya rising on Vhagar, her sword gleaming in her hand, and then Aegon above them all, a dark star against the heavens.

Rhaenys angled Meraxes toward the enemy lines, her voice rising in a single, piercing command. “Dracarys!”

The flames roared to life, a rolling tide of fire that consumed everything in its path. The dry grass caught instantly, flames racing outward, carried by the wind. The knights at the forefront of the charge faltered, their destriers screaming as the fire engulfed them. Men and horses burned together, their armor glowing red-hot as they collapsed into ash.

Rhaenys circled above, directing Meraxes to the flanks of the enemy army. She saw panic spreading like the fire itself, men turning from the inferno only to find themselves trapped. The Targaryen crescent remained untouched, safely upwind, and the Riverlanders pressed forward, cutting down those who fled the flames.

Through the chaos, Rhaenys caught sight of the Lannister banners, the lion rampant gold on crimson. King Loren himself was visible, his gilded armor marking him as clearly as a beacon. For a moment, she thought he might stand his ground, but then he turned his horse and fled, cutting through the burning remnants of his army.

Coward, she thought, her lips curling into a grim smile. But it was Aegon who followed, Balerion’s black wings sweeping low as he gave chase. Flames licked at the king’s heels, and Rhaenys knew there would be no escape.

When the fire finally died, the battlefield was a charnel ground. Smoke hung heavy over the plains, the stench of charred flesh filling the air. Rhaenys descended with Meraxes, the dragon’s claws sinking into the scorched earth. Around her, the survivors of the Targaryen army moved among the dead, finishing off the wounded and gathering the swords of the fallen.

The Field of Fire, Aegon would call it later. It was a fitting name.

Visenya landed nearby, dismounting stiffly from Vhagar. Rhaenys saw the arrow protruding from her sister’s shoulder, its shaft broken but still embedded in the flesh. Blood stained the edges of her armor, though Visenya’s face remained as impassive as ever.

“It’s nothing,” Visenya said, brushing off Rhaenys’s concern. “Aegon insisted on the plate. He was right.”

Rhaenys nodded, though her heart ached at the sight. Visenya’s wounds were few, but they were a reminder of the price they paid for their conquest.

Aegon returned not long after, his face grim but triumphant. King Loren had been burned down, his golden armor melted to his charred remains. The King of the Rock was no more, and the King of the Reach, Mern IX Gardener, had perished along with all his kin. The house of Gardener was extinguished, their legacy reduced to ashes on the Field of Fire.

That evening, the swords of the defeated were gathered and sent downriver on the Blackwater Rush, destined for the Red Keep. Aegon had plans for them—to forge them into the Iron Throne, a seat of power that would unite the Seven Kingdoms under his rule.

Rhaenys watched as the sun set over the battlefield, the sky painted in shades of blood and fire. The enormity of what they had accomplished began to settle over her. They had faced the combined might of the Rock and the Reach and emerged victorious, their dragons proving the ultimate weapon.

Yet there was little time to savor the victory. The war was far from over, and the next challenge awaited them. For now, Rhaenys allowed herself a moment of quiet pride, her hand resting on Meraxes’s warm scales as she gazed out over the Field of Fire.

...
After the Field of Fire, Aegon’s strategy for consolidating his power in the Reach and beyond became clear. The great houses of the Reach—Redwyne, Oakheart, Rowan, Florent, and Peake—were all to be neutralized. Aegon believed that the Redwines, Oakhearts, and Rowans would side with the Faith, while the Florents would forever claim Highgarden for themselves, making them unreliable allies. He concluded it was better to take their seats and use Essos nobles to fill the vacancies. The castles of Goldengrove, Old Oak, Brightwater Keep, Starpike, Dustonvory, Whitegrove, and Highgarden were all to be claimed, with men sent to the Wall and women arranged in marriages to new lords.

Meanwhile, Orys and Visenya departed for their respective missions. Orys was tasked with overseeing the taking of Casterly Rock alongside Visenya, who was given the daunting challenge of entering through the sewers with a force of around 15,000 men, including knights from the Vale and Riverlands. Her objective was to capture the castle by taking the Westerlands without burning it to the ground, a more strategic move to avoid alienating potential future allies. Visenya’s force was bolstered by Orys’s leadership and experience.

Aegon, having a different target in mind, headed north to Moat Cailin, intending to face the Northerners. Meanwhile, the houses in the Reach were disarmed and held hostage. Their men-at-arms had no choice but to submit to the might of the dragons, while the castles were taken under the watch of Riverlands knights appointed as castellan. The hostages would eventually be moved to Harrenhal, a clear sign that Aegon’s conquest was far from over.

As we approached Goldengrove, the air was thick with anticipation. The castle, nestled by the river flowing from the hills near Silverhill, stood resolutely in the northern Reach, a proud symbol of House Rowan. The gates loomed before us, the once-mighty stronghold now at the mercy of the dragons. As the army gathered, Balerion's roar filled the air, a signal that resistance was futile. The men-at-arms, eyes wide with fear, surrendered without hesitation, dropping their weapons in submission.

Inside the walls, the nobles of Goldengrove, led by the head of House Rowan, were swiftly brought forward. Their fate was sealed as we moved swiftly to place a new Castellan, a knight of the Riverlands, in charge. With House Rowan’s power broken, the castle was now under our control, a strategic victory in Aegon’s conquest of the Reach. The wheels of change continued to turn.

As we neared Old Oak, the smell of saltwater from the Sunset Sea carried on the breeze. Situated along the Ocean Road, this stronghold of House Oakheart stood at the edge of the Reach, its towering walls overlooking the vast expanse of the sea. The castle, once a symbol of House Oakheart's might, now seemed small against the backdrop of Balerion's looming shadow.

The men-at-arms, clearly outmatched, quickly yielded as the dragon’s roar reverberated through the air, signaling that resistance would be pointless. Inside, the Oakheart nobles were swiftly gathered, their fates sealed by the overwhelming power of the Targaryen forces. A new Castellan from the Riverlands was placed in charge, and with that, Old Oak fell into our hands.

With the castle now under control, we moved forward, securing another crucial stronghold in the Reach, ensuring the power of House Oakheart was no more.

As we approached Brightwater Keep, the first sign of its fall came in the form of a white flag waving from the ramparts. Situated near the source of the Honeywine, the stronghold of House Florent seemed to lose its former grandeur, dwarfed by the might of our forces. The river flowed gently nearby, a stark contrast to the tension that filled the air.

The men-at-arms, seeing Balerion circle above, understood that resistance was futile. There was no fight to be had, and the castle gates opened to surrender. The Florent nobles, subdued and somber, met us at the gates, already prepared to yield.

With their loyalty now given to the Targaryen cause, a Castellan from the Riverlands took charge of Brightwater Keep. Another victory, another stronghold secured, as we moved on, taking yet another step toward solidifying Aegon's rule over the Reach.

Starpike loomed in the distance as we approached, a towering bastion in the Dornish Marches, its high walls seemingly defiant. But the men of the castle, witnessing the shadow of Balerion above, saw the futility in resistance. Dragonfire rained down, not to destroy, but to demonstrate the power of Aegon's reign. The Peake soldiers, perhaps out of fear or strategic calculation, made the unexpected choice—they betrayed their lord. Instead of surrendering the Peake nobles, they killed them outright, their blood staining the stone floors.

The flames that had touched the castle were nothing compared to the fury of the betrayal. I did not show mercy to the men-at-arms who had made the decision. They were put to the sword, their lives taken as swiftly as they had betrayed their lord. The women, however, were spared, as a show of respect for their noble blood.

With Starpike now in my hands, I ordered the immediate imprisonment of the remaining Peake household, sending them as hostages to Harrenhal, where they would be held in submission. The castle was then placed under the command of a Castellan from the Riverlands, a steady hand to watch over its future as part of the Targaryen Empire.

Highgarden stood before us like a jewel, nestled atop its verdant hill, its beauty undeniable. The broad expanse of the Mander stretched below, its waters a mirror to the sky. Three rings of white stone encircled the castle, their crenellated walls rising higher as they neared the central keep. Between the outer and middle rings, the famous briar labyrinth wove its intricate paths—meant to confuse invaders, but today, a mere feature of the landscape. The oldest towers, squat and ancient, stood from the Age of Heroes, while the newer, taller towers soared elegantly toward the sky, a testament to the Andals' influence.

Highgarden was as much a garden as a fortress, a place of life and song. Flowers bloomed in riotous colors, filling the air with their fragrance, while singers and musicians provided an endless backdrop of merriment. The stables held the finest horses in the Reach, and pleasure boats bobbed along the Mander, offering a leisurely view of the rolling fields of golden roses. The fertile land around the castle was rich with melons, peaches, and fireplums, and I could feel the weight of centuries of prosperity and pride in every stone of the castle.

Lord Harlan, the head of House Tyrell, yielded without a fight when we arrived. His soldiers had no stomach for resistance against the might of Aegon's forces. Instead, he pledged his loyalty, recognizing that the time of independent rule was over. With a respectful bow, he pledged his support, acknowledging Aegon as the true ruler of Westeros. It was a moment of quiet surrender, and yet I could sense the weight of it—the end of one era and the beginning of another.

Rhaenys, ever the strategist, moved quickly to solidify our hold on the castle. She promised Lord Harlan that, when Red Keep was completed, he would be made the High Steward, a position of significant influence in the new Targaryen order. Until then, he would serve as Castellan of Highgarden, overseeing the castle's daily affairs and ensuring that the Tyrells were fully integrated into Aegon’s Empire. The decision was met with polite acceptance, and soon the halls of Highgarden would belong to us as much as they had once belonged to House Gardener.

1500 pounds of gold out of 25,000 pounds found in Highgarden's treasury was given to soldiers as Aegon had asked.

The Arbor, a golden island nestled at the southwestern edge of Westeros, had long been a stronghold of House Redwyne, its fleets dominating the waters of the Redwyne Straits. The island’s fertile lands and strategic position made it a jewel of the Reach, fiercely defended by the renowned Redwyne fleet, the largest in the Seven Kingdoms. However, the tides of fate had changed. Now, with Lady Arryn of the Vale as the Fourth Empress, the Arbor’s fate was sealed.

A fleet from the Vale, under the banner of House Arryn, set sail to storm the island. The winds of conquest were shifting, and the might of the Vale fleet was more than a match for the Redwynes. At the same time, Aegon’s sister, Rhaenys, riding Meraxes, soared above the waters, her dragon’s fiery breath ready to rain destruction upon the Arbor fleet.

The Redwyne fleet, formidable though it was, could not withstand the combined force of the Vale ships and the terror of a dragon. As Meraxes flew overhead, her flames ignited the ships below, reducing them to ash. The fleet that had once been the pride of House Redwyne was now a charred ruin, and the fate of the Arbor was sealed.

The island’s defenders, realizing their doom, quickly surrendered, offering their fealty to Aegon. House Redwyne’s fleet had fallen, and their power along with it. The Arbor, once a bastion of the Reach, now belonged to the Targaryens, a part of the growing empire, solidified by the fire of Meraxes and the might of the Vale fleet.

Lord Mooton, now charged with overseeing the Reach, took the captured nobles as hostages and transported them to Highgarden. There, they would remain under his watchful eye until Aegon’s return. The Targaryen forces had left their mark on the region, and now the hostages would be kept in the heart of the Reach, far from their lands and power. Once Aegon returned from his campaigns, they would be taken to Harrenhal, where they would remain under tighter control.

In the meantime, I found myself enjoying the lush beauty of Highgarden. Its sprawling gardens, rich with flowers and fruits, served as a welcome distraction from the ongoing war. The famed labyrinth, the golden roses, and the peaceful sounds of the Mander river all lent an air of tranquility, a stark contrast to the grim responsibilities of conquest. Highgarden, with its wealth and culture, was a reminder of the Reach’s significance and beauty—now in Targaryen hands. As I walked its halls, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction in what we had accomplished, even as the shadows of further conquests loomed ahead. But for now, I allowed myself the luxury of peace in Highgarden, knowing it would not last forever.

Chapter Text

The journey to Moat Cailin was one of both history and decay. As I approached, the remnants of the old stronghold greeted me with a sense of solemnity. The black basalt blocks, now half-sunken and scattered across the land, marked where the ancient walls once stood tall, a reminder of the power and significance this place once held. Now, it was little more than a shell, a broken husk of its former glory. The causeway was flanked by the three remaining towers, which had long been overgrown with moss and ghostskin. Each one stood like a sentinel of the past, witnessing the slow erosion of an era.

The first tower, tall and slender, seemed almost fragile against the weight of history, its crown missing half of its crenellations. The Gatehouse Tower, the largest and most imposing, stood squat and wide, its thick walls still holding some semblance of strength, though nature had begun to claim it. A tree had grown through the northern side of the structure, its roots twisting through the stone like a reminder of the world beyond. The third tower, leaning at a sharp angle, seemed to groan under its own weight, a crumbling testament to the passage of time.

When I arrived, Torrhen Stark, King of Winter, was waiting for me, standing with the stoic air of a man who understood the consequences of his choices. His gaze was sharp, though his posture betrayed a weariness that spoke of long nights and heavy burdens. He knew the cost of resistance.

I approached him with a sense of finality, my dragon Balerion looming behind me like an ominous shadow. "Lord Stark," I began, my voice firm but not unkind. "You’ve made the right choice. Your people will not face the destruction that others have suffered if you bend the knee. The Iron Islands, Dorne, the Gardeners, the Lannisters—they all learned that the cost of defiance is far too high. You know this. You’ve seen it."

Torrhen's jaw tightened, but his eyes remained steady. He had the bearing of a king who had already considered all possibilities, and he had come to terms with what was to come. "Your Majesty, I will not lead my people to death. If bending the knee will spare them, then it is the only course."

His decision was not one made lightly, but it was pragmatic. The last of the North’s kings, bending the knee to a foreign conqueror—something that would’ve been unthinkable only a few years ago. But here we were. And here he stood.

I nodded, but there was no time for pleasantries. I had come here with a message, and Torrhen needed to hear it, regardless of whether he liked it or not. "There’s something you don’t understand, Torrhen," I continued. "I know about your bastard brother, Brandon. The one who carved three weirwood arrows, each one meant to kill a dragon. You think that’s the answer? You think you can kill what you don’t understand?"

Torrhen’s face shifted, a flicker of confusion flashing across his features. His bastard brother’s actions had been a topic of much debate in the war council of north.

"I know what you’re trying to do, Brandon," I said, my voice cold with certainty. "But those arrows won’t work. They’re a foolish attempt to control something that can’t be controlled. Wood doesn’t contain magic, not in the way you think. It’s just wood. The only magic that exists in this world is tied to the souls of the living, to the blood sacrifices that have been made throughout history."

Torrhen’s brow furrowed in confusion, but I pressed on, not giving him time to interrupt. "The trees, the weirwoods—they’re just vessels. They don’t hold power on their own. They only store the souls of those who’ve passed, their spirits bound to the roots, to the land itself. The only true power they possess is the connection to the greenseers, those who can see the future. The ones who know what’s coming. The ones who are beyond the Wall."

I could see the shift in his expression now, the disbelief creeping into his features. But I wasn’t finished.

"I’ve seen it, Torrhen," I continued, my voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "I’ve seen the future, the Long Night that is coming for us all. And the Targaryens and Starks—our line—are at the center of it. The Starks have always kept the heart tree in Winterfell to guard the souls of your ancestors. You keep the swords of the kings of Winter near the idols to ensure that their spirits don’t become restless. That is why you must always have a Stark in Winterfell, so that when he dies he feeds the old gods or the Heart Tree whatever you prefer."

Torrhen stood there in silence, his fists clenched at his sides. He had no words, no answers. Only the heavy weight of history pressing down on him.

"I’m not here to give you absolution, Torrhen," I said, my voice colder now. "But I am offering you a chance to prepare for what’s coming. The Long Night is real, and it’s not some myth or superstition. The last hero will come from our line—the Targaryens and the Starks. The Prince That Was Promised. His song will be of ice and fire. It’s been written in the stars, Torrhen. And you and I—our blood, our legacy—are intertwined in ways you cannot yet understand. I've been to Isle of faces I've seen it all"

Bastard of winterfell gathered prideful idiots and went to Essos forming selssword company of roses after this all.

The wind howled as we stood in the ruins of Moat Cailin, the crumbling walls of the once mighty stronghold surrounding us like the remnants of a broken dream. I had come here to speak to Torrhen Stark, King in the North, to discuss the terms of his surrender. He had bent the knee, but I knew the North would not be easily ruled, and it was time to lay the groundwork for lasting peace.

“Torrhen,” I began, my voice carrying through the empty halls, “I’ve made my decision. Westeros needs peace, and to ensure that peace, we must build an army that can hold the realm together. Not just dragons, not just banners and titles. A permanent standing army.”

Torrhen turned to face me, his eyes hard but his posture resigned. He had already pledged his loyalty, but I could tell he still had doubts about my vision. “A standing army, Aegon? For what purpose? To keep the peace in a realm that has never known it?”

“Yes,” I said, stepping forward, my boots crunching against the gravel of the ruined hall. “To ensure that this is not another war, another bloodletting that tears apart everything we’ve built. I intend to station 5,000 men at the Wall, permanently, unless I need to recall them for rebellions. The Wall must be manned, but I need to make some changes. The oaths need to be adjusted—no more celibacy, no more of this nonsense about forsaking lands and titles, it would cause no one to join it. The men at the Wall should have families, and they should have their honor recognized with wealth when they return.”

Torrhen frowned, his brow furrowing. “The Wall has always been a place of sacrifice. To alter its vows would be a betrayal of those who’ve died there.”

I shook my head, resolute. “No. The Wall must stand as a symbol of unity, not of deprivation. These men will serve for 30 years, but their families must be provided for. And black brothers must be able to earn the same rights as any knight in the realm, once their time at the Wall is done. It will be trials for knighthoods for nobles as well, trials that will make them worthy of the title, but after they’ve served their time of 3 years, they will return home to their families.”

Torrhen’s expression softened, though doubt still lingered in his eyes. “And what of the rest of the realm? How will you ensure that the people are kept in line Your Majesty?”

“I intend to station 5,000 men in Dorne until it is fully pacified. Dorne is a land of rebellion, and its people will need to be shown that the Targaryens are here to stay, a thousand men each in Harrenhal and Highgarden, and five hundred in Moat Cailin, the Bloody Gate, Casterly Rock, the Stepstones, and Dragonstone.”

Torrhen’s gaze hardened as he understood the implications of my words. “You will station soldiers in the castles near the most powerful houses in Westeros? To ensure they don’t rebel?”

“Yes,” I said, unflinching. “I need to ensure the stability of the realm. There is no room for defiance. You have bent the knee, Torrhen. But others may not. And so, I will take precautions.”

He stood there for a moment, weighing my words. Finally, he nodded, though reluctantly. “I understand. But what of the North? You said no taxes until next summer Your Majesty?”

I smiled. “Yes. No taxes from the North until then. It is a small price to pay for your loyalty. But this is a realm that must be united, Torrhen. And that means I will need to make some... difficult decisions.”

“Difficult decisions?” Torrhen’s tone was sharp, but there was no malice behind it. “What kind of decisions Your Majesty?”

I took a deep breath, and this time my voice softened. “The Old Gods and the New... both are false in their own ways. The Old Gods are nothing more than the spirits of the dead, tied to the trees of the Weirwood. The New Gods are simply the faith of the Andals, a foreign religion forced upon the people of Westeros. It is time to unite these faiths into something stronger, something true.”

Torrhen’s eyes narrowed, but I could see the understanding begin to dawn on him. “What are you suggesting Your Majesty?”

“I intend to turn the heart trees, the sacred Weirwood trees, into a natural manifestation of the Stranger, one of the Seven. The Stranger is the god of death and change, the god who brings the end of things, but also the beginning. Every sept, every holy place in Westeros, will contain a heart tree. The Old Gods and the New will be united under this new belief. It is the only way forward. I also intended to expand knighthood in The North as well”

Torrhen studied me for a long moment before finally nodding, his eyes heavy with the weight of his decision. “I see now. This is not about power, not just about bloodlines. It is about the future of the realm. And if you can bring unity to the gods, then I will follow you, Your Majesty.”

“Good,” I said, my heart swelling with pride. “

I made our my south, leaving Moat Cailin behind as I traveled to Casterly Rock. When we arrived, I was not surprised to find that the Lannisters had already been defeated, their defenses in disarray. I ordered all of them, from the men of Lannisport to the last of the old Lannister lords, to be taken to Harrenhal. There, they would be imprisoned, their fates uncertain. But their gold would not be forgotten.

“Casterly Rock is mine now,” I declared, stepping into the heart of the castle. “And I will take what is rightfully ours.”

Orys Baratheon, ever loyal, stood at my side, his eyes gleaming with approval. “Your Majesty, we’ve amassed nearly thirty thousand pounds of gold from Casterly Rock. It will be enough to fuel our projects, to ensure that we can keep the peace and build the army you’ve envisioned, as you've previously ordered each soldier be given ⅒ of a pound of gold”

I turned to him, my thoughts already on the next steps. “It will be enough, Orys. But we must not grow complacent. The realm is fragile, and we are only as strong as the alliances we build and the soldiers we command. We must remain vigilant.”

With Casterly Rock secured, I turned my attention to the next phase of our campaign: Highgarden. I needed to consolidate power, ensure the loyalty of the Reach, and make sure that no one else dared to defy the Targaryens.

And so, as me and Visenya approached Highgarden, I knew that my work was far from done. There would be more battles to fight, more castles to conquer, more lords to bend the knee. But I had made my mark. I had shaped the future of Westeros, and I would see it through to the end.

The air in Oldtown was thick with tension as I descended on Balerion, the great dragon’s shadow swallowing the city in darkness. The Starry Sept stood resplendent, its stained-glass windows glittering in the late afternoon sun, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the cobbled streets below. The Faith of the Seven had called this city its heart for centuries, and now, it was mine to conquer. Yet, no battle awaited me. Lord Manfred Hightower, swayed by the High Septon’s counsel, had opened the gates to me without bloodshed. I found him waiting at the base of the Hightower, flanked by priests and retainers, his face a mask of grim resignation.

"Your Grace," the High Septon greeted me, his tone reverent but guarded. His voice carried the weight of millennia of tradition. "The city of Oldtown submits to your rule. May the Seven guide your wisdom."

I smiled, though not unkindly. "The Seven guide us all, Your Holiness. But it is not submission I seek—it is unity."

Both the High Septon and Lord Manfred looked uncertain, but they said nothing as I continued. "You believe the Seven watch over us from their celestial thrones, but I have seen things that challenge such certainties. Visions of gods, yes, but also truths hidden within the very bones of this land."

Their expressions darkened at the mention of visions, but they dared not interrupt. I turned to them and spoke plainly. "Come with me. I will show you the truth, not in words, but in sights that cannot be denied."

The Isle of Faces

We rode atop Balerion, the High Septon clutching his robe tightly and muttering prayers under his breath. Lord Manfred was silent, his face pale. When we reached the Isle of Faces, the green men awaited us, their horned headdresses blending into the ancient, verdant landscape. The weirwoods loomed, their carved faces weeping red sap like blood. The air was thick with an eerie stillness, as if the very trees held their breath.

"This," I said, dismounting, "is where gods are made—or rather, where men’s belief in them begins."

The green men stepped forward with bowls of weirwood paste. The High Septon recoiled, but I steadied him with a hand. "You seek the truth, do you not? Eat, and dream. The past, present, and future await you."

Reluctantly, they obeyed. The paste stained their lips red as blood, and soon their eyes fluttered closed. I watched as they lay against the roots of the ancient weirwoods, their breathing shallow. Hours passed.

The green men stood in silence, their horned headdresses casting long shadows against the weirwood grove. Their eyes, gleaming with ancient wisdom, bore into the High Septon and Lord Hightower, who sat pale and shaken at the base of a massive heart tree. Its white bark shimmered in the dim light, the carved face weeping red sap that stained the soil beneath.

“Your Majesty,” the High Septon began, his voice trembling as he glanced at Aegon Targaryen, “what... what is the meaning of this? These visions, these truths—they cannot be real.”

“They are real,” the green man closest to them said, his voice like the rustling of leaves. “What you have seen is the world as it is, stripped of the comforting lies men tell themselves.”

The High Septon’s lips quivered as he turned to Lord Hightower. “Manfred, surely you—”

“Silence,” Aegon commanded, his tone cutting through the air like Valyrian steel. The High Septon’s protests died in his throat as Aegon stepped forward, his gaze unyielding. “You saw the truth. Do not insult me by denying it.”

One of the green men gestured to the heart tree. “The Faith of the Seven is a creation of men. The Andals, ignorant of magic, crafted their gods to give meaning to power they could not comprehend. Their fear of the unknown turned magic into heresy.”

The High Septon gasped, clutching the seven-pointed star embroidered on his robes. “Blasphemy!” he hissed, though his voice lacked conviction.

“It is not blasphemy if it is the truth,” the green man replied. “Magic is the source of power in this world, the thread that binds it together. The gods you worship are nothing more than illusions—a justification for what you do not understand.”

Lord Hightower, usually composed, looked visibly shaken. “Then what of the Seven? What of their light, their guidance?”

The green man’s gaze shifted to him, piercing. “A story told by conquerors. The Andals were powerless before the First Men and their Old Gods. They crafted the Seven to give their conquests moral authority. But their gods are hollow. The only true powers are those that wield magic.”

“And what of the Old Gods?” the High Septon demanded. “Are they false as well?”

“The Old Gods are not gods as you understand them,” another green man said. “They are the spirits of the weirwoods, the memories of those who have died and left their souls behind. Their power is real, drawn from the roots of this land, but they do not watch over you from some divine throne. They are the past, not the future.”

The grove fell silent as the words settled. Aegon allowed the weight of the revelation to crush their disbelief before speaking.

“Your religion,” he said, addressing the High Septon directly, “was born not of divine intervention, but of desperation. The Andals lacked the power of the Valyrians or the Rhoynar. They could not match the might of the First Men or the magic of the children of the forest. So, they declared magic to be evil and built a faith to unite themselves against it.”

The High Septon’s face was ashen. “And you... Your Majesty, you believe this?”

Aegon’s expression was unreadable. “I believe in what I have seen. And what I have seen is the truth. The only true powers are those of the Old Gods, the 14 Flames of Valyria, and the Lord of Light. Their magic is real, and it is that magic which will save this realm.”

The High Septon clutched his hands together as though in prayer. “But what of the Seven? Surely, they must—”

“The Seven exist because you will them to,” Aegon interrupted. “They are a reflection of your faith, not its source. But faith alone will not protect this realm. The Long Night is coming, and the Seven cannot stop it. Magic will.”

Lord Hightower spoke at last, his voice hoarse. “The Long Night? You mean to say the visions we saw were... real?”

“Real and imminent,” Aegon confirmed. “The white walkers will rise again, as they did thousands of years ago. The dead will march, and only a united realm will stand against them.”

The High Septon shook his head, his voice faltering. “This is... too much. Too sudden. The Faith cannot—”

“The Faith will adapt,” Aegon said sharply. “Or it will fall. I will not allow petty dogma to divide the realm when unity is our only hope. You saw the truth, and now you will help me spread it.”

The Deal

Aegon stepped forward, his presence towering over the two men. “This is what will happen. The militant arms of the Faith—the Warrior’s Sons, the Poor Fellows—will be dissolved. Their existence is a threat to the realm’s unity, and I will not tolerate it.”

The High Septon’s eyes widened. “But they are sacred—”

“They are dangerous,” Aegon interrupted. “If they rebel, they will be crushed, and without your blessing, they will have no strength to resist. Do you understand?”

The High Septon hesitated, then nodded.

“Good,” Aegon continued. “Now, we will unify the Faith of the Seven with the Old Gods and the Valyrian beliefs. The weirwood heart trees will be declared physical manifestations of the Stranger, the face of death and mystery. Tell your followers that the Stranger’s wrath is why I was sent—to prepare this realm for the Long Night.”

Lord Hightower furrowed his brow. “And the Valyrian beliefs?”

Aegon’s lips curved into a faint smile. “The 14 Flames of Valyria represent seven aspects of god in male form and seven in female, uniting to create life. They are the Seven, divided and yet one. The Lord of Light, too, is another aspect—a manifestation of the divine unity. The Great Other is his shadow, the Stranger’s reflection.”

The High Septon’s hands trembled. “You mean to blend these faiths into one?”

“Yes,” Aegon said firmly. “A unified faith will bring peace to Westeros and Essos alike. The children of the forest, the Old Gods, the Stranger—all are parts of the same truth. Together, they will prepare us for what is to come.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. “Each sept will incorporate a weirwood heart tree, symbolizing the unity of the Old Gods and the Seven. The Children of the Forest will be declared the Stranger’s angels, guardians of death and mystery.”

The High Septon swallowed hard. “And the Targaryens? What of your... practices?”

“We are the chosen blood,” Aegon said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The Targaryens are descendants of the gods, and I am their chosen emperor. My polygamy, my line—it is divine will, necessary to produce the Last Hero who will save this realm.”

Lord Hightower exchanged a glance with the High Septon. “And if we agree to this... what happens next?”

Aegon’s smile widened. “Then we build a new future. A grand sept will rise in my capital, Aegonoktion, the center of this unified faith. From there, the High Septon will spread this truth to the realm. And when the Long Night comes, we will be ready.”

The High Septon bowed his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “Your Majesty, I... I see no choice. For the good of the realm, I will do as you command.”

Lord Hightower nodded solemnly. “As will I, Your Majesty.”

Aegon’s gaze swept over them, satisfied. “Good. Then let us begin.”

When I returned to Oldtown, the Starry Sept was packed. Rhaenys and Visenya stood at my side, resplendent in Valyrian finery. Hundreds of lords had gathered to witness what would be a momentous occasion, and thousands of smallfolk crowded the streets outside, craning their necks for a glimpse of me as I passed on Balerion’s back.

The High Septon anointed me in the Starry Sept, pouring holy oils upon my brow as he declared me Emperor of the Valyrians, the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Defender of the Faith. Lord of Westeros. Protector of the Realms of Men.

When I rose, crowned anew, the crowd erupted into cheers. The Faith was mine. The realm was mine. And soon, all the world would bow.

As I flew over the city, the cheers below thundered like a drumbeat. They believed in me, in my divine purpose, in the lies I had spun from fragments of truth. The Long Night was coming, yes, but I had bound men to my cause with promises of faith, power, and unity.

And so I soared, the world at my feet, and the future in my grasp.

Chapter Text

The chamber smelled of fresh-cut stone and mortar, dust swirling in the dim light that streamed through the narrow windows. Scaffolding lined the unfinished walls, and the voices of laborers echoed faintly from the floors above. We had claimed this room for the council's use, a blank slate for plans that would shape a dynasty.

I stood at the head of the long table, my Empresses flanking me—Visenya with her sharp, assessing gaze and Rhaenys with her quiet, probing curiosity. Around the table, the lords sat or leaned, their faces attentive but wary, knowing full well that what I said here would not be open to debate. Orys Baratheon stood near the wall, his arms crossed, the steady presence of my Hand reassuring, while Montford Hightower, Daemon Velaryon, and the others awaited their commands.

“This city is the heart of the realm,” I began. “But a heart needs guards. For the security of the Red Keep and the Dragonpit, I decree the creation of the Imperial Guard. Seven knights, chosen for their loyalty and honor, will command 500 men sworn to the throne. These men will guard this keep and assist the Dragonkeepers, though they will never overrule them without express orders from me, my Empresses, or the Crown Prince.”

I turned slightly, letting my gaze sweep over the assembled lords. “The Imperial Guard will hold authority over the Gold Cloaks when required, and the city watch will expand to 3,000 men. However, their role remains the same: to ensure the peace of Aegonoktion. As for our forces beyond the capital, five thousand men sworn to the throne will reinforce the Night’s Watch on the Wall, and another five thousand will remain in Dorne until its submission is complete, later on we will have Establment of twenty thousand strong selssword company based in Stepstones." "As for the Stepstones' conquest", I continued, "they are too valuable to remain as they are. We will annex the islands, build a fortress, and bring them under direct Crown rule. Their taxes and trade will fuel our navy and strengthen our grip on the Narrow Sea. Montford, Daemon, this will require coordination between your offices. Permanent garrisons will be established as follows: a thousand men each in Harrenhal and Highgarden, and five hundred in Moat Cailin, the Bloody Gate, Casterly Rock, the Stepstones, and Dragonstone. These forces will answer to the Castellans of their respective keeps, who remain sworn to House Targaryen above all else.”

The lords murmured amongst themselves, but I pressed on, my tone sharp and commanding. “The Royal Navy will be expanded. Sixty war galleys, thirty longships, and over a hundred cogs and great cogs will be built. Half will be dedicated to trade missions with Essos; the rest will patrol our coasts and the Narrow Sea. Daemon Velaryon, you will oversee this fleet. See to it that the ships are built swiftly and crewed with men who understand the seas. We cannot allow pirates or enemies to threaten our shores or our trade.”

Daemon inclined his head, his expression firm, though the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. I could tell he relished the task.

“The Crown itself must have clear lines of succession,” I said. “Henceforth, inheritance of the throne will follow seniority of birth among sons of the monarch or head of family. Sons inherit before brothers, and male-line descendants take precedence over collateral relatives. Women may inherit only if all male descendants are extinct, and in such cases, the woman nearest in kinship to the last male monarch shall inherit, regardless of seniority. This applies only to the throne. Individual lords may determine their own lines of succession as they see fit.”

I paused, looking to Visenya, who nodded slightly, her approval silent but unmistakable. “Regarding the dragons: only Targaryens may claim them. No outsider—regardless of marriage or alliance—shall be permitted to ride a dragon or possess an egg. Adult dragons are reserved for myself, my Empresses, the Crown Prince, and his consort. Other Targaryens may bond only with hatchlings.”

The faint sound of hammering drifted down from the roof, but I barely noticed. My mind was already on the next decree. “The Crown Prince will not only be the heir but also a servant of the realm. He shall be trained as a squire to one of the Imperial Guard, with a personal Maester to oversee his education. Every week, he and his betrothed will undertake charity drives throughout Aegonoktion, ensuring they are seen and understood as protectors of the people.”

Rhaenys smiled, her eyes softening. “A wise step, Aegon. The people will love him for it.”

“And fear him when needed,” Visenya added, her voice edged with steel.

“To maintain the Crown’s image,” I continued, “we will establish a heraldry team tasked with spreading our decrees and ensuring the populace knows the strength and wisdom of their rulers. The royal household—including ladies-in-waiting—will be guarded at all times by sworn swords for both protection and propriety. Let it be clear: the honor of this house is not to be sullied by scandal or gossip.”

Montford Hightower straightened, his keen eyes fixed on me. “And the law, Your Majesty? Who will oversee its enforcement?”

“You will, Montford,” I said. “As Master of Laws, you will ensure the realm’s peace through justice. However, let me make one thing clear: the Faith has already abandoned its armed men. Any remaining Warrior’s Sons or Poor Fellows who refuse to lay down their arms are rebels, nothing more. I place a bounty on their heads—a gold dragon for every scalp of a Warrior’s Son and a silver stag for every Poor Fellow. We can repeal the policy after year of intimidation .”

There was no dissent. Even the faintest hint of resistance would have been unthinkable in that room.

"My lords, the disparity in weights and measures across the realm breeds confusion and dishonesty. I propose we establish a singular, royal system—a unit of measure that all shall use. Merchants shall find their trades simplified, the tax collectors their records clarified, and justice shall be served when scales are equal across the land. This system, created by the Crown, shall mark an era of fairness and prosperity. We will distribute rods and weights bearing the royal seal to every village, and false measures will be punished with swift justice."

Turning to Crispian Celtigar, I said, "The economic heart of this realm shall be the Crown Bank. Inspired by the great houses of Essos and beyond, it will mint our currency, ensure fair loans, and fund the projects that unite and enrich the kingdom. Two divisions will be established: one to safeguard royal wealth and another to serve the people and merchants of the realm. Through careful minting, lending and investment, we will stimulate trade, improve infrastructure, and create opportunities for all. During times of crisis, the bank will issue zero-interest loans to aid smallfolk, reinforcing loyalty and stability. By setting a standard coinage across the realm, we will eliminate confusion and corruption. This bank will make the Iron Throne the economic leader of Westeros."

Crispian nodded, his expression measured but thoughtful. “A sound plan, Your Grace. Such a bank will not only solidify the Crown's wealth but also establish trust among merchants and commoners alike.”

"We must create a fair and structured tax system to fill the coffers while avoiding undue burdens. I propose Land Tax: Lords will pay based on the productivity of their lands, ensuring fairness and promoting development. Trade Tariffs: Duties collected at ports and trade hubs will encourage commerce while generating revenue. Poll Tax: A small levy during times of war or significant projects, shared equally among the smallfolk. The funds will support infrastructure, healthcare, and defense. To ensure efficient collection, royal-appointed tax collectors will oversee operations, answerable only to the crown. This system will strengthen our realm without alienating its people."

I gestured toward the map spread before us. “The financial backbone cannot rely solely on the bank. We must utilize all resources available to us. Begin with the roads. Roads are the veins through which trade flows. Every cart, every merchant traveling on the King’s Roads must pay a road tax. This revenue will fund their upkeep and expansion. Our central highways will be paved and layered for durability, connecting key cities and castles. Secondary roads, made of gravel and sand, will link smaller villages. Drainage ditches will prevent flooding, and toll posts will fund maintenance. Milestones will guide travelers, ensuring both safety and efficiency. These roads will unify the realm, enrich our markets, and allow swift movement of troops.”

“An ambitious plan,” Crispian said, leaning closer. “But where shall we begin?”

“The Kingswood,” I replied. “The timber from its lands can fuel the construction of ships, fortresses, and merchant vessels. It is an asset we’ve overlooked for far too long. Allocate teams to assess its resources, but after that I don't want to cut any more trees, they're necessary for sustenance of life. Meanwhile, we should establish vineyards within reach of King’s Landing. Wine is a lucrative commodity, and trade in Arbor vintages has proven that.”

“As for metals,” I continued, my eyes fixing on the western edge of the map, “we must prioritize mining. The gold of Casterly Rock will secure the treasury. To the west, the iron mines of the Iron Islands can be restructured to produce weapons and tools for the realm.”

“We will also strengthen our navy. By joint operation the fleets of the Arbor and Driftmark with the Royal Fleet, we’ll create a maritime force capable of defending our waters and expanding trade missions. The combined fleet will facilitate an influx of foreign goods while exporting our own surplus.”

Crispian raised an eyebrow. “And what of the merchants, Your Grace? Many lords consider them beneath their notice.”

“That is a mistake we cannot afford,” I replied firmly. “Merchants are the lifeblood of commerce. We must elevate their standing. Forget the petty squabbles of lords; wealth is power. By forging alliances with merchant guilds, we ensure a constant influx of gold into our coffers. Infact I would promote future cadet lines of our houses to enter the mercantile operations of crown, as well as the selssword company.”

“What of the sellswords, Your Grace?” asked Crispian.

“A sellsword company will serve as a private force to protect royal interests abroad, but can be called upon here whenever desired until then they can sustain themselves in Essos” I said.

Finally, I leaned back, letting the room absorb the scope of the plan. “Everything ties back to the Throne. This institution will be the heart of our economy, facilitating trade, loans, and investments across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Every coin minted with our dragon sigil will remind our people of who rules them and why.”

Orys nodded approvingly. “It is an ambitious plan, Your Grace. If executed well, it will secure Targaryen dominance not only through dragonfire but through wealth.”

I smiled faintly, the weight of vision and ambition settling on my shoulders. “A kingdom can be forged with fire and blood, but it is wealth that keeps it alive. Remember this, Crispian: dragons may win wars, but gold sustains empires.”

“The ruins of Planky Town in Dorne will rise again,” I began, my voice echoing off the stone walls. “A new city shall be built there, to be named Cape Dragon. This city will serve as a southern jewel of the realm, bringing trade, culture, and strength to Dorne. Orys Baratheon, for your loyalty and valor, you shall be its lord and protector. Govern it well.”

Orys inclined his head, his expression unreadable, but there was no mistaking the glint of pride in his eyes.

“Charters will be granted to the cities of Duskendale, Maidenpool, Seagard, and Cape Dragon, ensuring their autonomy in trade while maintaining their allegiance to the crown. These cities shall be the pillars of our economic might.”

I turned toward the assembled lords, my gaze hardening. “As for the treacherous houses who opposed us—Lannister, Florent, Rowan, Oakheart, Peake, and Redwyne—their male hostages shall be sent to the Wall. Their lives will serve the realm in penance. The daughters of these houses, however, will marry into noble families of Essos, binding them to our cause. In return, the empty seats of the Reach will be granted to the most deserving among our new allies.”

There were murmurs of approval and some thinly veiled displeasure, but no one dared challenge the decisions.

“The Iron Islands,” I declared, “shall be stripped of their autonomy and used for their true worth—iron. These islands will be governed by the crown. In addition, Lannisport will no longer serve as a seat of rebellion. Both it and Casterly Rock are hereby claimed as property of my son Daeron. They shall be renamed Dragonport and Dragonrock, respectively. Dragonrock will be granted to my Crown Prince, Daeron, who shall take a Lannister for his second bride, forging a new bond between our houses.”

I paused, my tone growing sharper. “Highgarden, once a seat of power for traitors, will be repurposed as a pleasure estate for the Targaryens. It shall be managed by high stewards—women of House Florent, married to some noble knight from the Riverlands. They will ensure its prosperity and maintain its beauty for our enjoyment.”

The room was silent as I continued. “The Arbor, rich in its wines and fertile lands, will be given to my newborn son with Argella Durrandon, Raymont Targaryen. He shall be betrothed to a Redwyne daughter, binding the Arbor to the Crown through blood and marriage.”

I let my gaze settle on the council. “Harrenhal, that cursed ruin, will be reborn. Renamed Dragonhall, it will become seat of Ser Quenton Qoherys, because it's too costlyive decided to take only token tax of 1 gold dragon from House Qoherys, in return they host 1,000 Men at arms loyal to crown.”

Visenya’s approving nod spurred me on. “Prince Stannis Durrandon is already the Prince of Storm’s End, and Their places remain secure. However, to ensure the future prosperity of Dorne and the Reach, I have negotiated with noble families of Lys and Volantis. In exchange for five thousand Valyrian-blooded slaves, these nobles will settle in the abandoned lands of the Reach and Dorne. Their houses shall take names that honor their origins and our vision for the future: Excalibur, Winchester, Godwinson, Harada, Habsburg, Romanov, Omnitrix, Megatron, Autobots, Decepticons, Batman, Gotham, Pokémon, Khalifa, and Pornhub etc.”

The murmurs grew louder at the unusual names, but I silenced them with a raised hand. “They will rebuild these lands, loyal to the Crown and strengthened by their bloodlines. Their contributions will ensure our empire’s prosperity.”

I also had a KGB like organisation in planning with Visenya and had already made deal with hightower that in future when available, only Targaryen will be grand maester in redkeep.

But that's for another time.

Now, I allowed myself the luxury of relaxation. The conquest had been exhausting, and my ambitions, while grand, demanded moments of respite. My wives awaited me in my chambers, their beauty unmatched, their loyalty unquestionable.

It was a story, not an essay. Why should it be confined to points when it could flow freely, like the rivers of the Trident or the songs of the bards? This was my tale—a tale of dragons, conquest, and love. The histories would remember my reign, not as a list of events, but as a legend that lived and breathed with every word, every action, every embrace.

For now, though, I allowed myself to indulge, to revel in the company of my queens, and to dream of the empire I would leave behind—a legacy of fire and blood.